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Wisden Writing Competition: Introduction



Roger Outram suggested I might write another piece for the Newsletter. I promised an article, once again about cricket but accessible to those who don't know the game. Wisden Cricketers' Almanack, 'the cricketers' bible', has been published annually since 1864. lt holds a competition for non-professional writers who are invited to submit anything about cricket in 500 words or fewer. I entered last year and while not winning, was 'commended'. The following article appeared in Nightwatchman, Wisden's quarterly journal, last summer. lt is reproduced here with permission of the publishers.

For those who are unfamiliar with cricket's history, Brian Statham, Cyril Washbrook and Roy Tattersall were Lancashire and England cricketing giants of the 1950s and 1960s. Those who remember our annual visits to Eccleston Square or Cleland House to be interviewed for promotion, will understand, from the following article, that my preparations for the inevitable results started early in life.

ON NOT BEING PICKED

Ten years old, having already played for England so many times in front of my bedroom mirror, it could only be a matter of time before Old Glossop Juniors recognised my skills. Every evening, homework half­ completed, it was but a short trek across the field behind our house to the precious turf of Manor Park Road ground. There, god-like and 'Mr' to us youngsters,stood our coach Graham Allsopp,already a veteran of the First Eleven at 19. No coaching qualifications or criminal record checks in those days. You just had to be good, like Mr Allsopp.

Junior nets meant running in with the grace of Brian Statham and driving, cutting or sweeping with the elegance of Cyril Washbrook. Briefly, those evenings, I was Brian Statham and Cyril Washbrook. All that stood in the way of following in their footsteps was being selected. There were perhaps more talented juniors, including Mr Allsopp's younger brother who always got picked but I had my own bat, gloves and Roy Tattersall's autograph. That, surely,counted for something. Then came the pre-match ritual of visiting
Bennet Greensmith, the newsagent.

The Club team sheets appeared in his window,a short walk from home. Every week, there it was. Eleven players, two reserves and ... no mention of me. How could it be? 'Mr Greensmith, are you sure that's the right list?' 'Yes, lad, that's the right list.' 'Not last week's list, Mr Greensmith?' 'Not last week's list, lad,' and the walk home seemed twice as long.

There was still one finger-crossing chance. I didn't necessarily wish harm upon those selected but what if some mystery illness were to strike before the match? Then, hurrah, I would come to the rescue. lt never happened but at last, my name did appear in the window. As Second Eleven scorer.

History can cruelly repeat itself. My parents moved house and I changed clubs. I was eventually chosen for Glossop Juniors, then occasionally for the Seconds and at last and just once, the Glossop First Eleven. lt was Wakes Fortnight, the mill workers' holiday, and many regulars were away. The day before the match and excitedly anticipating the forthcoming pinnacle of my career, I was approached in the nets by the much revered Archie Cadman, whose father, Sam, had played for Derbyshire. 'A quiet word. lt's for
the good of the Club. I know you'll understand. Graham Allsopp has just joined us and I'd like you to stand
down.'

Some said the experience would be character forming but I hadn't wanted my character formed. I had just wanted to play. Why couldn't Graham Allsopp have left it only one more week? Hardly hiding my disappointment, I did,of course, agree. For consolation, I returned home and retrieved Tatt's autograph from my desk drawer. He played for England 16 times and yet I read of the days when he, too, found it difficult to get selected. Time to think positively. There's always next season, isn't there Roy?



PETER QUINN