Gilbert: The Last Years of WG Grace

by Charlie Connelly

  In addition he’d discovered the pleasures of curling while in Scotland for bowls and still played whenever he could find a game at an ice rink, usually at the Princes’ Rink in Kensington but sometimes travelling as far as Maidenhead.

  He was a lusty wielder of a golf club, too. Again his style was straightforward: he loved to belt the ball down the fairway and, now he had a putting green in the back garden, the more intricate wiles of the game were opening up to him as well. And, of course, no sociable evening was complete without at least an hour or two around the billiard table.

  It was generally as a participant that he enjoyed his sport: like most career sportsmen he was a reluctant, nay, terrible spectator, but the sense of occasion attracted him to the Cup Final as much as its locality. Association football was still a strange concept to him. He’d never played the game but had become increasingly aware of the sport’s growing popularity, particularly among the working classes. Often in his general practice days when he’d attend at the house of a poor family, on the occasions when cricket talk had been exhausted the man of the house would try to engage him about the current fortunes of Bristol City or Rovers and so he had always kept a cursory eye on their progress. With their Saturday afternoons free for leisure, the men would head in droves to Ashton Gate or Eastville, pay a shilling and watch the brief, 90-minute skirmish between two teams and then dissect the afternoon’s events into the evening in the pubs across the town.

  So, while curious, he was also concerned that the association game was eclipsing cricket as the spectator sport of the masses. As he left the house in Laurel Park Road well in advance of kick-off, the sight of streams of men in flat caps and three-piece suits wearing the favours of both sides seemed only to confirm his fears. Some wore elaborate rosettes, others enormous top hats lined with coloured crêpe paper. It looked as much a carnival as a sporting occasion.

  He walked among them towards the football ground, cheerily acknowledging the greetings and ribbing of the supporters. ‘This ball will be a bit too large for you, Doctor!’ they cried. ‘If you wonder where the middle stumps are, they’re goals at each end!’ and the more direct, ‘Thy team’s in for a beatin’ today, W.G.!’

  He fell into conversation with a group of men who’d travelled from Salford and was astounded to hear they had journeyed overnight on a special train that had offloaded them at King’s Cross at three o’clock in the morning into a heavy downpour. They’d sheltered as they could until daylight, warmed themselves in a tearoom as soon as it had opened, wiping the steamed-up windows and gazing out at the dark, rainy streets of London, the cold still in their feet, their clothes and their bones as they cradled chipped cups of steaming tea. They’d seen as many London sights as they could – ‘we hoped thon Houses of Parliament might keep us warm what with all th’hot air gets spoke in there’ – and then made their way down to the Crystal Palace for the match.

  The Old Man had never seen such dedication. Granted this was the football season’s showpiece occasion but, even so, he’d never heard of anything approaching such mass spectator devotion in the cricket world and he couldn’t fathom why.

  Across the park they streamed in their thousands, long lines of boisterous, flat-capped chattering humanity. While he could pick out Bristolian accents among the throng, it was clear that the supporters from Manchester would significantly outnumber those from the west.

  At length he reached the VIP entrance, was shown up the steps at the back of the grandstand and made his way to a seat in the pavilion, set back from the touchline and flanked at angles by stands on either side. He was presented with a programme, found his seat and was astonished at the numbers already filling the ground – the bank on the opposite touchline was almost full and there was still a good 40 minutes before the teams were due to appear. He’d never seen a crowd like it at any sporting fixture.

  He looked down at his programme and smiled as he saw the prominent advertisement for the J.P. Surrey Driver cricket bat, as endorsed by his old friend C.B. Fry. Most of the names on the team sheet beneath were unfamiliar to him, although he knew of Billy Wedlock, the Bristol City half-back who was the pivot of the team.

  ‘Your lads are missing a couple of good men today, Doctor,’ said the man in the seat in front, twisting to address him, ‘I don’t fancy their chances much, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Is that right?’ he responded. ‘I must confess not to being as knowledgeable as I should be.’

  ‘Yes, Rippon and Marr, both injured. The other bad news for the Bristol lads is that Billy Meredith is playing.’

  Ah yes, Meredith, he’d read about the players’ union and its agitation for the abolition of football’s maximum wage. He didn’t see the problem: the cricket professionals often took on other employment during the winters if they weren’t required to tour; why couldn’t the footballers do the same in the summer?

  A round of applause broke out around him and he saw Lord Charles Beresford being presented to the crowd on the open patch of turf between the grandstands and the pitch. Still widely appreciated for his activities in command of the fleet in Egypt and Sudan in the eighties and now in charge of the Channel Fleet, Beresford was a popular national figure and quite a coup as guest of honour for the Football Association. ‘Rule, Britannia!’ rang out, then the national anthem, and when the ball boys were given a warm ovation as they ran to their positions around the field even an ostensibly disinterested spectator like Grace couldn’t fail to be struck by the warmth of the atmosphere and the sense of excitement that thrummed through the entire stadium.

  Bristol City appeared first, running on to the field in a change strip of blue shirts and long white shorts, leaping for imaginary headers and bouncing on the balls of their feet. Their support in a crowd that he estimated at somewhere in excess of 70,000 gave them a terrific reception, blue favours being waved in the air and rattles being lustily employed. Manchester United followed them on to the field in an all-white strip with a red V on the breast and the roar that greeted them, Grace felt, could conceivably have been heard in Manchester.

  There was a pageantry about the occasion, he noted. Cricket, for all its rituals and traditions, didn’t have the same sense of gladiatorial formality as this. Despite the party atmosphere and the noisy excitement of the crowd, the match itself was not a particularly memorable spectacle. Bristol City opened brightly – an early shot from inside-right Bob Hardy was well smothered by Moger in the United goal and caused the Doctor to scrunch his programme in his fist with excitement – but the incisive movement and passing of the forwards in white were giving the Bristol defence all kinds of problems. It was midway through the first half when Harold Halse hit a terrific shot that thudded on to the Bristol City crossbar, where it fell to Sandy Turnbull barely five yards out. Harry Clay in the City goal could only watch helplessly as the forward lashed the ball into the net.

  There was an explosion of noise, so loud that it appeared to Grace to make the very air itself crackle and the Old Man was almost bewildered by it: it was like all the ovations he’d ever received replayed all at once. The white-shirted players ran to the prostrate Turnbull who’d only been a last-minute selection as he was carrying an injury, then trotted back to their own half for the game to restart.

  Grace replayed the goal over and over in his mind, seeing the ball whack the crossbar and bounce down to the feet of Turnbull, who brought it under control apparently by sheer instinct and, almost in the same movement, thumped it into the net.

  That must be the moment, he thought. For association footballers, that must be the equivalent of that suspension of time and age and occasion when the ball is on its way to the batsman. In the same way, Turnbull saw the ball coming to him off the crossbar and everything must have melted away to a cocoon of man and ball. Striking the ball would have provided the release and seeing it hit the net like seeing the ball skimming across the turf to the boundary.

  Yet footballers played for only 90 minutes and had barely a handful of oppo
rtunities to experience the moment the way a cricketer does. For a great cricketer, there can be hundreds of those moments in a single match.

  The rest of the game saw the northern side snuff out all of Bristol City’s best efforts and, even though only one goal separated the teams, the result was never particularly in doubt. Grace was disappointed for his home-town team but as a sporting encounter he’d found the match unengaging. What had most caught his attention, however, was the nature of the crowd. It was enormous, and kept up a constant level of noise and excitement, rows and rows of flat caps with flashes of red and blue. Beer bottles piled up at the front of the enclosure opposite the pavilion, peanut sellers walked in front of them, tossing their wares to the customers with commendable accuracy. And the poor beggars had to go all the way back to Bristol and Manchester, arriving home at goodness knows what time, disgorged again from cold, draughty third-class compartments into the night air. But still they were happy and had many a tale to take back with them, especially the victorious Lancastrians.

  He was suddenly gripped by a wave of glumness. This game, he thought, is the future. It’s self-contained, over in two hours, it gives a quick fix of thrill and excitement, making it easier for the working man to fit into his weekly schedule: in following the flow of the football match he could work off all his frustrations and annoyances. The whole range of emotions of a three-day cricket match were compressed into two hours of association football. Starting matches at 3 p.m. on a Saturday suited the working hours and way of life of those employed in the factories, mills and pits. These teams represent smaller communities, towns and cities rather than whole counties, and the arenas are in the heartlands of the spectators themselves. The game has almost come to them, Grace thought, whereas cricket demands the people come to it.

  The final whistle brought a roar from the crowd almost as loud as that which had greeted the goal, comprising a mixture of delight and relief. The teams shook hands as the supporters of both teams applauded, and trooped towards the presentation table that had been set up in front of the pavilion, right in front of Grace. Lord Beresford addressed the gathering. Nobody left: the crowd waited patiently to see Meredith awarded the cup.

  Beresford’s words did nothing to alleviate the Doctor’s unease.

  ‘The game of football is a national game that encourages the best characteristics of the British race,’ he said. ‘To play the game of football it is necessary for a man to be fit and in good health, and it was those characteristics that made the nation what it is today. The more the game is encouraged, the better.’

  With that, he shook hands with Meredith and, to loud cheers, presented him with the trophy. W.G. hauled himself to his feet, excused himself as he made his way along the row expressing a desire to leave before the majority of the crowd began filling the streets. As he left the pavilion and walked briskly towards the park gates, he looked over towards the cricket ground. The London County experiment had failed. Despite a first-class cricket club appearing in their midst, the crowds had never come. They’d lost their first-class status in 1904 but had still turned out a pretty exceptional team for a couple of years after that. The Australians had come three times, the South Africans and the West Indians had also played on that field. The club had given opportunities to some excellent young players. But you can’t force people to come and you can’t impose allegiance. The silhouette of the pavilion loomed dark before a pink and purple sunset, its empty verandah looking out blindly across an empty field. There would be no fixtures this season and the club was in the process of being wound up. As he progressed through his cricketing twilight, was the game to which he’d devoted his life going to follow suit? He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his overcoat, put his head down and walked home feeling old and tired.

  Monday 21 May 1911

  He asked Eva to prepare his funeral suit for the journey and turned to look out of the window. The newspaper was on the bed, its stark headline, ‘DEATH OF DR E.M. GRACE’, following him around the room. He’d barely slept for the last two nights since the news of Ted’s death arrived late on Saturday evening. He’d been ill for some time – hearing how the previous summer he’d collapsed while batting for Thornbury at Weston and had to be carried from the field practically unconscious, never to play again, had troubled W.G. greatly – and his passing had been largely expected, but still, when the news came it caused the Old Man’s legs to buckle and he had to reach out for the wall to stop himself falling.

  Of all the Graces it was E.M. who’d seemed likeliest to go on for ever. Seven years his junior, W.G. had grown up in Ted’s shadow until he was old enough first to match then eclipse his elder brother’s cricketing prowess. However if E.M. had not spent so much time fulfilling his duties as the Coroner for the Lower Division of Gloucestershire then he may well have shown himself to be the better player. As it was he carried on playing for the county until he was 56 and scored, W.G. had estimated, something like 76,000 runs and taken somewhere north of 12,000 wickets.

  Since the death of their parents Ted had been the one he knew he could turn to if necessary. They didn’t have a warm relationship; it was more a deep mutual respect, but the baton denoting the head of the Grace family that had passed from their father to Ted now passed to him. He wasn’t sure he wanted it. What he wanted was Ted back. Even though they rarely saw each other these days, he was reassured by his elder brother’s presence in the world. He wanted Ted to be there, all mutton chop whiskers and irascibility, the Ted who once chased a spectator out of the ground and down the street for a cheeky remark, or bowled out batsmen with steepling lobs that landed on top of the stumps, causing the crowd and the opposition to react with such opprobrium that he had to pull up a stump in self-defence. That was Ted, not the man reduced to a bedridden husk of recent times.

  He thought back to their childhood games at Downend, the endless summer evenings with the Graces at play, E.M. and Uncle Pocock leading the way, teasing the youngsters, giving them interminable sessions in the field while they dominated the batting and the bowling. Even back then the youthful W.G. could only watch his brother in awe. His timing with the bat was always exquisite: it didn’t matter whether the ball was a good length, overpitched or a long-hop, E.M. always seemed to meet it with the middle of the bat and send it to wherever he pleased. When he was a boy, Mr Cave’s wood and quarry at long-on seemed to be popular destinations for the ball whenever Ted had the bat in his hand. The young W.G. would frequently emerge from the wilds covered in sap or quarry dust, occasionally both.

  E.M. had also pioneered the art of hitting across the line. And in Grace’s view it was indeed an art. In the boys’ early days in the game scoring runs to leg was frowned upon as vulgar, even ungentlemanly. Ted paid no heed – possibly, W.G. thought, because as a small boy Ted had been coached using a full-sized bat and hence couldn’t help but play across the line – and developed a vicious pull shot that was now in common use and praised to the heavens when executed properly.

  E.M. was a breathtaking cricketer. Never had the Old Man seen someone who could take a match by the scruff of the neck and dominate it the way his brother did. He’d once heard it remarked that the only thing Ted couldn’t do on a cricket field was keep wicket off his own bowling. Playing for Berkeley against Knole Park in 1861, he recalled, of a total of 119 Ted made 100 not out, then took all ten Knole Park wickets in the second innings. The same month he scored an unbeaten 119 for Lansdown and then bowled out the entire Clifton side. People still talked about the occasion the following year when he hit an undefeated 192 for MCC and took ten Kent wickets in their second innings. He was the most complete cricketer the Old Man had ever seen and had been right from a young age: at 13 he was playing for West Gloucestershire against the famous All-England XI and more than holding his own.

  The Champion had always felt that E.M. truly showed his character as a fielder. Ted would stand closer in at point than even he would dare, arguing that if the ball leapt off the pitch and took
the bat high on the face or shoulder, he’d be in the perfect place to take the catch. He did, and frequently, but not all his catches were from plunging forward to scoop the ball into his hands as it dropped in front of the batsman. He once saw him catch a full-blooded drive from Stoddart barely six feet from the bat and calmly hand the ball to the wicketkeeper without so much as moving his feet. He also remembered Billy Murdoch middling a cut for the Australians in 1882 that E.M. pouched comfortably. Murdoch looked at him in disbelief and said, ‘I thought it must have gone right through you.’

  Grace also recalled the day in 1884 at Manchester when Gloucestershire were playing Lancashire. Their mother had been ill but not seriously enough to prevent the brothers going up to Manchester. The match had been interrupted by thunderstorms but Ted and W.G. went out to open the second innings with the scores relatively close and a telegram received that morning stating that their mother’s condition was improving. Characteristically, Ted drove the first ball of the innings for four runs. Twelve minutes before lunch, however, he was caught out at mid-off. W.G. walked to the wicket and had got off the mark and survived an appeal for leg before when Ted suddenly ran on to the field waving a telegram. Their mother, their dear, kind, devoted mother, had, it seemed, taken a major turn for the worse and died that morning. The two brothers stood on the field and looked at each other, frozen in shock and grief. Each searched the other’s eyes, imploring them to do or say something, either to demonstrate the news wasn’t true or to tell the other exactly what they should do next. The two greatest cricketers in the land were suddenly reduced to shocked, timid little boys. It took the Lancashire captain, their old friend ‘Monkey’ Hornby, to stride over, take both of them by the arm and announce the game was suspended and they should leave immediately for Bristol. Dear old Monkey, he walked them both from the field, into the pavilion and right to the changing room before telling them not to worry about a thing and that his sympathies, those of his team, his club and indeed of the whole cricket world were with them.