A History of Gotherington Cricket Club (pre-World War One to 1990) by Bill Pullen, David Freeman, David Price LIST OF CONTENTS Forward Prologue Chapter One – The barely retrievable past Chapter Two – The barely mentionable present Chapter Three – The Fields of Glory: The Players Chapter Four – The entrance of the Goddesses: The Ladies Chapter Five – The Friends Epilogue In Memoriam Appendices 1 FORWARD My connection with Gotherington C.C. began in the ‘Swinging Sixties’ with its mini-skirts swirling to the sounds of the Beatles and myself emancipated from knee-pants but poised to embrace academia at Pates’ educational emporium. Appropriately I was weaned from milk to Brown Ale (Tot-off); from Janet and John to, inter- alia, Caesar and his Gallic problems and therefrom to contemplate the issues which face us all, viz to select a route from bubbling youth to the ultimate joys of a decently decadent old age. Along this chosen path it was necessary to find a station to pause and further examine the future. I didn’t have to wait long. My salvation was on the doorstep, Gotherington C.C. invited me to tell the tale of its background, and so I joined the company of the spear carriers of the Clubs resurgence, to wit: Messrs. Peter ‘Fred’ McMurray, Neil Hyde, David ‘Yards’ Owen and ‘B’ White. Their centurions included David Freeman, Alec Fry and sundry others (of whom much, much more later). I became the Club’s Scorer, Raconteur, crucial ‘Twelfth Man’, Jester and latterly, its Chronicler. In preparing this chronicle it became clear that a specific format, preferably light hearted, be adopted. From the accumulated data it was apparent that you, dear reader, would be stunned by endless statistics. So it was decided to leave these to an Appendix and assault your sensibilities with sometimes only slightly embroidered reports of the doings (and undoings) of the Members, on and off the field. I hope dear friends I was right! Let’s see. W. (Bill) Pullen 2 PROLOGUE This work is dedicated above all to the memory of all those who have served the Club since its rebirth in the early ‘Sixties’. They are: Vic Crumplin D.C.A. Dixon Lieut. Comm. Henry Franklin D.S.C. Alec Fry Jim McLaren Eddie Moore Charles Stanford Flt. Lieut. Harry Upsom D.F.C. David Worley In the process it aims to amuse and enlighten the many who enjoy the game of cricket and the few who treasure fast receding memories of the game in the more demure days before the War as it was played in Gotherington. Finally the immediate past and present players are invited to recapture in their dotage and at their firesides the pleasures and excitements of the game they played in tranquillity of their youth. To you all then, why not turn the pages! 3 CHAPTER ONE : THE BARELY RETRIEVABLE PAST There is undocumented evidence that cricket was first played in Gotherington in the years before W.W.1. Doubtless the name of some are etched on long lost score books and subsequently carved in stone on memorials. The men themselves having carried their bats to their last pavilions. So it behoves us to grasp at the frail straws of fuddled memories and faded notes to recapture what we can. For some of this we are indebted to Gordon Pullen, Graham South, Betty Stanford and the late Ida Edgington. All true villagers. Gordon for instance recalls travelling by pony and trap to away games eg. Tewkesbury, Tredington, Apperley etc. and on foot to the meadow behind the now Lawrences Meadow. Gordon still remembers in the ‘Twenties’, Ernie Aston (Shutter Landlord), the village ‘Bobby’ Claude Hobbs, and Nobby Clarke, a one time Cheltenham goalkeeper, to name a few, all keen cricketers who played for the village. The Club’s sometimes awesome results first appeared in print in 1934, gracing the pages of the Tewkesbury Register, the poor man’s Sun of the era. Its cricket columns were never graced by the pens of the Gurus of the art; the young Jim Swanton of the Telegraph who only referred to Dennis Compton by his first name after he had passed 50 runs – and, the greatest of them all, Neville Cardus who, befitting his alter ego as the Guardian’s music critic, used to describe the arcs of Don Bradman’s bat as evocative of a Beethoven finale. These Gentlemen sadly made their excuses and invariably headed for Fenners, The Parks, The Oval or Lords. Nevertheless Gotherington gamely batted on through seasons now mellowing under Time’s gaze. These seasons frequently ended with riotous suppers in the Shutter with beer at a mere 4d a pint (Terry Brown please note) (I expect it was a good brew as well) (and a full measure) etc. etc. At this function a new bat would have been presented to the player of the year at a cost would you believe of 42/- ??? The parties would break up after a night of ribaldry and serious imbibing (does anything change?) Another social event was the comic cricket match when the local transvestites cavorted in nearby meadows against the Ladies eleven of which Ida Edgington was responsible in forming. An engaging lady Ida, a keen wine maker living at Shady Nook in Shutter Lane and previously of The Holt in Cleeve Road, where it was nothing to see various visitors leaving at all hours mostly legless. CHAPTER TWO: THE BARELY MENTIONABLE PRESENT The immediate post-war years had little direct impact on Gotherington and sport was limited to soccer, again played in the aforementioned meadow. In the late 50s, however, Smiths Industries, Dowty’s, The National Coal Board and the spy centre, G.C.H.Q. expanded to release their fledgling executives, accompanied by fresh cheeked wives and mewling infants to descend on the innocent villagers hitherto serene lifestyle. The effect bordered on the apoplectic. The newly built Lawns and later Pullen’s Court pulsated with their unspeakable activities. A new dynamism appeared. In particular a need for a broad band of recreation was recognised. The Parish Council bent to the people’s will and the Playing Field was born. It contained within its 4 acres,pitches for Cricket, Football, Tennis and a Children’s Play Area. 4 Dare it be mentioned that those amenities would diminish the thrust in the loins of our straining athletes? It became a boon to aspiring cricketers who first tested their reflexes in the summer of ’65 and in the bar of the Shutter whose Landlords have always been magnificent Patrons of the Club. The first Captain was David Freeman who was soon superceded by in dubious order Derek Fry, Ron Brimble, John Nimmo, Colin Ralph, David ‘Reg’ Millington, Kevin Wood and currently, Jonathan Freeman. It is a valued characteristic of the Club that all players must have some links with the Parishes of Gotherington, Woolstone and Oxenton. For the past 25 years this has been firmly adhered to. A word now about those who associated themselves with the Club, actively, socially and critically, financially. It may be that one or two names are missing – to those people we offer our sincere apologies. Also over the years our memories have become somewhat numb either by age or drink and some items may not be quite accurate, and nothing said is meant to cause any embarrassment or offence. First we remember Henry Franklin, D.S.C., our first formal Umpire. He was untrained, intimidating but appropriately sensitive to the home captain’s prejudices. Opposing bowlers consistently apologised for their effrontery after appealing for a catch behind or L.B.W. During one match Henry’s stentorian (loud) shout echoed through the Parish when a young player named Bates dropped a second catch, to wit --- . “Pull yourself together, Master Bates, you’re at it again!” The Rector of Woolstone is understood to have called for six ‘Hail Marys’ in mitigation. Henry gave us colour as he still surely does in the Elyssian Fields he now wanders. Another fellow traveller in these pastures, also sorely missed, was HarryUpson (Flt. Lieut.), whose companionship and exhibitions of hearty eating of oriental style meals, during our summer tours are legendary. His appetite for life and hot curries left even Chinese cooks begging for return tickets to Peking. Then there was Alec Fry, our first Chairman. A man of charm, whose total commitment to the Club gave us great heart when it was needed. So dedicated was Alec that on a tour of Wales he exhausted the maps to the point of re-opening routes last used by the Tudors. In the meantime Derek, his son, hyped at the diminishing prospect of playing, sobbed inconsolably as the car meandered through Welsh Hill rain and tortuous bends in search of fields of play. So farewell, Alec, and thank you. Amongst other Chairmen there is still the extent Dennis Waters, a man of so many parts it is a matter to wonder how they all cohere to form the whole man. However Dennis is a joy to recall for his contributions to the Club’s well-being. His jaunty carriage was reminiscent, surely, of war-time exuberances on the flight-decks of war-time bombers. Since Dennis we have been blessed with Norman H. Macdonald, the charismatic arbiter of the quality of malt whiskey. He bloodied himself in the nurturing of our junior players (run in those days by Alec and Derek Fry and John Postlethwaite), many of whom have passed with credit into the First Eleven. ‘Mac’ then took an umpiring course which some distressed batsmen consider gives him unchallengeable rights to vent his spleen on those who fail to buy his round in the post-match critique.