Handicaps They Overcame (27 May 1978)

I was touched by the recent Gazette story about the 12-year old Great Brickhill boy, Kevin Rolls, who walked four miles on his crutches to raise money for his fellow physically-handicapped.  “Gradley, lad,” as they say in Lancashire.  May you be cured of your disability.  Failing that, may you grow up to be the fastest, strongest man on earth on crutches.

We are told that Kevin is mad about soccer and that he has developed his own way of playing, even though he has little feeling in his legs.  It reminds me of a boy at our village school who had lost a leg.  Normally he used only one crutch, but when football was on the go at break times he used two.  He was not much use at rugger, of course; but at soccer he got around the playground with giant hops and was a real terror.  He was allowed to use his crutches on the ball as well as his foot and used to say that this gave him four feet, not three – his foot and the left crutch for left-footedness and his foot and his right crutch for right-footedness.  Swinging on his crutches and with perfect timing he could kick the ball harder than anybody.  But we did not allow him to use his crutches for headers, as each of us had only one head.  I do not know what eventually happened to him, for his family left the district while he was still of school age.

Very early in my life I could not help noticing the quirks of fate – how some boys got on better than could have been expected and others with seemingly superior prospects failed.  One extreme case.  We had a boy called Johnny Johnson.  He came from a hamlet some distance away which did not have a school and was one of the very few who had to stay at school for a sandwich lunch.  Physically, mentally and in disposition he was the tops.

In one schools’ league cricket match he took eight wickets for no runs, thus enabling us to oust the other side for only two runs.  For over 50 years that was the lowest total I ever heard of for an innings played on a Yorkshire Cricket Council club “table” or any other kind of match for that matter.  Then, just a few years ago, a team at Rickley Park, Bletchley, was reported to have been dismissed for no score at all.

Our match was played just before the summer holidays.  On our return to school we were appalled to learn that we would not be seeing Johnny again. He had died of rheumatic fever during the holidays.  We went on to win the shield, but had to wear black armbands for the last match.  I was the team’s scorer and had to wear one too.

Unfortunately I cannot see any future for Kevin as a cricket player, but normally each club has to have a scorer and also an umpire except on those bigger occasions when neutral umpires are desirable.  The umpiring possibilities are debatable.  But there is no reason why Kevin should not take up the scorebook successfully.  It is one way of being “one of the gang,” so to speak.  I have known one or two crippled scorers who have done that job for their clubs while two generations of players have passed before their eyes.  A well-kept cricket score book is a rare but valuable thing for any club to have.

Talking of handicapped cricketers, one of the most remarkable cases I have heard of is that of Ernest J Dickens, of Stewkley, who had a long career as a professional in good-class cricket while playing with an artificial arm.  For ten seasons up to the second world war he played for the Appleby Club, Westmoreland, and during that period hit 6,520 runs and took 971 wickets.  I believe he was invited back to the club when they resumed after the war, but I do not know his final record.  He also played for Durham at one time.

To finish I will tell you a tale about the legendary Emmett Robinson, the very capable Yorkshire all-rounder.  I say “legendary” because Emmett was such a card on and off the cricket field that he is now credited up north with nearly every funny thing that ever happened there.  But he could also be verbally devastating.

One day he had just taken a wicket and was waiting for the next victim to appear.  Those were the days of separate gates onto the field for “gentlemen” and “players”.

The next man in made Emmett blink.  He came through the gentlemen’s gate, all immaculate and I Zingari, spinning what seemed to be a brand new bat with one hand and fidgeting with his multi-coloured cap with the other as though practising how to raise it when he made his century.  On arriving at the crease, the gentleman took an unconscionable time taking guard, having the sight-board moved, prodding the pitch and looking round the field.  Meanwhile Emmett, in his yellowish-white sweater and brownish-white trousers, tossed the ball from hand to hand, with increasing impatience.

Finally, the signal was given and Emmett sent down a beauty that flattened the gentleman’s off stump.  The inner ring of fieldsmen grinned, but Emmett kept a straight face.  As the gentleman was walking back to the pavilion, he nodded to Emmett and said, “That was a really good ball,” though he did not actually add “my man”.  And quick as a flash, Emmett replied, “Aye, it were not so bad, but it were wasted on thee!”