Gilbert: The Last Years of WG Grace

by Charlie Connelly

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Constance Street

  The Forgotten Soldier

  Elk Stopped Play, And Other Tales From Cricket Round The World

  Bring Me Sunshine: Our Weather And Us

  Our Man In Hibernia: Ireland, the Irish and Me

  And Did Those Feet: Walking Through 2000 Years Of British and Irish History

  In Search Of Elvis: A Journey To Find The Man Beneath the Jumpsuit

  Attention All Shipping: A Journey Round The Shipping Forecast

  Stamping Grounds: Liechtenstein’s Quest For The World Cup

  Many Miles: A Season In The Life Of Charlton Athletic

  Spirit High And Passion Pure: A Journey Through European Football

  London Fields: A Journey Through Football’s Metroland

  I Just Can’t Help Believing: The Relegation Experience

  Contents

  Monday 18 July 1898

  Tuesday 19 July 1898

  Wednesday 20 July 1898

  Saturday 12 November 1898

  Tuesday 6 February 1899

  Sunday 28 May 1899

  Saturday 3 June 1899

  Sunday 11 June 1899

  Saturday 22 August 1903

  Thursday 2 March 1905

  Tuesday 5 September 1905

  Tuesday 18 July 1906

  Monday 20 April 1908

  Saturday 24 April 1909

  Monday 21 May 1911

  Friday 20 February 1914

  Tuesday 23 June 1914

  Thursday 16 July 1914

  Saturday 25 July 1914

  Tuesday 4 August 1914

  Saturday 8 August 1914

  Tuesday 25 August 1914

  Monday 23 May 1915

  Saturday 18 July 1915

  Monday 7 September 1915

  Friday 9 October 1915

  Tuesday 13 October 1915

  Wednesday 14 October 1915

  Saturday 23 October 1915

  Acknowledgements

  Monday 18 July 1898

  He awoke, breathed deeply, rubbed one eye and didn’t feel any different. The aches from Saturday’s exertions – five Somerset wickets to add to the seven he’d taken in the first innings – had long subsided bar the soreness in his bruised heel, and any lingering shudders and vibrations from the previous evening’s rail journey had seeped from his bones and into the mattress during the night.

  He threw back the covers, swung his legs out of the bed, sat up, spat into the chamber pot, cleared each nostril in turn, smoothed his beard and sat still, allowing the last mists of sleep to disperse from his mind. Balling his fists against the edge of the mattress, he heaved himself to his feet, padded to the window and opened the curtains. The early morning light was pale gold from a near-white sky and the rays fell warmly on his face. It was going to be a beautiful day and the wicket would be fast.

  He’d never set any great store by birthdays but was prepared to concede that this one might be different, at least from the outside. It’s not every birthday that sees MCC move one of the iron horses of the fixture list in order to mark it (when told about it he’d joked that if it had to happen it was easier to move the match than his birthday). He didn’t feel 50 years old, but then he wasn’t entirely sure how being 50 years old was supposed to feel. He was playing with men who hadn’t been born when he was already playing first-class cricket but he was still bowling them out and driving them to the boundary. Fifty to him was just a number worthy of a brief raising of the bat before facing the next ball. Besides, he was more enthused by leading the Gentlemen against the Players, always one of the highlights of his season, than anything else. The game was arguably the highlight of the domestic cricket calendar as well and he’d been such a constant presence since his first selection for the Gentlemen in 1865, two weeks before his seventeenth birthday, that it had become almost his own personal fixture.

  By the time he reached Lord’s at around eleven o’clock the ground was already almost full. Word of his arrival raced around the spectators and it was all he could do to reach the little mobile post office set up towards the nurseries and scoop up the heap of congratulatory telegrams that awaited him. The number of well-wishers meant he wouldn’t have the opportunity for his customary knock-up in the nursery nets, and by the time he had negotiated his way slowly through the happy multitude to the Pavilion his jaw was already aching through constant smiling and his shoulders were warm from the congratulatory back slaps.

  The Pavilion provided a little relief from the throng but still everyone lining the stairs and landings all the way to the dressing-room wanted to wish the Old Man many happy returns as he passed. While thoroughly enjoying the extraordinary wave of goodwill washing over him, it was with some relief that he was able to close the door behind him.

  The rest of the team expressed their hearty congratulations, with one exception, but the antipathy at that stage was mutual.

  As the Champion entered the room Charlie Kortright, the fearsome fast bowler from Essex, lifted his foot on to the bench and thumbed at the toe of his boot with stern concentration. Ordinarily he’d at least have shaken the veteran’s hand but he was still angry.

  Just over a week ago Gloucestershire had travelled to Leyton to play Essex and, aided by the Doctor’s 126 in their first innings, were set 147 to win the match. Late on the second evening Grace played a ball back low towards the bowler, Walter Mead, who lunged forward and appealed for a caught and bowled. The umpire, George Burton, gave Grace out.

  The batsman straightened and looked down the wicket, his face a picture of disbelief.

  ‘Come now, George,’ said Grace, his voice even more highly pitched than usual, ‘the ball was clearly grounded first.’

  ‘I think it carried, Doctor,’ said the umpire, confirming his decision.

  ‘Carried, George? Carried? ’ The volume of his voice rose at the same level as his anger. ‘Why, a man at Leyton station could have seen the ball grounded. For goodness’ sake, man, I’m not out.’

  He stood his ground and glared at the umpire.

  Burton swallowed.

  ‘I think in the circumstances,’ he said, ‘there is sufficient doubt about the catch to permit the Doctor to continue.’

  ‘Thank you, George,’ said Grace, taking up his stance again. ‘Mr Mead, you may continue, there is a match to be decided.’

  The Essex men seethed, thinking back to an incident early the previous day when the Doctor had claimed a caught and bowled from Perrin when most people in the ground were convinced the ball had reached Grace on the bounce. He’d scooped the ball up, thrown it in the air and yelled, ‘Not bad for an old ’un!’ With a certain degree of hesitancy, up went the umpire’s finger and Perrin had to go.

  A handful of overs into the next morning’s play, Kortright hurled down a thunderbolt that appeared to trap the Champion, needing one run for his half-century, plumb leg before. Grace stood up straight, bridling in the face of Kortright’s appeal, and stared down the wicket. The umpire caught his gaze, looked away and said, very quietly, ‘Not out.’ Kortright was dumbfounded and stalked back to the end of his long run. The next ball was faster, just short of a length, broke slightly off the wicket, nicked the edge of the Doctor’s bat and, with a roar of triumph from the bowler, was pouched by first slip. Again Grace stood erect and glared down the wicket. Somewhere among the applause came another halting ‘not out’ from the umpire, and when the bowler looked round there was the Doctor, studiously re-marking his guard with a bail.

  Kortright retrieved the ball, stamped his way back to his mark, turned, and hurtled in to bowl what was, feasibly, a hat-trick ball against the man considered the greatest player in th
e game. He was already arguably the fastest bowler in the country but the ball he produced this time was quick even by his standards. It pitched on a length, fizzed past the Old Man’s defence and knocked both leg and middle stumps clean out of the ground. The Champion tucked his bat under his arm and was taking his first steps towards the pavilion when the still furious bowler, drawing almost level with him in his follow-through, loudly proclaimed, ‘Surely you’re not leaving us, Doctor? There’s one stump still standing!’

  Grace paused briefly as if he were about to turn and respond, but instead marched off at a quickened pace, announcing to the waiting members as he strode up the steps that he had never been so insulted in his life, then bellowing his way through the pavilion to the dressing-room about this outrageous slight questioning his integrity and sportsmanship coming from a man who purported to be a gentleman. Even the longest-serving Gloucestershire players, who had heard many a verbal eruption from behind the famous beard, could not remember him ever being so angry.

  And now here were the same two men, barely a week later, sharing a dressing-room. Not only that, Grace was the captain and Kortright his main strike bowler. Thank goodness, thought the other players, there was W.G.’s birthday to distract attention from the feud.

  Just after midday Grace, having lost the toss, led the Gentlemen down the stairs and through the Long Room. He’d barely reached the doors to the members’ seats when the roar of appreciative recognition from the crowd rumbled up like a train emerging from a tunnel. The members all stood with their faces turned to him and without a pause he passed between them and walked through the gate on to the field. The entire crowd was on its feet cheering and applauding, straw hats waving in the air like so many ears of corn.

  Touched, faintly embarrassed and not wishing to detract from the solemnity of the match, yet feeling he should acknowledge this unprecedented ovation, he grinned and raised his right hand in a mock military salute as he strode across the outfield.

  Reaching the wicket he set the field, took the ball from the umpire and threw it wordlessly to Kortright to open the bowling. Arthur Shrewsbury and Bobby Abel walked out to open the innings for the professionals with Shrewsbury taking guard for the first over. The Gentlemen’s wicketkeeper Gregor MacGregor took a few strides back from the stumps, clapped his gloves together and took up his stance. Grace was in his customary position at point where he rocked gently from side to side, becoming aware again of the persistent throbbing in his bruised right heel, and watched Shrewsbury intently as Kortright tore in to bowl the first ball of the match.

  Tuesday 19 July 1898

  The Champion liked Sir Richard Webster, the Attorney General, a great deal. He had a kind face, with eyes that sparkled in the gas- and candlelight of the Sports Club’s dining room in St James’s Square. He’d met him many times over the years, most frequently in his capacity as the President of the Surrey county club, and always enjoyed his company. To have Sir Richard preside over his official birthday banquet seemed entirely appropriate.

  As Sir Richard prepared to make his remarks and propose the toast, Grace looked at his sore knuckle, opened and closed his fingers and felt the pain shoot across the back of his hand. It hurt more than he’d anticipated after being struck earlier in the day by a ball from Haigh that had leapt from a length and caused him to drop his bat. The hubbub and laughter of the dining room faded into the distance and as he flexed his fingers the events of the day replayed themselves in his mind. It had been a difficult day’s batting for the Gentlemen: heavy overnight rain had made the wicket treacherous. He’d opened with Stoddart, a batsman who usually revelled on a sticky wicket, and in poor light they’d found the going very difficult indeed. Jack Hearne’s breaking medium-pacers from the Pavilion End were particularly troublesome.

  He was dropped early in the day by Lilley behind the wicket and then saw Hearne just fail to reach a caught and bowled chance soon afterwards. Knowing he could rely on Stoddy at the other end – he recalled the 151 they’d put on in the same fixture three years earlier against the bowling of Richardson and Mold – he’d knuckled down, just playing each ball on its own merits in his usual manner, watching the ball carefully off the pitch, jamming the bat down on shooters, reacting quickly to odd bounces and clever breaks and refusing a runner despite the constant pain in his heel (relying on another man to take his runs for him was, he felt, an added distraction he could do without). The opening pair held out gallantly for an hour before the Middlesex man nicked Lockwood to Alec Hearne with the score on 56. Grace’s heel grew more painful but still he ran singles when he could, reaching a hard-fought 43 before cutting Lockwood to Lilley.

  In the circumstances he was wholly satisfied with the Gentlemen’s 303, pushing the Players’ first innings score of 335 close enough to make defeat unlikely. In the final 50 minutes of play Kortright and Woods had removed Shrewsbury and Abel, putting the Gentlemen in a strong position going into the final day, but his painful hand and heel had meant he’d not taken the field.

  He was thinking about how much to bowl Kortright in the morning – the Essex man had put in long spells in the first innings at the expense of some of his pace – when he became aware that Sir Richard was leaning over to address him and show him a copy of a telegram. The noise of the room filled his ears again. The guests were boisterous – the occasion was, after all, a merry one – the food had been excellent and the wine waiters were proving as fluent and effective as Jack Hearne had been on today’s difficult wicket, albeit less threatening.

  ‘If you are ready, Doctor,’ he said, ‘I shall commence the toasts presently and say a few words that I hope will be appropriate to this auspicious occasion.’

  ‘I am much obliged, sir, for this honour you have done me,’ said the Old Man. ‘I’m quite certain that I shall not be worthy of whatever it is you might be about to relate.’

  Sir Richard nodded and smiled at him, stood up, tinged his butter knife against his wine glass and waited for the noise to die away amid a breeze of hushes.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he began, ‘I trust you have enjoyed the fine fare prepared here this evening in honour of our esteemed guest. I would crave your attention for a few moments and ask you first to stand and raise a toast to … her majesty the Queen.’

  Chairs scraped on the floor as some 150 men stood, raised their glasses, echoed the toast and sipped in silence.

  ‘May I also take this opportunity to pay tribute to the Prince and Princess of Wales and the rest of the Royal Family,’ he continued. ‘You all know what a sterling good sportsman the Prince of Wales is. I have had the privilege of meeting his Royal Highness in sporting circles over the past forty years, and I know that he is as keen about sport today as he ever was. We all deeply regret the serious accident that has befallen him, and express the sincere hope that medical skill will soon restore him to his ordinary condition of health and activity. Gentlemen, I pray you be seated.’

  ‘The Prince has had an accident?’ Grace whispered to Stoddart, his neighbour, as the guests retook their seats.

  ‘Slipped and fell on a spiral staircase at Waddesdon Manor, I believe,’ came the reply. ‘His leg is apparently quite badly broken.’

  Stoddart raised an eyebrow and waggled his hand before his lips as if holding an imaginary glass. A smile played briefly on Grace’s lips as Sir Richard began to speak again.

  ‘I know of no greater honour than that which has been conferred upon me in being asked to preside on this occasion,’ he said, to muted hear-hears. ‘When I look round the table and see present such splendid cricketers as Stoddart, Mason and Kortright, Dixon representing the fine old county of Nottinghamshire, Woods, Wynyard, MacGregor, Hill from Somerset, and Murdoch, from Sussex, I feel quite unfit to so much as black their boots. Still, worthy or unworthy, I feel proud to be your spokesman in proposing W.G.’s health.

  ‘I am not going to trouble you with statistics,’ he said, to relieved laughter. ‘Mr Brown, who instructs me in everything connected with cri
cket, has provided me with a brief, without, I should say, a fee’ – he paused to allow for laughter that never came – ‘ah, in which all the doings of W.G. Grace are recounted. I propose, with apologies to Mr Brown, to entirely disregard them. I do have, however, some qualification for speaking to the toast as I already know much of this fine gentleman’s career.

  ‘I remember in the sixties talking of E.M. Grace’s outstanding performances and being told by a gentleman from Bristol, “Yes, Mr Webster, he is a good cricketer all right. But, mark my words, his younger brother is going to beat him.” Since then we have all been aware of the distinction that W.G. Grace has attained in the game. For tonight’s occasion a listing of statistics would be inappropriate and would also fail to give you the measure of the man who sits here to my right, a colossus bestriding the wonderful game of cricket.’

  A wave of applause washed through the room.

  ‘Let me illustrate his standing with a small anecdote. I am told that a boy was once being examined in a Gloucestershire Sunday school and the master enquired, “What are the Christian graces?” The small boy replied that he knew the three Christian graces surely, and they were E.M., W.G. and G.F.’

  The room erupted with laughter and cheers. The Doctor smiled and looked down at the tablecloth.

  ‘Since then the story has had its parallel in another tale told to me recently. An Eton boy was asked what to name the three Christian graces and he replied, “Grace before meat, grace after meat, and W.G. Grace”.’

  There was more laughter; the Doctor’s face creased into a wide, appreciative grin even though he’d heard the story many times before.

  ‘Now, those incidents,’ continued Sir Richard, ‘though they might be said to be interesting and amusing, are both true and demonstrate the hold which W.G. has had on our hearts for many years. So I am not going to talk about centuries or numbers of wickets, or all those extremely interesting things of which W.G. should be justly proud. Instead I ask you to consider his career from what we might call the humanising point of view. There is no man in England who has done more to elevate sport than W.G. This is no idle boast or empty platitude. Indeed, to prove the worth of those words, last night I was sitting on the Treasury Bench and said to Mr Arthur Balfour, First Lord of the Treasury, “I have had a great honour conferred upon me: I am going to preside at W.G.’s dinner tomorrow night”, and Balfour said, “Give him my kindest wishes and tell him I am just of the same age as he is, almost to the day.” I am certain that 1848 will for ever be celebrated not by the revolution in France, nor by the abdication of Louis-Philippe, but instead it will be remembered for the fact of the birth of W.G. Grace.