Connelly Charlie - Gilbert: the last days of w. g. grace

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Constance Street

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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: Liechtensteins 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 Footballs Metroland

I Just Cant Help Believing: The Relegation Experience

Contents

He awoke, breathed deeply, rubbed one eye and didnt feel any different. The aches from Saturdays exertions five Somerset wickets to add to the seven hed taken in the first innings had long subsided bar the soreness in his bruised heel, and any lingering shudders and vibrations from the previous evenings 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.

Hed never set any great store by birthdays but was prepared to concede that this one might be different, at least from the outside. Its 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 hed joked that if it had to happen it was easier to move the match than his birthday). He didnt feel 50 years old, but then he wasnt entirely sure how being 50 years old was supposed to feel. He was playing with men who hadnt 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 hed 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 Lords at around eleven oclock 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 wouldnt 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 hed at least have shaken the veterans hand but he was still angry.

Just over a week ago Gloucestershire had travelled to Leyton to play Essex and, aided by the Doctors 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, Im 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. Hed 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 umpires finger and Perrin had to go.

A handful of overs into the next mornings 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 Kortrights 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 Doctors 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 the 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 Mans 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 youre not leaving us, Doctor? Theres 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.