An Evening with Johnners (18 page)

When he was at Ampleforth School he was very short-sighted and very fat, so his headmaster said, ‘All right, Harding, you can go for walks instead of playing cricket.’

Now this infuriated the young master, just down from Oxford, who took the cricket. He thought he would get his own back, which is always dangerous, and when he put the teams up on the board for the Masters against the Boys, underneath he put: Umpire – Gilbert Harding.

So Gilbert had to go and umpire and he was not too pleased about it at all. The master went in and hit the boys all around the field. He was ninety-eight not out when a boy, bowling from Gilbert’s end, hit him high in the chest and stifled an appeal for leg before wicket. But not before Gilbert had said, ‘Out!’

This infuriated the young master who, as he went past Gilbert, said, ‘Harding! I wasn’t out! You weren’t paying attention.’

Gilbert thought for a moment and said, ‘On the contrary, sir. I
was
paying attention, and you weren’t out!’

T
hen there’s the dreadful story that dear old Jim Laker used to tell about the Commonwealth tour in India in the fifties, under Richie Benaud. There was himself, Bruce Dooland and George Tribe of Northants, an Australian, who bowled the chinaman – the left arm off-break.

George was getting the batsmen, time and time again, right up against the stumps, palpably out.

‘Howzat!’

‘Very close, Mr Tribe.’

‘Howzat!!’

‘Another inch and I’d have had to raise the finger, Mr Tribe.’

‘Howzat!!!’

‘Nearly, I had to give him the benefit of the doubt, Mr Tribe. Very difficult.’

George was getting fed up with this and off the sixth ball he more or less yorked the chap, who was right in front of his stumps. It
must
have hit the stumps and he turned round and said, ‘What about that?’

The man began, ‘Mr …’ and he got no further than that. George turned round, took him by the throat and said, ‘Have another look!’

He said, ‘You’re right, Mr Tribe. He’s out!’

W
ell, of course, that shouldn’t happen. Then, I always like the original umpire story of village cricket, where the home umpire, as they were always called, was
umpiring
against the visiting side. Their best batsman was hit somewhere high up on the chest, there was an appeal for lbw and the local umpire gave ‘out’ to the home side.

As he went past, this distinguished-looking batsman said, ‘I wasn’t out, umpire.’

The umpire gave the traditional reply, ‘Well, you look in Wednesday’s
Gazette
and see.’

This chap said, ‘
You
look. I’m the editor!’

I
think kindness is very important. But sometimes it doesn’t work out. A lovely story is told about Brian Close. He was the youngest person ever to represent England – eighteen in 1949 – and then he went out to Australia with Freddie Brown as the junior member of the side in 1950/51. He made a hundred in the first match and hardly any runs after that – not a great tour for him.

But they were going up by train from Sydney to
Newcastle
, as they did in those days; it was in the evening and there was a girl sitting in the carriage, nursing a baby.

The chap opposite her kept looking at the baby and she said, ‘What are you looking at my baby for?’

‘I’d rather not say.’

‘What are you looking for?’ she went on, and in the end he said, ‘All right, I’ll tell you. It’s the ugliest looking baby I’ve ever seen in my life!’

Well, she rose and burst into tears and she was standing out in the corridor, weeping her eyes out and
holding
her baby, when the MCC team came along on the way to supper. Bringing up the rear was the junior man, Brian Close, who saw this girl and said, ‘What’s wrong, dear. Can I help?’

‘Yes. I’ve been insulted by that man in the carriage,’ she said and burst into tears again.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ Brian said. ‘Before I have supper, I’ll go along to the restaurant car and bring you back a cup of tea to cheer you up.’

She said, ‘Oh, please,’ and burst into tears again.

He came back two minutes later and she was still crying. ‘There you are, dear,’ he said, ‘a cup of tea to cheer you up. And what’s more, I’ve also brought a banana for the monkey!’

B
rian Close was undoubtedly one of the bravest
cricketers
I’ve ever seen. Remember him batting against the West Indies in 1963, against Hall and Griffith? Rather than risk giving a catch, he bared his breast at them and let the ball hit him. You could see the maker’s name all over him. He was very brave and, of course, he always fielded near in at short leg.

There’s a story about when Yorkshire were playing Gloucestershire and Martin Young was batting; Ray
Illingworth
was bowling and Close was right in there at forward short leg.

For once, Ray bowled a bit of a short ball outside the off stump, which Martin Young pulled and he got Close above his right eye. The ball ballooned up over Jimmy Binks, the wicket-keeper, and into the hands of Phil Sharpe at first slip – caught!

Blood was pouring down Close’s face. It didn’t worry him, he just wiped it away, and fielded for about another ten minutes. Then the lunch interval came and he walked back – blood still pouring down – and as he went in, one of the members said, ‘Mr Close, you mustn’t stand as near as that. It’s very dangerous. What would have happened if it had hit you slap between the eyes?’

He said, ‘He’d have been caught at cover!’

He’s a great person, and one of the great characters.

A
bit of advice which I give to people – sometimes it will get you promotion and sometimes the sack – is, if you are going to do something which you think is the right thing to do, but you suspect your boss may not think so, I say, stick to your principles and do it.

There’s a lovely cricket story, which is an old one now but it illustrates this perfectly, about the late Duke of Norfolk, who went as the manager of Ted Dexter’s team to Australia in 1962/63. A strange chap to have as a
manager
, a Duke, but they loved him in Australia – they called him ‘Dukey’ – because wherever MCC played he leased a racehorse and ran it in the local meeting.

They told me this story, which I hope is true. MCC were playing against South Australia at Adelaide, and about twenty-two miles outside Adelaide there is a
racecourse
called Gawlor. There’s a lovely paddock there with eucalyptus trees and gum trees, very picturesque.

The Duke had a horse running there, so he thought he would go and see it. He spotted it under the eucalyptus tree and walked across the paddock in his pinstriped suit, panama hat and MCC ribbon, very much the Duke. As he approached the horse, to his horror, he saw the trainer put his hand in his pocket and give the horse something to eat.

He thought, Oh, my God, I’m a member of the Jockey Club at home, and he went up to the trainer and said, ‘I
hope you didn’t give him anything you shouldn’t have, trainer. We don’t want any trouble with dope here.’

‘No, no, Your Grace,’ said the trainer. ‘I just gave him a lump of sugar. I’m going to eat one myself. Would you like one too, Your Grace?’

The Duke thought he’d better humour him, so he ate the lump of sugar, talked about the race and went off to watch it from the grandstand. Five minutes before the race started, in came the jockeys, waddling as they do.

The Duke’s jockey went up under the eucalyptus tree to his horse and the trainer said, ‘Look. This is a
seven-furlong
race. The first five furlongs, keep tucked in behind and don’t move. But for the last two furlongs, give him all you’ve got, and if anyone passes you after that, it’s either the Duke of Norfolk or myself!’