Last in the Tin Bath

by David Lloyd

  ‘Down the corridor, first on your left,’ he muttered.

  So, about half a dozen of them toddled off in the pitch black. Imagine the collective relief to be confronted with a white wall that was pretty obviously the communal urinal. Only, it wasn’t so obvious and wasn’t a porcelain facility at all. They had erroneously been dispatched into the dining room. Seems like I wasn’t the only one who struggled with directions. The smell of kippers was in the air next morning as we came down for breakfast. At least that’s what we thought the aroma was until we realised the back wall was soaking wet.

  Simmo was our travel manager, designating the driving slots for each particular trip. Getting the gig as a driver for the long-distance hauls meant you were quids in, because you were reimbursed by the club for so many pence a mile. It was lucrative enough, in fact, for some lads to volunteer to drive every week, but throughout the season Simmo would chart the lengths of journey undertaken so that we roughly got the same.

  One year when I was captain, we had an away game down at Hastings, a venue that was slap-bang in the middle of town before it was turned into a shopping centre. We were given two or three days off and told by the committee that we had to turn up at the ground on the morning of the match. Unfortunately, at the appointed toss time we didn’t have many lads there – the problem was simply that they didn’t know how to get in. They just couldn’t find the driveway that led into the ground and so they had abandoned their cars a couple of streets away and started throwing their kitbags over the walls and clambering after them. It was a most uncouth entrance, although I’m sure the locals who witnessed it just put it down to typically northern behaviour.

  Further camaraderie was unearthed in the treatment room. We had various physios over the years, including Bill Ridding who was previously manager of Bolton Wanderers for nineteen seasons between the years of 1950 and 1968. Bill was in charge of the Wanderers team that went down in history for participating in one of the greatest matches Wembley Stadium has ever hosted – the Matthews FA Cup final of 1953 when Sir Stanley’s lot, Blackpool, won a 4-3 thriller – as well as overseeing a 2-0 win over a post-Munich Manchester United in 1958.

  Can you imagine Arsène Wenger walking out of the dugout at the Emirates for the final time at the end of a season and turning up at Hove later that summer ready to deal with Sussex’s sore backs, knees and shoulders?

  He had only half a thumb did Bill and we reckoned he had rubbed the other half away during his time with us. You know, a bit overworked with all his manipulating and massaging. While he was at the club, being injured proved to be something of a treat because you were regaled with all these tales of Bolton’s achievements. At that time the Wanderers were a team that didn’t take any prisoners, they just kicked opponents off the park.

  We would sit him down, imploring him to tell his stories, such as experiencing FA Cup final glory when Nat Lofthouse scored twice to beat United. Although, of more interest to us were the exploits of the rough-and-readies who gave opponents a shoeing. Bolton were an uncompromising, physical team and the reputations of players like Roy Hartle, John Higgins and Tommy Banks went before them. Hartle and Banks, the full-backs, were a two-man demolition unit. They would clog opponents for fun. One of my favourite recollections from Bill was when they were up against ‘The Wizard of the Dribble’ Matthews.

  ‘Hey Roy!’ shouted Tommy across the backline. ‘When you’ve finished kicking him, kick him over here, would you?’

  No wonder rumours abounded that Matthews refused to play against them.

  There was another one Bill used to love, regarding Tommy’s World Cup finals duty in Sweden in 1958. With the Munich air disaster altering the plans of England manager Walter Winterbottom, Tommy was one of the players drafted in. Ahead of the group match against Brazil, Tommy had been told by Winterbottom to pay special attention to their winger Garrincha. ‘I would like you to put him out of the game,’ was Winterbottom’s uncomplicated instruction.

  One presumes he meant to lessen his impact with some astute tactical positioning, or at least the execution of some physical challenges – the old full-back’s trick of letting the winger know who was boss. Typically, given the stuff we used to hear second-hand from Bill though, Tommy sought further clarification.

  ‘Do you mean just for this match? Or forever?’

  English football has always loved a hard man, in the same way cricket loves a fast bowler. It’s because we all enjoy an ooh and an aah while we’re watching, I guess. The thought of the pain they might inflict adds to the drama. It’s not the same when you are on the receiving end, though. A crunching tackle from a Dave Mackay, Nobby Stiles or Norman Hunter is similar currency to a blow from a Jeff Thomson or a Mitchell Johnson.

  As it happened, Garrincha remained on the bench alongside Pelé, with Joel preferred down Brazil’s right-hand flank. But Joel didn’t make it for the final group game. Far from being over, Garrincha’s World Cup was just beginning, and how. A few weeks later he was one of the stars as they lifted the trophy.

  Like Garrincha, Bill was bow-legged; as well as being a former Manchester United player, he had another link to that club because he emulated the most famous British boss of all in Sir Alex Ferguson. Everyone was terrified of Bill. Thankfully he had calmed down by the time he came into full-time physiotherapy, but he had a fearsome Fergie-style reputation.

  Bill hailed from the Wirral and in scoring a baker’s dozen goals for Tranmere Rovers in less than twenty appearances earned moves on to Manchester City and then United before injury ended his career at twenty-three. It was around this time, I believe, that he did his physio’s training.

  Sharing stories around the dressing room is always a primary ingredient when trying to develop a team spirit, and Bill was integral to all that. Football and cricket had a lot more in common at this time. Further evidence of that came when our pre-season fitness regime was led by Jack Crompton, Manchester United’s trainer. He would come in to put us through our paces in the days building up to the first-class season, getting us fit with cross country and other lengthy runs around the streets every morning. It was only after lunch that we would get into the nets; then it would be cricket all afternoon.

  All of our fitness work took place on the back field, where we would do lots of physical work such as sit-ups, press-ups and squat thrusts – what I would call natural body training. There would be no weight training whatsoever; the strength work came from all traditional exercises with plenty of repetitions and the occasional wheelbarrow race. Whatever aerobic activity we got through in a session, we always seemed to finish with a football kickabout, a bit like the England lads do now at the start of their pre-match warm-ups. For us it was always Juniors versus Seniors and if any of us Juniors were getting the better of the older lads then one of them, more than likely David Green, would get hold of you and sit on you so you couldn’t move. This was a pretty harsh punishment at that time of year because you tended to be stiff as boards in pre-season.

  We had a connection with our Old Trafford neighbours United in particular throughout the 1960s, and the two sports sat side by side. A lot of lads, myself included, played football to the cusp of the professional ranks, and others went all the way into the game. There was also a more natural link in those days as our footballing equivalents were a bit more normal. Let’s say they operated with a lot fewer noughts on their pay packets.

  That first April when Jack Compton popped up the road to drill us caused a bit of a commotion. Lancashire’s established set had a fairly different attitude towards preparing for the five-month slog ahead. Skilled cricketers like Brian Statham, Geoff Pullar and Ken Higgs were used to rocking up immediately after the first daffodils had popped their heads out of the soil, pulling on their whites and netting. They always started with the cable knit sweaters on, within a couple of days removing them, and Statham typically used to declare himself bowling fit some time afterwards. So you can imagine what the senior pros made of an instruction to �
��hit the deck’. As in previous years, they were fully kitted up.

  ‘Everyone on the ground,’ Jack ordered.

  ‘We’re not getting on the ground in these, they’re clean for the season,’ was the tone of their reply.

  Not only did you have to buy our own whites, it was also the players’ responsibility to wash them and ensure you looked smart whenever you walked down the pavilion steps. Your bin liner full of clothes would go home with you at the end of the week. Nowadays there are washing machines at the ground, and I suspect they have someone designated to clean everything for them.

  There was an onus on you to look after your own gear because if it got ripped, scratched or broken you had to find the money for replacements. On becoming a professional my actions, of writing to a bat company asking what deal they could offer, were typical. In the correspondence to Gradidge, I explained I’d signed a contract with Lancashire and would very much like to use their bats. Nothing was dispatched on a complimentary basis, however; it was up to the company if they wanted to make you an offer and mine was a two-for-one which meant I paid £4 11s. These bats had to last because that was quite an investment for a young player on £6 a week. So out came the linseed for the start of the meticulous knocking-in process.

  The only kit that county clubs supplied was your sweater and your cap. Lancashire gave us an allowance of £50 for things like gloves, pads, flannels, shirts and boots, and it could only be used at Tyldesley and Holbrook, the sports shop on Deansgate in Manchester. At the start of a season you would head down there and see Cyril Washbrook, who would tick off what you had spent on your account. This was a nice little earner, not for Cyril, who had no vested interest in it but simply worked in the shop from time to time as I did in future winters, but for Bob Cooke, the owner, who went on to play for Essex. Bob was as daft as a brush but he had his head screwed on when it came to business deals.

  The upshot of Jack’s grass-staining regime was the start of the tracksuit era. Modern heroes are all tied into advertising deals, whether it be through their personal gear or team-branded stuff – they have vests to keep you cool, vests to warm you up, and some that do both. They call them Skins, apparently. Well the only skin we had was underneath our pristine start-of-season shirts and off-the-peg Corby trouser-pressed pants. It was frostbitten at the start of a day and clammy with sweat by late morning. Under-armour? The only undergarments we ever wore were traditional vests – have you tried fielding at Scarborough or Blackpool when the sun has dipped behind the clouds?

  We requested club training gear and it was made available to us as at a cost the following season. It was no skin off their noses, really, as we bought all of our own clobber, using a subsidy from the club to fill our kitbags. So tracksuits became the norm for all fitness work – an initial investment, yes, but a long-term saving on washing as one thrifty colleague noted.

  The connection with Manchester United also meant we came across George Best from time to time, at functions and the like. ‘How do you train for that cricket?’ he would ask. ‘Do you all just go stand in a field?’ Well, some of our preparation wasn’t too dissimilar from his, if truth be told. Minus the Miss Worlds and E-type Jaguars. Nothing would be thought of having a couple of beers at the end of a day’s play. At some grounds there would be crates of beer or even jugs of ale on the table for lunch, and I actually had a pint of shandy while my Test debut innings was still in progress at Lord’s in 1974.

  That is not the only way that attitudes to batting have changed in the past four decades. Equipment, like its equivalent in golf, has improved out of sight so that mishits are now sailing over the boundary. It’s no coincidence that the International Cricket Council are looking to push all the ropes back. Things have got a little bit out of hand in terms of the contest between bat and ball. What they are actually saying is that they are turning the clock back to our day. Very rarely did you arrive at a venue with a boundary rope. The playing area was the whole ground and to hit a six at some you would have to clear, not hit, the advertising hoardings.

  To clear some of the boundaries you would have to time the ball as sweetly as possible. In fact, a nice firm push through the covers was almost as good. These days not quite making it all the way across the line gets you three; you might even get back for four with your wits about you, but back in the mid-1960s there were lots and lots of fives run. If you were playing on one edge of the square at Old Trafford, Trent Bridge or The Oval you would regularly have a 100-metre boundary on one side, so relay throws were the norm and you could always sneak another run on the arm given the distance. If someone pierced the infield, it felt like you were chasing it for miles.

  Playing at a Test ground regularly used to rankle a bit for players like me, though, because you had to bat with these huge boundaries, whereas other lads were piling the fours up at these little outgrounds like Ilford and Leyton. The biggest boundary there might be shorter than the shortest you were accustomed to as a Lancashire, Nottinghamshire or Surrey player.

  There was little doubt that my dual ability was key to winning me that first deal with Lancashire, but my progress in batting and bowling did not run parallel. In fact, although I would vouch it was my bowling that got me noticed – as is often the way with wrist spinners, good ones being so rare – things changed for me as I moved into senior competition. Fellow juniors could not handle my box of tricks, but for some reason I morphed into a more orthodox operator around the age of seventeen. A more traditional brand of slow left-arm was certainly what I sent down when I undertook my maiden second-team engagement, a friendly against Cumberland.

  I should have bowled more throughout my career, but when I became captain, David Hughes, another left-arm spinner, had recently emerged and there was no real need for two of us. It happens when you’re captain that you tend not to bowl yourself. Hughes had come into the team and done really well. It left me as an occasional bowler for quite some years, before working really hard towards the end of my career to get it back.

  Yosser’s ascent was in part down to my own misfortune, because right at the start of my professional career I got the yips. Unfortunately, it’s a common problem for slow left-armers, and for a while I had no idea where the ball was going. And that was when I finally made it to the crease, because all of a sudden the natural bound into delivery and flighted guile that followed – the qualities that had undoubtedly got me noticed as a young cricketer – were gone, and I didn’t know how to run up or use my arms. I was not long out of my teens and, having been signed as an all-rounder, it put an extra onus on my batting.

  Eventually, my bowling came back, but it certainly took some considerable time to do so because of the gravity of the situation. Psychologically, it had been very damaging. It was like a nervous paralysis every time I was thrown the ball during the season of 1967 when things went awry. Suddenly, where previously there had been loop everything was flat.

  Like most victims of the yips I fought on, almost in denial that anything was wrong. Though like most victims, I was forced to admit defeat. Few actually come back from it, and when they do they rarely reach the levels they once were at, let alone the levels they were aspiring to reach. Lancashire, pursuing their pledge to turn to youth following the crisis action of player sackings and committee overhaul the previous year, had stuck with me as a first-team player throughout 1966. But as the 1967 season developed, I was heading for the second XI. My on-field behaviour told its own story. I was petrified of making eye contact with Brian Statham, our captain, in case doing so reminded him that I was one of the blokes in his team that could bowl. Being dropped to the second XI was an inevitability and it became a case of when, not if.

  I was massively anxious about things. To recap, those two-year contracts put pressure on players not to drop their standards or risk their own livelihoods, and movement from county to county was not commonplace, especially for those at my kind of level. Signing on elsewhere was not a viable option. A more established cricketer would h
ave been a more attractive proposition and perhaps stood an outside chance – but one with a single Championship season’s experience and unable to perform at maximum potential due to this bowling affliction? Not on your nelly.

  If I bowled in the nets there was no problem whatsoever, but take that netting away and move into a match scenario and it was a totally different proposition. It was clearly a mental frailty. Something in my brain was not allowing me to perform as I did in practice. Perhaps I should have pretended to be Ena Sharples, from Coronation Street. She permanently had her head in a net, didn’t she?

  The mental aspect of all this was extraordinary. For some reason, as my bowling dropped off at an alarming rate, my batting improved almost beyond belief and I was able to hold my place as a batsman once I forced my way back in through strong second XI performances. It was as if cricket’s scales of justice were working in my favour. After all, it was not as if I’d wanted to suffer the misery the yips had caused me or go through the mental anguish of trying to get over the affliction.

  From a coaching perspective, there is little or nothing that can be done to cure this bowlers’ disease, and it has ended several careers in their prime. In recent times, both Keith Medlycott and Richard Dawson were struck down not long after being picked for England. Both won the battle but not the war when it came to continuing their careers, never the same performers as they were pre-yips. Unfortunately, that is so often the case when your natural action abandons you. The only remedy is time, a commodity not often afforded to players who lose their way, and it’s actually a mental rather than physical obstacle for you to get over.

  The fact that Medlycott and Dawson possessed renowned cricket brains and earned county coaching positions later in life – I think the development of Dawson, whose sharp thinking was evident in his early days in charge of Gloucestershire, is showing signs of something rather special, actually – only served to highlight the intensity of the struggle.