"Father of the Flock" by Harry East

[Neville Cardus]

This post is chiefly for the edification of a northerner named Andy, but I am sure that the rest of you will find it interesting, too.

Amongst the most fascinating internet debates that I have ever had was one with Andy on the subject of the White Rose's left-arm spinners. He posited Ikey Hodgson as better than my personal choice of number one, Ted Peate. I replied that, while Hodgson was the founder of the art, Peate was its perfecter. Harry East, perhaps my favourite writer on cricket appears (at least by the title of this piece) to agree.

*

Probably, and no doubt he would have been vastly disgruntled if any other claimant to the honour had usurped him, Ikey Hodgson was the worst batsman and most slovenly fielder who ever lived.

But nobbut just. His bosom pal, Billy Slinn, ran him a close second. Once, unfortunately, early in his career, when he was raw and unsophisticated, Billy had twice scored double figures in the same match. In the total there would be snicks through the slips which butter-fingered fieldsmen had failed to accept; there would be shots that had bounced in eccentric, non-geometric orbits from a wavering, horizontal bat to points unknown in the glossary of fieldsmanship. Nevertheless, whether through accident or design, and all available evidence points to the former, Billy had suffered the indignity of being unable to prevent the ball and his bat coming into contact often enough, so that ten had twice been registered against his name.

No such misdemeanour ever sullied Ikey’s escutcheon. He was not a cricketer. To him, batting and fielding were, as far as personal participation was concerned, distasteful chores to be avoided or, at worst, evil necessities that the idiosyncrasies of the game demanded, and were to be undertaken with the minimum of interest and effort. Had that multitude of iniquitous forms that sift into our private lives been in existence 150 years ago, he would have entered, ‘Isaac Hodgson; born 15 November 1828, in the township of Bradford; occupation, professional bowler.’

Or more likely he would have ignored it and been sought by tipstaff and bailiff. They would not have found him, for Ikey was the peripatetic opponent, the shadow of William Clarke’s All England XI, the haunter and nightmare of his batsmen.

‘The best man for a XXII now living’, a critic pronounced him when he was sweeping, like the sword of Gideon, through the ranks of the tourists’ champions. Not, mark you, for an eleven. No team of any standing could afford to include Ikey and Billy, to see their last wicket fall at number eight and to field nine players. Once, in a moment of desperation, the United All England XI had invited their co-operation, but in six innings they made a grand total of one run. There is no record extant of the number of catches they dropped or gently bouncing balls they failed to gather, but, it seems, the sad conclusion was reached that their talents were outweighed by their imperfections and the invitations ceased.

But, for a XXII, their very failings were their virtues. With 22 fieldsmen to disseminate, the ground was reminiscent of Piccadilly Circus on Mafeking night, and sixth or seventh longstop were acceptable posts to Ikey and Billy. A village captain, faced with the unenviable necessity of making out his batting order, risked a vendetta of Corsican bitterness by being compelled to insult one of the rustics by requesting, ‘Wilt thou go in at t’fall of twentieth wicket, Isaiah?’

Ikey and Billy lifted that burden from his shoulders. There was no need to tell them. They never looked at the score book or the list of names pinned behind the dressing tent door. Twenty-first and twenty-second were their positions by right, by usage, by custom, and whether precedence was decided by rote, by tossing a coin, by alphabetical order or by seniority was a matter of indifference. In the polite language of the time they rarely ‘troubled the scorers’ and would probably have lost their way if they had been compelled to cross the wicket.

William Clarke (known as Old Clarke) was a famous cricketer, a native of Nottingham. He once invited the Sheffield Cricket Club to meet Nottingham for with the suggestion that the stumps should be pitched ‘half-way between Sheffield and Nottingham, each party bearing its own expenses’; for besides being a man of mighty deeds Old Clarke was a great lover of money.

So he assembled his All England XI playing anywhere, town or village, where he could be guaranteed a ‘gate’, often taking on 18 or 22 opponents and the two ‘home’ umpires as well. And, being a man of great cunning, he laid as many side bets as possible with the village yokels, who, when their bellies were full of ale, were apt to think that the sun shone out of their village heroes.

After the match, his top hat brimming with golden sovereigns, Old Clarke assembled his men in the local pub, rewarded them scantily from his fortune, and, if they murmured in dissatisfaction at their miserly stipend, advised them to ‘take their hooks back home’. There were plenty more in the South and Midlands anxious to take their places.

The match against All England was a great day for the Yorkshire villagers. The delvers from the quarries, the handloom weavers from their cottages, the wool combers from the water-driven mills, the shepherds, the blacksmith, the saddle maker, the wheel-wright, assembled in the village field. They brought their pints of ale from the pub and stuck them in niches in the dry stone wall. They gobbled their sandwiches in the interval. Mellowed by the sun and the ale, they cheered their heroes vociferously and heckled and tormented their enemies.

Superciliously the Internationals smiled at the cross-batted lunges of the villagers; they laughed uproariously at the incongruous, disorientated swipes of the corn miller and the potter, but, sometimes, they had laughed too soon. For Ikey and Billy would be playing for the village. Not by birth, residence or upbringing would they be entitled to do so. Nevertheless, there they were.

When the villagers went out to field, the grimaces of disdain were wiped away, the mockery and derision stifled. Aided by a splinter or two of outcropping millstone grit, belligerent Billy whistled the ball round the batsmen’s skulls, or, hitting the serrated edge of a dandelion root, shot it with supersonic vehemence along the ground. Carpenter and Hayward’s billycocks may have wobbled in awe, George Parr and Julius Caesar’s shins tingled in dismay, but nevertheless, it was Ikey whom these master batsmen feared the most.

Year in, year out, he and Billy followed the circus round the North of England. Wherever the tourists played, the ‘twins’ were engaged to bowl them out, and Ikey relied not on groundsman’s aid, Pennine undulation or local umpire’s bias. The patriarch of Yorkshire’s greatest cricketing glory, Ikey bowled slow left arm, relying on his perfect length and subtle flight. Day after day, week after week, year after year, he faced the same batsmen, the stars of their day, the select of England, yet never could they master his sublime skill. In the six seasons 1860-1865 he took 475 wickets against the tourists alone, besides playing in county matches and club matches whenever the tourists had fled to some other corner of the realm.

Poor Ikey. He died in 1867 at the early age of thirty-nine; but he had lit a beacon, a fire that was not to be quenched in a century of cricket. ‘I will make thy seed as the dust of the earth,’ the Lord had promised Abraham. So it was to be with Ikey. Ted Peate was eleven years old, Bobby Peel ten when Ikey finally left the field. Both might have seen him, as children, when their imaginations were most vivid, at the zenith of his skill. And the line was to continue, forever unbroken, through George Hirst, Wilfred Rhodes, Roy Kilner, Hedley Verity, Arthur Booth, Johnny Wardle and Don Wilson. Somewhere, in a Bradford graveyard, is an old, moss-encrusted stone. When I retire, like Old Mortality, with rag and cleaning spirit I will etch away the rust and mildew. And there I shall unearth the epitaph to the Father of the Flock:

Isaac Hodgson, rest his soul,
Could never bat but always bowl.
Through many years the tourists’ skill
Was subjugate to Ikey’s will.
They took their stance with vain defiance
Against his subtle skill and science.
Progenitor, great Almus Pater,
Bowler divine, but batting hater.

[Stuart]

Nice one NC.

[Neville Cardus]

Richard Daft saw a lot of Ikey in Rhodes: "Yorkshire has always been rich in bowlers, and one of the best was Ike Hodgson. Rhodes somewhat reminds me of him. Hodgson was perhaps a trifle faster, but he also used to bowl good slows with a break. He had a very good-natured grin, and I remember once that when at Bradford (August, 1864) he got me stumped by Ned Stephenson when I had made 80, he consoled me with a smile which was broad enough to put any man in a good humour. I have great respect for Rhodes's abilities. He seldom sends down a bad ball, and always bowls within his strength."

Edward Walker, meanwhile, in the course of an interview with Old Ebor, confirms that "the old chap at the other end, Hodgson, was not worth a run".

I may soon establish contact with one of Ikey's ancestors, so stay tuned.

[Yorkshireandy]

'I may soon establish contact with one of Ikey's ancestors, so stay tuned'

Would be interesting to see what that turns up.

Nice work here BTW. East wrote some nice stuff, but the couple of books I have are just far too short.

An interesting couple of links related to Yorkshire cricket -

http://www.staffs.ac.uk/schools/huma...ireCricket.htm

http://www.chrishobbs.com/sheffieldtestmatch1902.htm

http://www.chrishobbs.com/sheffield/georgeulyett.htm

[Neville Cardus]

Originally Posted by Yorkshireandy

Nice work here BTW. East wrote some nice stuff, but the couple of books I have are just far too short.

That is just about the only criticism of his work that bounds to mind. At risk of looking sacrilegious, I must say here that I rate his prose miles ahead of Cardus's august pretence. Had East been just a little more prolific, he would probably have been (to my mind, at least) the greatest of all-time.

An interesting couple of links related to Yorkshire cricket -
http://www.staffs.ac.uk/schools/huma...ireCricket.htm

Thanks. I'll devour that. Is it the only portion of the book online?

http://www.chrishobbs.com/sheffieldtestmatch1902.htm

Not a bad year to host your maiden Test.

http://www.chrishobbs.com/sheffield/georgeulyett.htm

One of my all-time favourites. He really ought to have a biography. Do you know much about him, Andy?

[Yorkshireandy]

I took a look and what do you know, this will also save me time copying the stuff relevant to Armitage.
Enjoy, here it is in it's entirety -

http://books.google.com/books?id=850...8859-1#PPP1,M1

As far as Ulyett, wouldn't claim to know any more about him other than what can be obtained from the several books I've read on Yorkshire players, could probably answer a few questions though.
You have to respect anyone who was born & spent his life in the Pitsmoor area of Sheffield, which has always been a real dump and is now the crime center of the City.

[Neville Cardus]

Originally Posted by Yorkshireandy

I took a look and what do you know, this will also save me time copying the stuff relevant to Armitage.
Enjoy, here it is in it's entirety -
http://books.google.com/books?id=850...8859-1#PPP1,M1

Cheers.

As far as Ulyett, wouldn't claim to know any more about him other than what can be obtained from the several books I've read on Yorkshire players, could probably answer a few questions though.

Orright: d'you reckon he was guilty of match-fixing on the 1881/82 tour?

[Yorkshireandy]

'd'you reckon he was guilty of match-fixing on the 1881/82 tour?'

Happy Jack a cheat, never.
I always have had the impression that the media was doing a lot of stirring on that tour, esp. with the Midwinter situation causing a bit of controversy.

I do recall he made reference to a few of the lads being partial to a wager in the Yorkshire dressing room though in Ebor's 'Talks With...' -

'In his career " Happy Jack" took part in a few exciting
finishes. There was a famous match against Gloucester, at
Sheffield, for instance, in July 1879, when Yorkshire won by
7 runs. Ulyett throws an interesting side-light upon this
match. A local "three o'clock tissue" had published the
result as a win for Gloucester by 7 wickets—a sad case of
ultra-journalistic enterprise. Some of the " sports," who had
seen the extraordinary collapse of Gloucester, and Yorkshire's
sensational win after luncheon, went into those mysterious
haunts where sportsmen who like to back their opinions can
always rely upon finding the necessary accommodation.
The supposed downfall of the Tykes was being caustically
discussed. Those in the know asked, "What odds will you
lay that Yorkshire have lost ?" " Oh, it's like robbing you
to make a bet; why, here's the. 'three o'clock tissue,' and
Gloucester have won by 7 wickets." No matter; the cool
ones were prepared to bet. Ulyett said they did bet, and at
various places scooped up a nice sum of money from those
who thought it impossible that W. G. Grace, G. F. Grace,
C. Townsend, and the other crack Gloucester bats could be
dismissed for less than 30 runs.
Ulyett added that, with reference to Tom Emmett's bet of
50 to 1 with W. Bates against Yorkshire winning this match,
the players had a little meeting among -themselves after the game,
and told Bates that he ought to accept 30s., which he
did.'

[Neville Cardus]

Thanks for that. However, the version of the players' gamble that I have been brought up on goes rather differently.

The Gloucestershire batsmen went to their déjeuner needing just 37 runs to win with eight wickets in hand (among them W.G.'s). As Emmett and Bates followed in their triumphant wake, the former piped up, "Ah'll bet Windsor Castle to a guinea they'll gerr'em."

"What odds'll tha gi'?" asked Billy.

"Fifty to one."

"Done," said Billy, handing him a shilling.

When play resumed, Bates and Peate produced arguably the most inspired spells of their glorious careers to leave Gloucestershire all but one down and eight runs short.

By now, Emmett's bet was the furthest thing from his mind. He was utterly focused on what he knew the number eleven would do when Peate, as he knew he would do, tossed one up to him. Moving in extra-close, Tom snaffled a miraculous catch right off the bat-end to secure an amazing, tissue-defying victory.

His joy was checked, however, by a call from the bowler. "Wha' wereta lakin' at, Tom?" cried Peate, askance and askew. "Ah could 'ave caught 'n' bowled 'im!"

Only then did Emmett remember his bet. He had lost fifty bob, but thought it a small price compared to the hell to pay had the committee learnt that its captain had taken a flutter against a defeated Yorkshire.

His team-mates, however, were having none of it. They ruthlessly upbraided Bates for "finin'" Tom for winning the match. Bates stubbornly held fort before settling for thirty.

[Yorkshireandy]

I actually enjoy that many of the old stories do have multiple versions, you can probably take a few key facts from each and figure out for yourself what really happened.
I'm sure that a 'libation induced haze' accounts for many varied interpretations of these events, many of which have become famed tales over the years.

[Neville Cardus]

I have just happened upon a contemporary necrology for Ikey, but the page in question requires a subscription, and all that I can discern is "Isaac Hodgson, the celebrated cricketer". Perhaps someone here is affiliated with NewspaperArchive?