M Parkinson: Cudworth's finest (28 Sep 1998)

28 September 1998

Cudworth's finest

By Michael Parkinson

MY MOTHER - 87 not out - the one who spent her honeymoon watching a Test match, has been clearing her drawers. As befitting a tea lady of many years' experience she has a large collection of cricketing memorabilia, particularly photographs. She sent me the one reprinted on this page and it didn't half uncork the memories. It is the Cudworth Cricket Club team circa the early Fifties. The man in jacket and tie with the flyaway hairstyle in the centre of the back row is my father, John William Parkinson, who had temporarily given up the game to watch me play at Barnsley. Very proud he was.

I grew up with my father playing in the Cudworth team. At first we played in a farmer's field in a hollow with rustling, ripened corn on one side and a view of Grimethorpe slag heaps over long on. Our best player was Jack Berry. He is sitting in the picture, second from the left. He bowled leg-breaks at medium pace and now and again fizzed a googly.

He was the best bowler I ever saw in club cricket and in different circumstances would certainly have played at a much higher level. He had a lovely high action and would bowl until opening time if required. He was always giving employment to slips and gully, particularly our best fielder, Bob Bone. He is second from the left in the back row. You can't see his hands, which is a pity because seeing is believing. They were as big as dinner plates. He didn't catch a ball, he enveloped it.

His other virtue was that he owned a lorry which took us to away games. Sometimes, when it had been used to deliver a ton of coal in the week, we would arrive at our destination looking like we had just done a shift underground. I was 13 when they put me in the gully next to Bob Bone. Jack Berry got one to hit the top of the bat and it flew to my right hand and stuck.

Fifty years on and I can still manage a slow-mo action replay. I can also remember when I threw the ball back to Mr Berry he nodded his approval. I had arrived. They didn't say much. Except my father. He never stopped talking throughout a game.

Eric Smallman, front left sitting down, never said a word. He was an opening bat of immense concentration and total silence. He would have made a marvellous Trappist monk. In those days there was a lot of chit-chat on the field, particularly during local derbies, some of it rude and personal. Smallman's silence and unchanging demeanour enraged his would-be tormentors.

In one game the opposition's fast bowler ran out of insults, turned to my father who was batting with Smallman, and said: "What's up wi' yon bloke, John Willie. Is he bloody deaf or something?" My dad replied: "No, he's not deaf. He's Polish."

Where he got that from I don't know, but it added to Smallman's mystique. He was sometimes referred to in the local press as "Cudworth's Polish opening bat" or "The cricketer from behind the Iron Curtain", which was news to his family who thought he came from Grimethorpe.

Norman Stewardson, he's the one on the extreme left of the back row, was a vision in cream. His flannels were pressed to knife-edge perfection. He didn't hang them up, he stood them in a corner of the dressing room. For all he was immaculate and precise in his dress he was a whirlwind at the crease.

He had no time for blocking or nudging the odd single while waiting for the bad ball. He treated every ball he faced with utter disdain. The only challenge was how far he could hit it. He had a bat covered in what looked like a vellum sheath. Whenever he was asked what it was he would say: "Kangaroo skin. That's why t'ball goes as far as it does when I hit it."

Our other big hitter was George Roberts. He's the one sitting second from the right in the front row. His bat was the colour of a cello and was signed by Herbert Sutcliffe. Herbert would have had a fit if he batted with Mr Roberts, whose unchanging technique was to block one ball and then hit the next out of the ground.

He had an eye like a sparrowhawk and one leg. When he was hit on the gammy limb the ball would make a noise like Big Ben chiming. "Owz that," the bowler would cry. "One o'clock and all's well," George would say before the umpire could put his finger up.

Remembering Herbert Sutcliffe, I was saddened to read of the death of Billy Sutcliffe, "Herbert's lad" as he was called. He bore the burden of a famous father with great good humour and was a much better player than he was given credit for by those who believed he captained Yorkshire because of his name.

I remember fielding at cover point for nearly three hours at Headingley one Saturday afternoon long ago when Billy and the Aussie rugby legend Arthur Clues put on more than two hundred runs, a high percentage of them past me.

I spent the entire afternoon trotting to the boundary to retrieve the ball from the feet of the one spectator who risked frostbite to watch us. At one point I asked him why he didn't co-operate by throwing me the ball. He replied: "Nay, lad, I've come here to see thee work, not do it missen."

That would have been about the same time the photograph was taken. If you look carefully you will see the ground underfoot looks rough. It was. Lethal, in fact. We left our home in the farmer's back yard and moved up the hill to a brand new sports complex. When we played our first season it was far from finished and so dangerous the local St John Ambulance Brigade brought their students to our games knowing they would get plenty of practice particularly with splints.

At the time we had one of the quickest bowlers in the district, a strapping professional boxer called Terry MacDonald. He is not in the picture. If he was there wouldn't be room for the rest. He was a heavyweight good enough to get into the British top 10. Then he fought Nuttall (Archie? Albert?) from Stockport. Goodnight Terry. He ended up with a pub.

Terry only played a season or two with us but long enough to create terror among the opposition. My father was captain at the time and being a fast bowler himself was Terry's greatest advocate. When he first came into the side, no one knew how quick he was. We soon found out. In his initial spell he persuaded everyone to stand a respectful distance from the wicket, including the men holding the bat.

"By God, John Willie, but yon lad's quick," the opposing captain said to my dad. "He is that. But tha' should have seen him before he were gassed," said my old man. Thus another lie became legend, another invention became propaganda to booby trap the opposition. Instead of keeping my old man in the pits during the war Winston Churchill should have made him director of psychological warfare.

The year before I joined Barnsley they sent their second team to play us. These were the silvertails of local cricket. Their captain was Albert White, who was singled out for special treatment because he didn't work at the pit. He was a hairdresser. More than that he was a crimper with attitude.

At Barnsley he played on a perfect batting strip. When he come to Cudworth he saw how the other half lived. He escaped with his life, but only just. The more he complained about the state of the pitch the faster MacDonald bowled. Albert departed saying our ground was only fit for cattle. Prophetic words.

Rebuked by the league for having a dangerous pitch, we instructed Old Cheyney, our groundsman, to do something about it. His solution was to make a mixture of manure, straw and grass cuttings which he stirred into a paste and spread on the wicket. When it dried and was rolled out it was as dead as a pudding.

When it rained it became a foul smelling mire of such pungency it attracted flies from as far away as Sheffield. In fact, if you look at the picture you will notice that most of the team look slightly stunned, which is not surprising considering they are standing on a dung heap.

The picture might be slightly faded but my memories are not. I was happy, growing up with agreeable men. Most of them are dead now. Jack Shepherd is still alive. He is on my father's left hand. He was his favourite and my mate. A good cricketer but a better footballer with lovely skills.

There are a couple of others apart from Jack who are still around, but the rest are gone. When I first looked at the photograph the other day I ached with sadness. Then I remembered the good times we had and felt better. Cricket is the most companionable of games, and the best natured. That is its genius and why it matters.

Source :: Electronic Telegraph (https://www.telegraph.co.uk)