by David Lloyd
My bowling, at least, was reaping the rewards of it all. At thirteen, I was already scalping third XI batsmen, and the thrill of taking wickets maintained my enthusiasm and persuaded me there was an alternative to football. Probably due to my lack of physicality when pitched against grown men, my batting didn’t develop at the same pace. But by 1961, I was in the second XI on merit and being successful at that level too, taking five-wicket hauls versus Bacup and Todmorden. Dad, whose keeping of scrapbooks I was thankful for later in life, recorded all the details for posterity.
For a young lad of fourteen, this was an intoxicating world. Imagine being one step away from mixing with some stars of the global game. It was the equivalent of being in the team below one of the best players at the Indian Premier League playing at a club like Accrington. At that time, the Lancashire League produced its own yearbook with pen-portraits and photographs of the professionals recruited from overseas, a publication that actively encouraged the inner autograph hunter in every child. Of course, I was no different in wanting their signatures, but ambition meant I wanted to compete alongside them too and thankfully the wait for this to come to fruition was not a long one.
I made my Accrington first XI debut as a fifteen-year-old in July 1962 against Rishton, in a side that contained West Indies great Wes Hall. Wes’s popularity – he even made it round to our house to sample my mum’s pie on occasion – came from his willingness to be a part of our community. Forget his wonderful ability as a cricketer, he was also as generous with his support of others, myself included. He showed an interest in the club’s younger players, and when you played alongside him he made you feel an equally important member of the team.
So there I was in my very first match, my only first XI appearance of that particular season. What a thrill to be shoulder-to-shoulder with this supreme international athlete. Wes was in his mid-twenties, the prime of his career, and was a fearsome prospect for the best batsmen in the world, let alone the best players from our county. It must have felt like he was pushing off the sightscreen to opposition batsmen when he had that new ball in hand. The ferocity of his bowling was summed up by the fact that our wicketkeeper Jack Collier used to shove steaks down his gloves in a bid to reduce some of the impact. By the end of an innings those mitts would have been closer to well done than medium rare.
On this single occasion that I played alongside him, a drawn match up at Rishton’s Blackburn Road ground, Wes opened both the batting and bowling. Although a renowned fast bowler, he was a capable enough batsman to have scored two Test fifties by the age of twenty-five, and showed some of his ability with 64 in a century opening stand. Such a start to our innings meant we were going to post a competitive total even though Rishton fought back. In fact, batting at No. 8, I arrived at the crease on a hat-trick, and considered averting such a result a major triumph. However, although I avoided the ignominy of being dismissed first ball, I didn’t last long, making just one in my maiden knock.
No matter. By eight o’clock that Saturday evening I was able to reflect on a triple of my very own, the first three wickets of my first XI career. I had been picked to bat in the lower-middle order and bowl the combination of chinamen and googlies that had flummoxed kids of my own age and indeed second XI batsmen around the league. Accrington’s captain, Lindon Dewhurst, provided me with a good window of opportunity too – all too often young lads are picked with promises of this and that, only to end up as glorified scarecrows in the field. I could have no such complaints though, being brought on first change after Wes had nipped out the top three. My debut figures of 6-0-24-3 were numbers to be proud of.
People like Wes, Bobby Simpson and Eddie Barlow, who all played in the league, were of another world in my eyes, gods mixing among the mortals, and I would hang off any word of encouragement they might offer. They all recognised I had talent and so would invest time in me and give tips on how I could improve further. All advice was good advice as far as I was concerned and I lapped it up freely enough, although because of the nature of their engagement by the club it wasn’t always available on a freebie basis. Simpson, as was his prerogative as the professional over from Australia, charged a couple of shillings for private coaching sessions and our family simply could not afford to pay. But the one piece of recurring advice from these great cricketers actually echoed what the other senior players of the club would tell me. Simply, to never give your wicket away. The way you hurt the opposition when batting, they taught me, was to stay in. It therefore became your primary objective.
However, it was actually a less-heralded name from a foreign land who had most to do with my progression from a shorts-wearing schoolboy cricketer to a first-team regular. Before Wes Hall came to the club, the professional was not another pace bowler from the Caribbean but an off-spinning all-rounder from India, as luck would have it. Surjuram Girdhari – more familiarly known as SK, his initials – was not a gun player of Lancashire League cricket but he stuck around in the area after his 1958 season with the club, working as a male nurse, and kept his association going by coaching the up-and-coming youngsters. A player with a Ranji Trophy double hundred and a ratio of four wickets per first-class appearance at 20 runs apiece was someone worth listening to. His knowledge was a great help, coming at a time when my parents had acknowledged that my commitment merited kitting me out and venturing to Gibson Sports in the town centre to purchase my first bat: a coil-sprung Stuart Surridge ‘Ken Barrington’.
Statistically speaking, I was unable to make the same kind of contributions initially with that bat as I was the ball. There were no problems with my technique, that was sound enough, but I possessed little power so I was unable to emulate my successes in schoolboy matches in senior cricket.
Against players of my own age, I was chaining together some decent scores and my highest to date came two days after that first XI debut, when I struck an unbeaten 71 for our Under-18s against Church. Matches were coming thick and fast for me at this point, and people in high places were taking note of my performances.
It was perhaps because of the disparity in numbers between my work as a batsman and bowler that most experts seemed to think that it would be as a left-arm spinner that I would make my mark, recognising my maturity with the ball while at the same time voicing some concern at a lack of attacking options at the top of the order.
However, there remained no pressure on me to score quickly when playing for Accrington, and they showed faith in me when as a sixteen-year-old, I started the 1963 season as first-choice opening batsman in the first team. There were no spectacular results in my initial outings; in fact, in the very first game of the season I made Geoff Boycott look like an absolute dasher, remaining steadfast at the crease for more than an hour for just 13. Rumour had it that I even sent glass eyes to sleep in the crowd. Of course, there were grumbles from folk who came to watch us – in those days you would think nothing of having 1000 or so ‘on’ – yet the people who mattered most stuck with me.
Jack Collier, our salt-of-the-earth keeper who never had a bad word for anyone, offered me words of comfort as I sat down in the dressing room, rubbing my shoulders like an amateur masseur and telling me: ‘Ee, you were going grand . . . just gettin’ yer eye in . . . I thowt you’d get fifty . . .’ Every club needs a player like Jack, a real larger than life character. When Eddie Robinson – a leg-spinner only denied Lancashire honours due to the presence of Tommy Greenhough, Bob Barber, Brian Booth and later Sonny Ramadhin – sent down his googly, Jack would rarely pick it, and as he flagged another through for byes would shout: ‘Ee, Eddie . . . they’re comin’ down like snakes . . . I’d given it up . . . thowt it had bowled him!’
I rarely reached the boundary with my strokes, and seldom got it off the square for that matter, but I was learning my trade in good company against good weekend cricketers, and there were no moves from any of the club hierarchy to reform me because they knew the reward of developing a young player. The role of a Lancashire League club was to produce
cricketers to represent the county and their dedication to doing so was something I greatly appreciated.
Investing their time and trust in me was a mutually beneficial process, I guess. For me, being monitored by Lancashire offered the opportunity of a professional career. For the club, there was kudos in producing such players. It was not long before I began to produce more serious scores – which in those days were a bit like a particularly costly over at the Big Bash League.
At first, if I managed to get into the twenties against a testing attack I saw it as a real triumph. My baker’s dozen away at Colne was followed the next week by a single-figure contribution in a home defeat to a Ramsbottom side featuring a nineteen-year-old Ian Chappell as their pro. In the draw with Rawtenstall the following day, I struck 33 – the highest score in the match. Later that month, I repeated the feat with 46 in a victorious cause versus Burnley at Turf Moor. The 137-run total that Burnley posted was comfortably the highest of any innings in my first five matches of that 1963 season – the average being just 101 – but we cantered home by eight wickets, and when I was dismissed there was plenty of time remaining to have gone on and celebrated a half-century.
Nevertheless, innings like this naturally swelled my confidence and provided the conviction that I was good enough to prosper in this esteemed company. Within half a dozen appearances I began to think and feel like a first XI cricketer. Any young player needs support to become established, and I could not thank those that I played with in those days highly enough for their patience and understanding.
The cricket was played in a tough environment, with opponents not giving an inch. Such an attitude heightened the competitive nature, but it also led to a negativity when it came to style of play. In those days, there was a general tendency for teams to bat on too long, probably because they encouraged lads like me to hone their batting skills on the job in the middle, which effectively killed off chances of positive results before everyone began munching on their teas. Delayed declarations and a proliferation of draws hurried on an era of limited-overs cricket at club level. The pitches could be treacherous too, particularly when damp in early season, nibbling about for the bowlers and demanding a watchful approach from batters. It required you to dig in, to get into game mode by not getting out cheaply, and promoted precise footwork and tight defence.
Away from the competitive stuff, where the heavy ball bowled into the pitch by your prototype league seamer proved as hard to get hold of as Harry Potter’s snitch, I had developed a more expansive array of strokes. These were chiefly unleashed in the huge, open-age friendly games we used to have up at the Rec. The most memorable one I can recall got me in quite some bother. The occasion in question was a couple of years before getting my run in the first XI, when I clipped one off my legs beautifully and watched with pride as the ball sailed over square leg . . . and straight through Mrs Bidulph’s front window.
Now I might have got away with this on any other day, but unfortunately for me one of the other players in this particular cricketing extravaganza was Keith, also of the name Bidulph, and a loyal son as it turned out. There was no way he would be turning a blind eye to my indiscretion, and my horror at the consequences of my actions completely overwhelmed me. Not that I was scared about what the Bidulphs would say or do; I was just scared to death about how my own mother would react. ‘She’ll go apeshit,’ I thought, or some such phrase more befitting 1961, as I ran home in tears.
I was explaining what had happened to Mum – you’ve probably nicknamed her Scary Mary by now, right? – when there was a knock at the door. ‘It was him that did it,’ said Keith, pointing his finger towards me as my mother opened our front door. It had been a cracking shot – I picked it up beautifully and it just jetted towards the houses with a seemingly unstoppable momentum – but it cost me two shillings.
Whenever I was sent to age-group cricket trials I felt comfortable. Undoubtedly, in contrast to how I felt about football, it was because I knew I was better than my peers. Physicality didn’t come into it as much and I was quite comfortable that I was more skilled than those I was up against. Playing for Lancashire schoolboys was a real thrill, because we used to play our games at Old Trafford and it was a real incentive to stay in the squad just to play more games at such a magnificent venue.
It was in no small part down to the enthusiasm of Bob Cunliffe, the physical education teacher at Accrington Secondary Technical School, that I was at so many of these trials. Although we didn’t actually have a play area as such, making do with the school yard, Mr Cunliffe was dead keen on us participating at the highest level we possibly could. With no facilities, there was not even an official school team or fixture list – certainly not to compare with the kind that Lancastrian grammar school lads would have been familiar with. They would participate in weekly fixtures against other similar establishments.
Shame, then, that I was as proficient at my 11-plus at school as South Africa were at reading a Duckworth–Lewis sheet at the 2003 World Cup. Not that my educational route (towards becoming a highly skilled tradesman) held me back one bit. Because what we lacked was more than made up for by Mr Cunliffe’s enthusiasm. By hook or by crook we played four matches or so a summer, somewhere or other, and although I don’t know for certain, I suspect it was all down to him. Certainly, Bob, fully aware of what I was doing at the weekends with Accrington, was not backwards in coming forwards when it came to promoting my cause. In conjunction with the cricket club, he would be recommending me to all of the representative teams in the wider area, and his dedication meant I got as many opportunities to impress as any clever clogs up the road. For a school with no cricket heritage we produced some good cricketers – Jack Simmons left the summer before I started.
So with both school and club supporting my case and pushing my credentials for higher honours, I had a pretty strong support network. My sheltered upbringing meant I had no other distractions. I was devoted to my weekly routines of church and cricket, and my parents were as dedicated to encouraging my interests as they were enforcing strong discipline. From the age of thirteen, I had been allowed to turn out for Accrington’s third XI, and a year later I was being dispatched to my first schools trial.
National recognition also came my way for the first time while at Accrington Secondary Technical when I was selected for the annual English schools matches. I played pretty well in those North versus South matches, as I tended to do in the few games I appeared in at Old Trafford, under the noses of several committee members more often than not. All of which was useful, I’m sure, at getting me that first contract with Lancashire.
It was a great feeling when my name was called out in assembly by the headmaster. This happened whenever I was selected to play for representative XIs, and it meant making my way out to the front to accept the accolade on stage. Not that the entire teaching staff were supportive, mind you, even one who clearly liked cricket. Mrs Archer, the geography teacher, was totally dismissive of any notion that I would earn a living doing something I was beginning to love.
She never said so, but I suspect it was an incident involving me and her new motor – a Morris Oxford Shooting Brake – during what should have been lesson time that influenced her thoughts. Mr Cunliffe had taken me out of the classroom to work on my batting, and had taken another couple of lads too who acted as fielders. We were having this knock-up in the school yard, with Mr Cunliffe bowling, when I smacked this ball. It came straight out of the middle and proceeded straight through the window of Mrs Archer’s gleaming new pride and joy. She’d only had this car a day, as I found out from her personally after Mr Cunliffe made me go and explain what had happened.
‘I don’t know why you bother with this cricket business,’ she used to say to me. ‘You should concentrate on being a bit more academic.’ I was already intent on making my dream a reality, so whenever she offered her two penn’orth on the subject all I ever heard was ‘blah, blah, blah’.
It was years later when her words came
back to me in the strangest of places. I was walking down the steps at Dean Park, Bournemouth, with my Lancashire opening partner Barry Wood, halfway through what turned out to be a Gillette Cup quarter-final victory over Hampshire in 1972 when a distinctive shrill caught my ear. ‘I hope you’ve improved, Lloyd,’ a female voice warned. Blow me down, sat among this full house was the very same Mrs Archer. It turned out she had moved down to the south coast in retirement. Barry Richards had scored a wonderful 129 to put us under pressure, but from the moment Peter Lee got him out we never looked like losing, so I think I had the last laugh on that one.
Academically I was all right – no better than all right – although I could never shake the feeling of injustice that I was at the wrong school. I might not have been the brightest button at Peel Park, but I always felt I would have been better off at a different educational establishment. The technical college was designed to help trades people prepare for later life. For those that wanted to become electricians, draughtsmen and plumbers, skilled manual workers, it was ideal, but it just wasn’t me. I would have much rather studied Geography and History and learned French. But these three were all subjects that you had to drop in year two to concentrate on more practical areas. Unfortunately, the compulsory subjects were Woodwork, Metalwork and Technical Drawing.
I was conscious that my hands were going to be useful to me, and so I didn’t want to jeopardise that by blowing them up or chopping a finger off. By the age of fourteen, I began to spend plenty of time away from school, playing sport, mainly cricket, and having the school’s blessing to do so. I didn’t really bother with homework, and to be honest I didn’t really have time. After-school cricket practice became more and more regular, and when I say practice I don’t just mean for an hour. I’d be there for three hours, and there was the travelling to and fro to consider as well.