by Chris Waters
In memory of Douglas Verity
Contents
1 Starting with Shipston
2 Verity’s Rise
3 The Background and Build-up
4 A Cautious Opening
5 Stormy Weather
6 An Avalanche from Heaven
7 Reflections on the Record
8 Verity’s Decade
9 The Valiant End
10 A Feat Without Equal
Appendices
The 10 for 10 Scorecard
The 10 for 10 Cast
Ten Wickets in an Innings in First-Class Cricket
Bibliography
Acknowledgements
Verily, virile, Verity
With wonderful skill and dexterity
In a very few overs
He made Notts the rovers
A record to hand to posterity
A verse by a Mr J. B. Frecknall, of Carrington, published in the Nottingham Evening News on Saturday 16 July 1932, four days after Hedley Verity’s record feat.
1
Starting with Shipston
Cricketers rarely deal in statistical perfection. Don Bradman’s Test average was 99.94, agonisingly short of the magical figure; Jim Laker took all but one of Australia’s 20 wickets during the Old Trafford Test of 1956, while Hanif Mohammad ran himself out on 499, for Karachi against Bahawalpur in 1959. If Bradman had managed just four more runs, Laker obtained just one more wicket, and Hanif successfully made good his ground, all would have brought off the beau ideal. As it was, they created new standards of excellence, inviting their fellows to go a step further. In 1932, however, came a feat so flawless, so symmetrically stunning, it was the nonpareil of numerical Utopia. Hedley Verity’s 10 for 10, for Yorkshire versus Nottinghamshire at Leeds, has an air of amazement that glows to this day. “Had it been 10 for 12, 10 for 11 or 10 for 9, it wouldn’t have had the same striking impact,” said Douglas Verity, a suitably proud son. “There’s something about it that sounds so special; it just has a wonderfully musical ring.” Verity’s return – sealed with seven wickets in 15 balls, including the hat-trick – is the greatest recorded in first-class cricket. His full figures were 19.4 overs, 16 maidens, 10 runs, 10 wickets.
Even more incredible, Verity’s feat was immediately followed by an unbroken stand of 139 between the Yorkshire opening batsmen Percy Holmes and Herbert Sutcliffe that took their team to a 10-wicket victory. On the same pitch on which Verity caused chaos, Holmes and Sutcliffe repelled an attack that included pace bowlers Harold Larwood and Bill Voce, who’d gain notoriety that winter in the Bodyline series. Although Verity was helped by a drying surface after torrential rain, the consensus was that only part-explained his tour de force. According to newspaper reports, there was no rational reason for the disparity between his performance and that of Holmes and Sutcliffe. “The wicket was never the vexatious proposition the Notts’ batsmen made it out to be,” observed the Nottingham Evening News, while the Yorkshire Post declared that the pitch “could not have changed so completely as the difference in the two innings would suggest”. The Nottingham Journal said: “The feat was sensational.”
My own fascination with Verity’s feat began when I chanced to meet one of his victims. In December 2000, my then employer, the Nottingham Evening Post, sent me to interview Frank Shipston, a former Nottinghamshire batsman who’d become the oldest living county cricketer, aged 94, after the death of 103-year-old ex-Derbyshire batsman Jimmy Hutchinson. Although Shipston was a modest player who scored 1,183 runs in 49 first-class games at 18.48, I discovered while making some preliminary research that he’d actually played in this phenomenal match. In fact, he was its last survivor and had been Verity’s second victim, joint top-scoring with 21 along with fellow opener Walter Keeton.
When I visited Shipston at his home in Nottingham, the first words of a robust nonagenarian to the shy 20-something standing on his doorstep were full of smiling irony. “Oh, you’re a young chap,” he chuckled. Shipston, a widower who lived with his son, Peter, and family, offered a warm handshake and led the way into a living room that contained no sign of his former occupation. Then, after modestly stating that “I can’t understand why anyone should want to interview a nothing cricketer like me”, Shipston – six-foot tall and strong-built – cast his mind back 75 summers to the days of Jack Hobbs and Wally Hammond, tram cars and steam trains, cat’s whisker radios and silent pictures.
“I’ll never forget my first day at Trent Bridge,” he announced, a faraway look in his kindly eyes. “It was 1925 and I’d gone for a trial after being spotted playing for my colliery team. I was putting on my pads when Jimmy Iremonger, the Notts’ coach, pulled me to one side. ‘See that lad?’ he said, pointing to one of the bowlers in the distance. ‘He’s a little bit quick, so watch the ball closely.’ I said, ‘Thanks very much’ and got ready to take guard, although I took his words with a pinch of salt. Well, the first ball from this chap called Harold Larwood whizzed past at the speed of light and hit the net before I’d seen it. The second hit me flush in the goolies and left me doubled-up in agony. One of the senior pros pointed out that I wasn’t wearing a box. So there I was, batting against Larwood, and I wasn’t even wearing a box; to be honest, I was so wet behind the ears I didn’t know what a box was.”
Despite his painful introduction, Shipston was awarded a three-year contract. He made his debut in the final match of the 1925 season, against Glamorgan at Swansea, exchanging life in the pits for life in the fresh air. “Suddenly, I went from working in the pitch-black to enjoying lovely summer’s days all around the country,” he recalled. “I couldn’t believe how lucky I was.”
Although my newspaper only wanted an overview of Shipston’s career, I was primarily interested in the 10 for 10. Mere mention of it drew an embarrassed laugh and a roll of the eyes, as though he’d remembered some childhood caper. “My word, the great Hedley Verity,” sighed Shipston. “What a name to conjure with.” My companion’s voice trailed away and a sorrowful expression came over his face. He turned his head to look out of the window, staring sadly at the wintry scene. “Killed in the war, of course,” he whispered. “Such a fine chap, and such a fine bowler.”
The feat took place on the third and last day when the game appeared to be drifting to a draw. Nottinghamshire had scored 234 in their first innings, Yorkshire replying with 163 for nine before declaring at the start of the day to try to make a game of it. Shipston and Keeton made comfortable progress as Nottinghamshire sought to bat out time. They took the score to 44 for nought before the visitors collapsed to 67 all out, Holmes and Sutcliffe speeding Yorkshire home with their century partnership. Shipston corroborated newspaper reports that conditions were not over-biased towards Verity. “I remember there’d been a storm the night before and play began late on the final day, but you couldn’t attribute Hedley’s success to the state of the wicket. It offered him a certain amount of assistance, and he was able to get the ball to lift when the sun came out and dried the pitch, but Holmes and Sutcliffe put the conditions into proper context. As I recall, Hedley wasn’t spinning it much – just enough to find the edge. But that’s all a spinner has to do.”
Shipston’s memories – sepia-coated and clouded by time – returned in dribs and drabs, like water dripping from a temperamental tap. He couldn’t remember specific match detail and occasionally got frustrated. “I’m afraid I don’t recall any of the wickets or anything, and I can’t remember how I was out. Still, it was 70-odd years ago. These days, I have trouble remembering what I did yesterday.” However, Shipston did his best to satisfy my interest – even though it seemed almost painful to think back so far. “It’s funny, but the thing that sticks in my mind is that I ended up with the captain’s batting gloves. Arthur Carr was the Notts’ captain an
d quite a character. He used to frighten me because you never knew what he’d do next. I remember a game at Cardiff. After the lads had been drinking at night, Carr walked on to the pitch, whipped out his middle stump and watered the wicket, encouraging the rest of us to follow suit. He reckoned the pitch had been favouring the batsmen. Anyway, when Verity got him that day at Leeds, Carr stormed back to the dressing room and threw his green batting gloves on to the floor. The gloves happened to land at my feet. ‘You can ruddy well have ‘em,’ he said.”
Shipston’s only other recollection was of the eerie silence among his team-mates after the match. Even the garrulous Carr was speechless as Verity’s performance slowly sank in. “That silence was like nothing I experienced in cricket. We just sat in the pavilion, staring into space. We couldn’t comprehend what had happened. One minute, the game was a draw. The next, we’d lost it in a jiffy. None of us knew what the hell to say. And all the while the Yorkshire crowd were cheering and chanting wildly outside. Chanting the name of the great Hedley Verity.”
Shipston left Trent Bridge the following year to join Nottingham City Police Force. He served for 14 years as a constable and then took a job with a laundry firm. In 1956, Shipston returned to the first-class game. He had one season on the umpires’ list, standing in 22 Championship fixtures. The following year, Shipston returned to Nottinghamshire as coach – a position he held until 1966. “We were rubbish, though, no better than a Minor Counties side. We had one good player in Reg Simpson, and that was about it.” After leaving Trent Bridge for the last time, Shipston became a newsagent.
When we met on that day of warm reminiscence, Shipston told me his only significant impairment was deteriorating eyesight, which meant he read with a magnifying glass. He was proud of the fact that he walked every day for 45 minutes and attributed his age to a life of moderation and good genes. “I think the Shipstons must be made of solid material,” he said. “My father had rheumatic fever twice and, when he contracted it many years ago, once was a killer, but father lasted into his 80s.” Shipston junior lasted to within touching distance of three figures. He was just over three weeks short of his 99th birthday when he died on 6 July 2005, having been not only the oldest county cricketer but also the world’s oldest known first-class cricketer. Shipston retained an avid interest in cricket right until his death. Peter Wynne-Thomas, the Nottinghamshire County Cricket Club librarian, recalled that Shipston rang him five days earlier. “One of Frank’s questions centred on Stephen Fleming, the captain Notts had signed from New Zealand for the 2005 season. There was none of the usual retired cricketer’s claptrap on how much better the players were in his day. Frank was still interested in cricket and Notts cricket especially. He appreciated the game and what it had done for him.”
It was an appreciation I’d experienced when I’d interviewed Shipston, and although he’d spoken of his embarrassment at having been on the wrong end of Verity’s feat, I sensed that, deep down, he was proud of his part in it, proud of having shared the stage with such as Holmes and Sutcliffe, Larwood and Voce. I can still hear his parting words as he bade me farewell. “Years ago, you could leave your front door unlocked and go out for the day; nowadays, you have to lock it even if you’re inside the house. Oh well, thanks for coming, and sorry I wouldn’t have been much help.”
The last survivor of the 10 for 10 match: Frank Shipston on the day he was interviewed by the author.
Six weeks before Shipston passed away, I’d been brought into even closer contact with the 10 for 10. In May 2005, having by then left the Nottingham Evening Post to become cricket correspondent of the Yorkshire Post, I found myself holding the very ball with which Verity performed his miracle feat. It happened when Yorkshire County Cricket Club held an exhibition to mark the centenary of the left-arm spinner’s birth. As part of the celebrations, Verity’s son, Douglas, brought several items of memorabilia from his home in North Wales, including the 10 for 10 ball. The exhibition coincided with Yorkshire’s County Championship match against Essex, which was renamed The Hedley Verity/Green Howards Memorial Match after the club obtained permission from the England and Wales Cricket Board. Verity was a captain in the Yorkshire-based army regiment when he died of injuries during the Allied invasion of Sicily in 1943. He was 38. The memorabilia was displayed behind lock and key in the Headingley Long Room and attracted significant interest from spectators.
I attended the exhibition and introduced myself to Douglas. I told him of my admiration for his father’s feat and the precious afternoon I’d spent with Frank Shipston. Later that day, a tall, distinguished gentleman with silver hair and a ready smile suddenly appeared at my side in the press box. It was Douglas Verity. “Here you go, lad,” he said, pushing a cricket ball into my hand. “You told me you were interested in Dad’s 10 for 10; well, I thought I’d bring the ball over from the Long Room so you could have a proper look at it, away from the crowds.” The ball was dark-red and what particularly struck me was its size; it seemed slightly smaller than modern balls, although the law in 1932 allowed for the same variation in weight and circumference as today. A silver seam was wrapped around the ball and inscribed:
Y.C.C.C.
PRESENTED TO H. VERITY
TO COMMEMORATE
10 WICKETS FOR 10 RUNS v NOTTS.
JULY 12th 1932.
As I chatted with Douglas, several journalists gathered round. Suddenly, Yorkshire versus Essex was being played in front of reporters oblivious to the match as the 10 for 10 ball became the centre of attention. Some of my colleagues observed it with reverence, as though in the presence of a holy relic. Others tossed it around in their hands and doubtless let their imaginations wander. A few days later, I wrote a column for the Yorkshire Post sharing my experience with readers. I told how Verity’s record astonished me and how privileged I’d felt to have held the ball. I added that if I possessed a time machine I could think of no passage of play I would rather watch. The column inspired a letter from a gentleman who wrote on a sheet of bright yellow notepaper headed with the words “I was there!”
Dear Mr Waters,
It has been a pleasure to read your article on Hedley Verity and his marvellous 10 for 10.
That Tuesday morning in 1932 I left Woodhouse Grove School with two of my friends with their father to go to Headingley. The game with Notts had already begun; the score was 20 runs for no wickets.
So we saw all the wickets fall, but I cannot remember how. It has been one of my life’s joys to recount this notable occasion.
Yours sincerely
John Robert Richardson (90 and a half)
The letter contained no phone number, only an address. When I telephoned directory enquiries, I discovered the number was ex-directory. With an idea I might one day write in greater detail on the 10 for 10, I drove on spec to the house in Earby, a small town just inside the Lancashire border, which was once part of the West Riding of Yorkshire. A woman answered the door and said that Mr Richardson was her father, who lived with her and her husband. She invited me into a spacious lounge where I found Mr Richardson – dapper in a navy blazer, white shirt and dark tie – sitting on a sofa watching cricket on television. Small in stature and mild of manner, he greeted me with the warmest of smiles. Like Shipston, Mr Richardson was in fine condition for a nonagenarian and, like Shipston, retained priceless memories of the atmosphere and occasion. “I can still picture Verity running into bowl. He was operating from the Rugby Stand end and we were sitting somewhere near the pavilion, which in those days was right next to that end and more or less diagonal to the pitch. I was in my late teens and a boarder at Woodhouse Grove School, just a few miles from the ground at Apperley Bridge. We went to the game in my friend’s father’s car – a Rover I think it was. Funnily enough, it was the only time I saw Verity play. It was the school holidays and we just picked that day completely out the blue. At the time, I didn’t appreciate how unique it was. It was only as the years went by that I appreciated it more. But I’ve always carried
with me that sense of occasion, that sense of the impossible.”
Mr Richardson recalled the excitement as the drama unfolded. He said the noise got louder with the fall of each wicket. “The reaction of the crowd has always stayed with me. There could only have been a couple of thousand people in the ground but there was great cheering and clapping, which seemed to get louder with every dismissal, and the wickets went so fast it never seemed to stop. I don’t think people could believe what was happening, but there were no wild scenes among Yorkshire’s players. The mood on the field was fairly restrained. There was none of the hugging that goes on now. When the last wicket fell, Verity simply shook hands with his team-mates and politely acknowledged the crowd. I remember thinking that he seemed so modest.”
After Holmes and Sutcliffe knocked off the runs, Mr Richardson tried to get Verity’s autograph. But with so many clamouring for the hero’s signature, and with his friend’s father needing to get home, it wasn’t possible. “Verity was mobbed when he returned to the pavilion. A sea of people seemed to swallow him up. He came out after a while to sign people’s scorecards. He was signing them faster than they were shoved in his hand. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get near him because the queues were too big, but just to have been there was enough for me.”
After exhausting all memory of the momentous day, Mr Richardson asked if I would like to hear him play the piano. Classical music was another great love and I left him playing Debussy’s Clair de Lune in a corner of the lounge, blissfully wrapped in a world of his own. Mr Richardson, who spent his working life as a sales representative in the Midlands, died in 2009, aged 94. There could have been no prouder witness to sporting history.
“I was there!” – John Robert Richardson, one of the privileged few who saw Hedley Verity’s world record feat.