MICK JONES – THE UPS AND DOWNS OF A PROFESSIONAL FOOTBALL COACH.

In early 1969, Michael Aloysius (“Mick”) Jones arrived in Australia as a ” Ten Pound Pom” on the S.S. Canberra with his wife June, daughter Daryl Ann (10) and son Ricci (12), to take up a coaching position with Pan Hellenic in Sydney. At the time, Jones, with his English Football Association full coaching certificate, was one of the most credentialled football coaches to have worked in this country. Jones was a dapper, handsome, Yorkshireman with a thick north country accent and hair that was always immaculately coiffured, even when sitting on the sidelines of the most windswept of football grounds. Mick Jones fell in love with Australia and he was to spend the best part of 50 years in his adopted country until he passed away in March 2021.

The late Scottish football manager, Tommy Docherty famously quipped that he, Docherty, had had “more clubs than Jack Nicklaus”. By the end of Mick Jones’s coaching career however, “The Doc” may have needed to share that dubious honour with the erudite Yorkshireman. Docherty found many ways to end his employment, including having an affair with the wife of the physiotherapist at Manchester United and severely abusing a referee while on an end of season tour of the Caribbean with Chelsea.

No such indiscretions cost Mick Jones his coaching jobs but despite successful stints with a number of clubs, standing up for his football principles was often the Jones “crime”. These principles, which included promoting young local born players over imported footballing journeymen and denying selection interference from club committee members, did not always sit well within the boardrooms of Australian football clubs, where professionalism often gave way to cronyism. Coincidentally, both Mick Jones and Tommy Docherty included coaching Pan Hellenic (later Sydney Olympic) in their extensive coaching resumés and Mick Jones briefly served as an assistant to the exuberant Scotsman at Rotherham United in 1967.        

Born on 20^th October 1935 in Doncaster, Yorkshire, Mick Jones grew up surrounded by professional football clubs. Aside from his home town club, Doncaster Rovers, there was Rotherham United, the Sheffield clubs, Wednesday and United and Michael Parkinson’s beloved Barnsley only half an hour’s drive from his Doncaster home. A little further north you could find Leeds United, Huddersfield and the two Bradford Clubs and Scunthorpe United was not too far away. Being immersed in a football environment, it is not surprising that Jones should pursue a career in football.

Upon leaving school and before turning his full attention to football, Mick worked in the Bentley and Conisbrough coal mines where the threat of accident and injury were ever present. He later found less risky employment working for an insurance company before chasing his love of football. At school Mick was a talented footballer, being picked at the age of 16 to play for Yorkshire boys and subsequently being selected to trial for England schoolboys. Jones was offered and turned down an apprenticeship with Derby County, preferring to join the ground staff at Doncaster Rovers.

At the age of 18 Mick was conscripted into the army to carry out national service. Unfortunately, Jones contracted rheumatic fever whilst enlisted and he was forced to leave the army. The prognosis was not good and the combined effect of the rheumatic fever and a serious knee injury suffered on an icy football pitch, brought Jones’s promising football career to an early end.

Mick Jones was determined to forge a career in football and he took up refereeing, gaining a senior certificate at the age of 20 before turning his attention to coaching. In 1960, aged 25, Jones obtained his Football Association (“F.A.”) preliminary coaching certificate, advancing to his full badge in 1963 at Loughborough College. Among those graduating in Jones’s coaching group was the future Chelsea, Queens Park Rangers and Manchester United manager, Dave Sexton.

Keen to put his newly acquired coaching skills to practical use, Mick Jones was appointed trainer / coach of International Harvesters, a works team in the Doncaster senior league. Jones then coached Frickley Colliery in the Cheshire League Division 1, with whom he won two successive championships. In March 1966, Jones was appointed manager of Bridlington Trinity in the premier Yorkshire League competition. Again, Jones was successful winning the championship with Trinity in both seasons under his tenure, as well as taking out two cup competitions over that period.     

Mick Jones continued his ties with the English Football Association, assisting with coaching courses at Loughborough College and it was through the connection with the F.A. in late 1968, that Pan Hellenic came knocking. At the North Stafford Hotel in Stoke on Trent, Jones agreed to terms with Alex Georgiou, then secretary – manager of Pan Hellenic to coach the Sydney based NSW Federation Division 1 club.

For those not familiar with post war Australian club football, Pan Hellenic, were the best supported club in the NSW Soccer Federation with fanatical, but at times, tempestuous supporters. Pan Hellenic were keen to have Jones get on the boat as soon as possible and within weeks of arriving in Sydney, he guided the Greek sponsored club to the final of the 1969 Ampol Cup. Mick Jones’s Australian honeymoon however came to an abrupt end only two months later. Pan Hellenic’s supporters were impatient for success and when committee members sought to influence Jones’s team selection and there were rumblings of players being trained too hard, Jones and Pan Hellenic parted company.

It is difficult at any time to lose one’s job, but having uprooted his family and travelled half way around the world to suffer this ignominy, was particularly challenging for Mick Jones. As much as there is always employment uncertainty in being a football coach, there are always opportunities and almost immediately, another migrant supported NSW Division 1 club, Yugal – Ryde hired Jones. At the time Yugal were languishing a distant last in the competition however Jones was able to perform a great Houdini act, allowing the club to stave off relegation. This was achieved despite Yugal having lost star Yugoslav import Roko Ille, who was suspended for 12 months after having kicked the flamboyant, Croatian born referee Tony Boskovic. 

Yugal – Ryde were keen to renew Jones’s contract at the end of the 1969 season but he was snapped up by Hakoah Eastern Suburbs, also playing in the top level of New South Wales football. For Jones, the Hakoah job was a plum appointment as the Jewish backed club counted numerous Australian internationals in their squad, including Ray Baartz, Peter Fuzes, Willie Rutherford, Dennis Yaager, Danny Walsh and former national team captain Alan Marnoch.

In 1970 under Mick Jones, Hakoah set a blistering pace at the top the NSW Federation Division 1 scoring 27 goals in their first five matches. Hakoah ultimately topped the table winning the minor premiership and were firm favourites to do the double by taking out the Grand Final. To the surprise of most, Hakoah stumbled at the last hurdle and a humiliating 6-3 loss to South Sydney Croatia saw them eliminated from Grand Final contention. Nevertheless, Mick Jones had enjoyed a very successful season and a new contract with Hakoah seemed a formality.

To Jones’s and most observer’s amazement, Hakoah declined to offer Jones a new contract. Undaunted and growing accustomed to adversity, Jones continued to work as Assistant Coaching Director for the NSW Federation and in 1972, he took control of second division Manly Warringah. In his first season, Jones missed out by one point in securing promotion for the Seasiders. He followed this up the following year having a similar outcome with Melita Eagles, just failing by a slender points margin to gain promotion for that club.   

In 1974 Jones took over coaching Granville in the NSW Federation second division and in his first season in charge, Granville won promotion to the first division. The club was surprised by the immediate success of the team and many officials openly admitted that they didn’t really want promotion at that stage. Whether this was a factor or not, Granville did not retain Jones’s services despite the Magpies having topped the table. Now, disillusioned by the uncertainty of continued coaching in Sydney, Mick Jones moved to Perth briefly, didn’t settle there and returned to England to again coach his former club, Bridlington Trinity and assist at Doncaster Rovers..

The sunshine and Sydney’s northern beaches drew Jones back to Australia for good in September 1977 and he was appointed coach of Ku-ring-gai in the NSW Federation Division 2 for the 1978 season. Yet again, Jones was immediately successful, with Kur-ing-gai topping the league and the club being promoted to the first division. 

Always chasing new horizons, Mick Jones was signed by State League Division 1 club Toongabbie (to become Blacktown City) for the 1979 season. The club finished a creditable fourth in Jones’s first year and then Blacktown City were unexpectedly promoted to the Phillips (National) Soccer League at the expense of Sydney Olympic. Given little chance of survival, the national league newcomers under Jones, held their own with the 42 year old former Manchester United star Bobby Charlton making one guest appearance for Blacktown, contributing a goal in a 4-2 win against St. George.

The 1980 season concluded and Blacktown City’s committee advised Jones that they did not want a full time coach in 1981. They also notified Jones that they wished to have a say in the recruitment of players for the upcoming season. Unable to accept these terms, Jones once more packed his bags and signed with Manly Warringah for a second stint. During this period with Manly, the club hosted an exhibition match against the local Dee Why side, who included another former Manchester United superstar, 37 year old George Best, in their line up.  

Jones remained at Manly until the close of the 1983 season and in 1984 he received an S.O.S. from National Soccer League club Sydney Croatia, following the sacking of Attila Abonyi, Croatia’s then coach. The challenge that Jones was to face at Croatia was exemplified by club president Tony Topic’s comment following the dismissal of Abonyi. Topic was quoted as saying that “Abonyi may have been a Yugoslav by birth (he was actually Hungarian) but he was not Croatian”. How then would an Englishman cope at a Croatian sponsored club? Jones’s second match in charge of Croatia saw their first win under his tutelage and president Topic jubilantly said after the game “I always knew English coaches were the best in the world”.  The following week Mick Jones resigned as Sydney Croatia coach after beer bottles were hurled at him and his car tyres slashed by disgruntled club “supporters”. Is it any wonder that Jones was just one of six different coaches engaged by Sydney Croatia in the 1984 season?

Mick Jones made a triumphant return to (Parramatta) Melita Eagles in 1985, guiding the club to a  4-0 victory over Fairy Meadow in Melita’s first ever Grand Final success. Jones announced that he would be retiring from coaching after the Grand Final and inspired by two goals from the prolific goalscorer Barry Walker and one each from John Davies and Peter Hensman, Melita gave Mick Jones a deserving send off after a most eventful sixteen year, ten club Australian coaching career.

Mick Jones left the game quietly to enjoy retirement on his beloved Sydney northern beaches. He loved music and was a more than competent keyboard player and singer. As a football coach, Jones was not one to engage in histrionics nor melodrama or seek publicity. Among the very early ” tracksuit” managers, Mick Jones knew coaching, he knew football and he would never compromise his footballing principles. Jones enjoyed coaching success with many clubs both in Australia and England and will be remembered fondly by the football community. Mick Jones gained the respect of his players from the respect that he gave them and the manner in which he treated them. A footballer can ask for no more from their mentor.

In recent years I was fortunate to be able to chat with Mick and we both lamented the changes that modern football has brought, each of us longing for the return of “the good old days”. We both acknowledged though, that like the Yorkshire collieries, football as we knew it no longer existed but at least we still had wonderful memories of the Bobby Charltons and the George Bests – not as 42 year old or 37 year old football has beens on the superannuation circuit, but as enduring examples of the best that the our football has to offer.

R.I.P. Mick

David Jack © 2022

   

A hundred years ago or so, were planted on this land
Majestic pines that reached the sky, so tall, so proud, so grand
Surviving storms and raging fires, as many wars went by
But greedy men with banker friends decreed that they must die

A noble splendid stately home adorned the spacious lot
Keeping watch upon the trees, from centre of the plot
And now and then the snow would fall and dress the branches white
A Christmas scene in mid-July, to all the kids’ delight

The owner wasn’t happy though, with one house on the block
The council rubber stamped the plans, the neighbours were in shock
Twelve more dwellings would be built, two hundred pine trees axed
No consolation profit gained, would be just slightly taxed

The clanging chain saws went to work, the pine trees all cut down
A thousand displaced homeless birds, fled to another town
And where it all was once so green, just rubble now remains
No grateful radiata pines to drink the falling rains

Some will call this progress, though I call it obscene
To raze the land, destroy the trees, deprive the world of green
But I feel blessed that I once was, the king of this great home
And walked amongst the pine trees before they turned to stone

David Jack © 2020

In April 1977, I scored two headed goals for APIA Leichhardt in a 2-1 victory over Sydney Croatia at Lambert Park, Leichhardt. If, however I was now a budding 8 year old footballer in the APIA junior ranks, the likelihood of my scoring two headers ten or twelve years down the track, would be considerably less.

APIA Leichhardt, a Sydney National Premier League club with a celebrated history in Australian football, has announced that they are going to ban heading at training for all players up to the age of twelve. Football Federation Australia have been conducting their own review into the perceived danger of heading a ball and will hand down its’ findings soon, which may have ramifications for all junior players. APIA’s move follows similar restrictions, recently introduced by the English, Scottish and Northern Ireland Football Associations.

 

The study on which the UK Associations based their decision, published by the New England (USA) Journal of Medicine, was carried out on behalf of Glasgow University, using a number of male Scottish professional footballers born between 1900 – 1976. The study investigated the incidence of neurodegenerative illness in former footballers when compared to non footballers of the same period. The results did show that the former professional players were three times more likely to suffer brain illness such as dementia and Alzheimers, than their non playing counterparts. The study also noted however that ;

• Former professional footballers were less likely to die from heart disease and cancers and had a lower “all cause” mortality rate than their non footballing counterparts, reflecting their general better health.
• Participants in elite sports competition enjoyed lifelong health benefits and were less likely to suffer lung damage, obesity and resultant cardio vascular issues. Former professional footballer’s life expectancy up to the age of 70, was nearly three years longer than that of non players.
• Mortality rates of participants where neurodegenerative disease was the primary cause, did not differ significantly between goalkeepers and outfield players – interesting.
• There was NO EVIDENCE in the study linking heading the ball to neurodegenerative disease

No evidence but despite this, the United Kingdom Football Associations (except Wales) and the United States Youth Soccer Association have now been joined by APIA Leichhardt in restricting young player’s development of heading – one of the most important skills in the game.

The study appears to have ignored the fact, that prior to the mid 1960’s, a football was a vastly different animal to the current ball. I have no doubt that prior to the phasing out of the old brown laced leather footballs, the continual heading of the waterlogged “brown bricks” as they were known, in European winters on sodden pitches could have caused long term neurological damage. However, the modern, lighter synthetic waterproofed balls bear no resemblance to the lead weight spheres of my grandfather’s era.

I am not in favour of the move to curtail heading at training for young players. To eliminate the development of this important skill in a player’s formative years will hamper, possibly irreparably, a player’s all-round footballing ability. This may be the first step towards the total eradication of heading from football and God help us, we might all end up playing Futsal !

The Glasgow University research did find that the former Scottish professional players were three times more likely in later life to suffer from dementia, Alzheimers and Parkinson’s disease, however the study stopped short of stating that this was caused by heading a ball. I have played the game for many years and though not a robust player, I have probably banged my head playing football, ten times during my career. Is it possible that if I was to develop brain disease that these head traumas had provoked the illness, rather than my heading the ball? Was I already predisposed to brain disease before embarking on my football career ?

Participants of the Glasgow University study were all born in 1976 or earlier. If it was possible to compare the brain health of players born before 1950, when heavy leaden footballs were the norm, with those born between 1950 – 1976, the latter of whom would have had the benefit of playing with lighter, waterproofed balls, the study might have produced interesting and definitive results. It was not in fact until the 1986 FIFA World Cup in Mexico City that the first fully synthetic layered footballs became prominent.

The death of former English international footballer Jeff Astle from Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy (“CTE”) in 2002 sparked investigation into the effect of head traumas on footballers. Astle was a prodigious header of the ball and the coroner at the inquest into his death stated that heading heavy, often rain-sodden leather footballs had contributed to his death. The consultant neuro – pathologist also told the inquest that Astle’s brain condition was likely to have been exacerbated by heading heavy leather footballs.

I have no argument with that opinion, however we no longer play with rain sodden leather footballs. If APIA Leichhardt have made this radical decision to ban coaching of a critical skill, based on the football environment as it was 60 years ago, this is hard to justify. Only those who have headed a heavy wet leather ball can appreciate the difference from heading a football in 2020.

Another factor further reducing the possibility of brain damage is that heading as a skill is also becoming less prevalent in football today. The preferred playing philosophy now is to keep the ball on the ground and I would not be surprised if the incidence of heading the ball during a game had reduced by 50% from that of 30 years ago.

I believe that banning heading is an over reaction. We no longer head waterlogged leather footballs and from my experience, up until the age of twelve, young players head the ball infrequently both at training and on match days. If a youngster is taught the correct heading technique, I don’t believe that the consistent heading of a football will create any greater long term health risk than a serious knee injury, a shoulder injury or a back problem. Remember that the study on which APIA Leichhardt may have based their decision did not find any evidence that heading was directly linked to neurodegenerative disease. Football like most sports can be dangerous and lead to short and long term injury. It’s a risk that all of us take when participating, an occupational hazard.

The study that has prompted football authorities to ban heading at training, was based on the impact of the heading of a different type of football, in different conditions in a different era. The deliberate use of the head to propel the ball is unique to football and has been an integral part of the game for one hundred and fifty years. Any attempts to extend the recent heading ban at training and possibly eradicate heading from football, would dilute the beauty of “The Beautiful Game”.

By all means continue the studies into Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, particularly in fierce contact sports such as Boxing, Rugby League, Union or American Football. In the case of our football however, where medical research has concluded that there is no evidence linking heading a ball to neurodegenerative disease and that engagement in sport promotes better health and well being, I say that if the game ain’t really broke, let’s not try to fix it.

David Jack

© 2020

                                                                   

                                                                                   

                                                                             

                                                                 

I turned on the television recently and watched a sport that reminded me a lot of cricket. Two teams competing with a bat and ball but the ball was white, unlike the player’s attire, which was multicoloured and emblazoned with corporate sponsors logos. One of the “batters” (as described by the commentator), was given out LBW but amazingly, the umpire was advised by a voice in his Sony earphones that he had made a mistake. The LBW decision was incorrect and the batter could continue his innings. This however, would not be for too long as in this particular match, each team could only bat for a total of 10 overs – good heavens, neither Geoffrey Boycott nor Bill Lawry would have time to get off the mark !

Apparently, this is a form of cricket, known as the Big Bash League. Although I had no idea where the players came from, I could only assume that they played grade cricket on the weekends and if successful with their local club, they might get picked for the Sheffield Shield competition (does it still exist?).

If you sense that I am slightly disenchanted with modern cricket you are not wrong. My disenchantment however, did not arrive with technicolour Big Bash cricket but had its’ seeds sewn back in the late 1970’s with the advent of  World Series Cricket. The behaviour of Australian cricketers was starting to deteriorate and hit a new low in February 1981 with the underarm bowling incident. Many argue that Ian Chappell was the father of the “ugly Australian cricketer” but Chappell the elder, did have an inherent sense of fair play. His brother Greg however, by ordering Chappell son No. 3 Trevor to bowl underarm against New Zealand in February 1981, set the sportsmanship bar at a new low.

By the time of the Glenn McGrath / Shane Warne era, Australia had become cricket’s “sledging” champions. Sledging is a by product of cricket that runs concurrently with the game itself. Sledging gives players a chance to act like schoolyard bullies and express their machismo, hoping that their childlike behavior gives them some kind of advantage over an opponent. Those who engage in sledging, prefer to call it by the less offensive term of “banter” but whatever you call it, the practice is most unsportsmanlike. Sledging and a decided lack of respect for Australia’s opponents, was the root cause of my cricketing marriage breakdown.

For Australian cricket, unsporting behavior peaked in South Africa in March 2018. The ball tampering affair that found Steve Smith, David Warner and Cameron Bancroft guilty, severed any remaining affection that I might have had for cricket as I knew it. Even though I have fallen out of love with the game of cricket, Paul Simon once sang “preserve your memories, that’s all that’s left you”. These are my cricket memories.

Born in England and growing up in Wilmslow, Cheshire, I fell in love with cricket. Like  football, our backyard cricket matches were only punctuated when the ball was hoisted over the fence and into a neighbor’s garden. The penalty of “6 and out” was miniscule compared to the fearful exercise of knocking on the neighbor’s front door, expecting to be confronted by Harper Lee’s Boo Radley or Alfred Hitchcock’s Norman Bates in full rage.

I first recall listening to an Ashes test series in 1961 on my Dad’s car radio. The BBC provided commentary from the soothing southern England country tone of John Arlott coupled with the very posh delivery of Eton and Oxford educated Brian (“Johnners”) Johnston. These and the other BBC commentators could keep me entertained for hours on end – even more so when the English rain would inevitably stop play. Johnston in particular, had a sharp sense of humour and among his classical utterings was, “the bowler’s Holding, the batsman’s Willey.” In 1961 I could not understand how an England team led by the dashing Lord Ted Dexter and boasting fast bowling royalty in F S Trueman and J B Statham had lost a home Ashes series to a bunch of colonials.

Living in Wilmslow, 12 miles south of Manchester, ensured that I was a Lancashire County Cricket club fan. I spent many hours at the Old Trafford cricket ground, watching Lancashire heroes Brian Statham, Peter Lever, Bob Barber and Tommy Greenhough, a leg spinner whose bounce and long, almost comical jaunty run up, has never had an equal in the history of the game.

Skip forward a couple of years and I had the misfortune as a Lancashire fan, of travelling to Bramhall Lane, Sheffield on the June long weekend in 1963. The occasion was the Yorkshire v Lancashire, “Roses” fixture and Lancashire were skittled to be all out for not too many, just after lunch on the first day. Yorkshire quickly lost three early wickets but then a bespectacled young man named Geoffrey Boycott and his colleague, W B (Bryan) Stott defied the Lancashire attack for the next two days adding 249 runs for the 4^th wicket. I had witnessed Boycott’s maiden county century for Yorkshire and though Boycott’s hundred had probably only taken around four hours, to this nine year old Lancashire supporter, it seemed like a lifetime.

Later that month, England held on for a dramatic draw in the second test match against the West Indies at Lords. A match forever remembered for the aristocratic English batsmen, M C (Colin) Cowdrey, coming out with a broken arm at nine wickets down in the last over of the game, to try and save the test match. Cowdrey ultimately, did not have to face the last two balls from the rampant West Indian speedster, Wesley Winfield Hall, but the memory and excitement of that final over will remain with me forever. I loved cricket.

1967 and my father decided that he and mother Rose should emigrate to Australia with the seven Jack children in tow. How could this happen? How could I be going to live in a country where they didn’t play football (so I thought) and I would be subject to watching the cricketing enemy – Australia ? Those Aussies won’t win me over, I’m a loyal Englishman who will always support Colin Cowdrey, Geoffrey Boycott, John Snow and the like.

But win me over they did and it was possibly the brilliance of Kevin Douglas Walters that struck me on my road to Damascus. Living at Fairlight in Sydney in February 1969, I fondly remember listening to commentary of the Australia v West Indies test match on my father’s National Panasonic transistor radio, complete with removeable brown leather case. Doug Walters was batting with Ian Redpath at the Sydney Cricket Ground and it seemed that every time Walters faced Lance Gibbs, the ageing West Indian offspinner’s deliveries were smashed to the cover boundary fence. Walters ended up scoring 242 in that innings and completed another century (103) in the second innings, the first cricketer to have scored a century and double century in the same test match. I thought, this is the way to bat, this is my country – Australia !

The “Poms” (as I could now call them) came to Australia in 1970-71 and I had to rethink my allegiance when Ray Illingworth, with a lot of help from fast bowler John Snow, led England to a 2-0 series win. There were seven test matches in that series (the third in Melbourne was abandoned without a ball being bowled) and although four tests were drawn, there was always drama and excitement to enjoy. This was cricket. In that same series, the first ever one day international was played. Australia won but the teams were identical to the test match teams, wore the traditional creams with not an advertising logo in sight and played with a red cricket ball. For me, this was still cricket.

In 1971-72, when Apartheid caused cancellation of the South African tour, Australia entertained a very strong Rest of the World outfit. Though not a contest between traditional rivals, the series produced some sublime cricket – Dennis Lillee, flowing black mane and at the height of his bowling powers, destroyed the Rest of the World team in Perth. Lillee, with his delightfully smooth fast bowling action took 8 wickets for 29 runs in the first innings in Perth and the World eleven skipper, West Indian Garfield St. Aubrun Sobers scored a magnificent 254 in Melbourne. The innings of Sobers was the best batting performance that I have ever witnessed, an opinion shared by the great Sir Donald Bradman. The West Indian all rounder consistently square cut all bowlers with grace and venom to the boundary fence and 95% of those 254 runs must have come in boundaries. I loved cricket.

My fondness for cricket peaked with the 1974-75 Ashes series played in Australia. I must have watched every minute of that series. There was the erratic brutality of Jeff Thomson’s bowling, Tony Greig’s arrogant defiance, the supreme elegancy of Greg Chappell’s batting and a paunchy forty one year old Colin Cowdrey, trying to defy the pace attack of Dennis Lillee and the frightening Jeffrey Robert Thomson.

The high point of the series for me, was Doug Walters’ century in the session between tea and stumps in the second test at Perth. On that Saturday, I ended up being very late for a bank Christmas party, unable to drag myself away from the television. Robert George Dylan (“Bob”) Willis was bowling the last ball of the day to Walters who was on 97 and needing 6 runs to score a century in the final session.

In 2019, a batsman would be content to see out the last ball and maybe collect three singles on the following day to complete his hundred. “Caution” however, did not form part of the Doug Walter’s vocabulary. The six foot seven inch wiry haired Willis, who officially added Dylan to his name in tribute to the legendary singer / songwriter, hurled the ball in short to Walters. The one time Australian army conscript swiveled and hooked the ball somewhere in the direction of heaven’s door. These were the days of black and white television, one camera and certainly no high definition. As the ball disappeared off the face of Walter’s bat, TV viewers could only hope that it would clear the boundary rope. The ball did clear the rope by some margin and immediately hundreds of fans also cleared the rope in the other direction, to mob Kevin Douglas Walters. There may have been better technical batsmen than Walters, more prolific run scorers, but as an Australian cricketing folk hero, none have come close to matching the boy from the NSW town of Dungog.

Cricket continued to be a major part of my life through the 1970’s and early 1980’s. I enjoyed the production line of superb West Indian fast bowlers and the imperious batting of Isaac Vivian Alexander (“Viv”) Richards. The Australians ultimately gained the upper hand over the calypso kings but despite the looming storm clouds of the World Series Cricket revolution, there was still a marvelous centenary test to be played in Melbourne against England in 1977. Among the many highlights of this game, was the plucky performance of one time Rural Bank of NSW colleague, Rick McCosker. The Australian opening batsman had his jaw broken in the first innings but batted at number 11 in the second innings, wired and bandaged up, to add a valuable 54 runs with Rodney Marsh for the last wicket.

Later that year, following the cricketing implosion created by Kerry Packer’s World Series Cricket, I remained loyal to the cricketing establishment. I discovered new heroes in the volatile fast bowler Rodney Hogg, dashing batsmen Peter Toohey and Kim Hughes and a forty one year old cricketing relic, Bobby Simpson. Simpson shrugged off ten years of retirement, returning to captain the “official” Australian team in a home series against India.

In the early 1980’s, the divide that was Australian cricket was eventually merged, but for me the damage to the game had been done. One day internationals of just fifty overs per team, had become an equal attraction to Test cricket for the public. Creams had given way to coloured clothing, bad light would not stop play as floodlights took over and the one hundred year old tradition of a cherry red cricket ball had been replaced by a white version that within ten overs was scuffed and discoloured. The behaviour of Australian cricketers continued to deteriorate and my love of cricket was on the decline.

Three or four month tours by the major cricket playing nations, including tussles with county or state teams were becoming rare. There was an abundance of one day 50 over matches, aimed at generating revenue, but these once exciting contests, had started to follow a predictable format. Too many meaningless matches staged and too many obscure, hastily named trophies offered. Many a one day international game had become boring between the 15^th and 40^th overs. Eventually, the authorities “fixed” this by creating 20/20 cricket, cutting out the tedium of the middle period, but we still had to suffer the never ending 50 over “ODI’s” to satisfy programming demands of the broadcasters and sponsors.

The first international Twenty 20 match was played in 2005 and then the cricket follower had the “luxury” of three different versions to watch. Eventually a pink ball would be added for night cricket, so that one of three different coloured balls might be used. The different forms of the game required a different skill set and upward of 40 players would now represent Australia in any particular summer. Frankly, it became impossible to know who was in what team, which format of the game was being played and for what trophy. As quickly as some of the 20/20 players were capped by their country, they would disappear into cricketing oblivion. My disillusionment continued.

Test match cricket has continued to be popular with the general public but with only passing interest for me. Although the Ashes series remained mostly five match affairs, too many two, three and four match tournaments have evolved. The drama, twists and turns generated during a home test series stretching from late November to early March, are no longer. In 2018 -19 Australia hosted India in a whistle stop four match test series that spanned just one month and one day. Then Sri Lanka arrived for a two test “series.” No sooner had we settled into this two match challenge, than the Sri Lankans were on the plane home. What was the point?

For me, Test cricket was the real attraction, the focal point of the game. There would be meaningful five day contests between bat and ball where there could be enterprising batting but if a two hour occupation of the crease was needed, the batsmen had the technique and the grit to hold on for an honourable draw. Batsmen would preserve their wicket with the tenacity of the 300 Spartans defying the Persians at the Battle of Thermopylae. Yes, we might have had to endure “barnacle” Bill Lawry batting all day to score a half century, but this was Test cricket, a unique sporting experience.

I apologise for wallowing in nostalgia but I do miss the cracking cover drive of a gum chewing Doug Walters and the stubborn defence of a Geoffrey Boycott. Where is Jeff Thomson unleashing the unexpected beamer at an unsuspecting (English) batsmen’s head and the one time roly poly Rodney Marsh, completing yet another “caught Marsh bowled Lillee” dismissal ? What happened to batting technique ? We now have batsmen (no Steve Smith, I won’t call them “batters”) playing improvised 20/20 shots in test cricket, often sacrificing their wicket. Bowlers don’t have to prise out batsmen’s wickets anymore. The backyard taught us that we could all slog, but who today can stroke a ball along the ground between mid wicket and mid on in the vein of Greg Chappell or square cut like Sir Garfield Sobers ? Where are the off spinners who can bowl 8 straight maidens like England’s Fred Titmus or the fast bowlers such as West Indians Andy Roberts and Michael Holding, bowlers with an almost casual run up but deadly delivery ?

And I might ask, where are the delicious names that have been sprinkled throughout cricketing history – instead of Arthur Theodore Wallace (“Wally”) Grout or Frederick Sewards Trueman or Sir Curtly Elconn Lynwall Ambrose, we now have Shane Robert Watson and Glenn James Maxwell.  Come on Mr. & Mrs. Watson, Mr. & Mrs. Maxwell, how can your sons be true cricketers being named Shane or Glenn?

To keep the 20/20 cricket follower entertained, we have bowlers serving up fodder for the batsmen’s slogfest. There are endless reviews of contentious appeals, sponsored by an American chicken fast food purveyor and if you need more than 20 runs an over to keep you awake, clichéd anthems will regularly blare out of the P.A. system -“Another One Bites The Dust”, “Eye of The Tiger” and of course,”Howzat ?”

To some, the evolution of cricket may be seen as being positive. There is no doubt that a player hitting a six in the last over to win a 20/20 match can be very exciting or a run out on the last ball to claim victory, but when I look back and compare my cricketing memories with the game as it is in 2019, the modern variety “is just not cricket.”

“Time it was and what a time it was”  (Paul Simon)

 © 2019 David Jack

                                         A DIFFERENT NATIVITY

‘Twas not the night before  the Christmas, in fact not even close, 57 nights before to be precise, but don’t let that get in the way of a good Christmas story. It was 30^th October 2004 and on this day crowds had come from near and far to celebrate the wedding of Kylie (not Minogue) and Dean (not James) but despite the absence of Hollywood royalty, it was as grand an occasion as Dee Why had witnessed for at least two and a half weeks.

An English born finance broker / band manager (let’s call him “David”) had been secured by the groom to perform a dual role at the wedding. Dean thought that he would engage David as chauffeur on this day as, for one crazy year of his life, David drove a Jaguar. Dean also asked David if he could get some of his friends to create some melodic (sometimes) noises on musical instruments at the wedding feast because, if nothing else they were very cheap.

Now David shared one character trait with the infamous hussy, Fanny Hill. He could not say “no” and although his vocabulary could be voluminous, the one word that was missing was “no”. David accepted the chauffeur and musician role, only telling Dean the night before the wedding that he did in fact no longer drive a burgundy Jaguar but a 1994 blue Ford Fairmont with no air conditioning.

Back to the Christmas story.  The ceremony in the Dee Why church was considered a necessary evil before the dutiful guests could toddle off to the Grand (exaggerated for effect) Cromer Gold Club for beers and champagne. This was to be their reward for enduring the church ceremony.

Just when the guests in the back row of the church were nodding off and those in the front row wished they were in the back row so they could nod off too, a fair young lady stood up amongst the crowd like the bright star rising in the east (Christmas reference). Without having to contend with the traditional discordant sound of a church organ, the fair young lady sang out in a manner so melodic, so clear, so beautiful that even those in the back row stumbled to attention.

David, the footballer / finance broker / chauffeur / entrepreneur was enraptured by the beauty of this voice and thought that he could possibly use this fair young lady in one of his enterprises and it wouldn’t be as chauffeur’s assistant !

After the nuptials were confirmed, the fair young lady and her mother joined the motorcade in a ticker tape parade, through elated crowds on the streets of Dee Why, eventually arriving at the Grand Cromer Golf Club. But for many an hour, David sat on the dock of a bay called Long Reef waiting for the ecstatic Kylie and Dean to have 100 gigabytes of pictures taken on the seashore. This place is called Long Reef because if you go there with bridal parties to have pictures taken, you don’t leave the reef for a Long (Long) time.

David eventually arrived late at the Grand Cromer Golf Club, setting a poor example for his fellow musicians who have honourably mimicked his tardiness to this very day.

The evening passed without incident until Dean, a garrulous Kiwi and sad to say, a relation of mine, decided on that day that they would each break the Guinness World Record for the longest and most mind numbing speeches in the history of wedding receptions. The speeches only ceased when paramedics arrived to treat a number of guests for extreme dehydration (no drinks had been served for 3 hours) and utter boredom.

Normal alcohol service eventually resumed and the band played songs that would remain popular (with them at least ) to the present day.

David then cast his mind back to the church and the beautiful voice of the fair young lady. Being from a Catholic upbringing and having been starved of female companionship at school for nine long years, David approached the young lady cautiously. David discovered that the lady with the beautiful voice was called Amanda. At first David wondered whether Amanda’s parents were an unimaginative couple because in 1970’s, the first name in the Book of Girl Baby Names was always “Amanda” but upon meeting them some time later, it became clear that in fact they were both quite intuitive.

But I digress. David asked Amanda (not, if she would marry him because he had already used that line with another Amanda) but if she would like to sing a song or two with the band. Amanda’s mother encouraged her daughter to accept the offer or at least turn the water into wine as they were still suffering from dehydration, but Amanda calmly said to her mum, “my time has not yet come” (biblical reference). When David asked the question, Amanda’s first thought was “yes, if you give me $1,000” but she relented and said “yes” to the man who couldn’t say “no”

That evening at the Cromer Golf Club, Amanda sang in that self same melodic, clear and beautiful voice that she had exhibited in the Dee Why church. Even today, I can still visualise Amanda singing in the church, calm and composed, that very bright star in the east (final Christmas reference). The 30^th October 2004 was a day on which a precious union of music and friendship was born. It was indeed a special day, not just for Dean & Kylie Miller but for me.

“For you, ( I hope) there’ll be no more crying,
For you, (I hope ) the sun will (always) be shining,”

                                                                   Christine McVie

December 24^th 2013    

© David Jack 2013 

   

GEORGE BEST ( 1946 – 2005 )

by David Jack

On 28th December 1963, on a cold Manchester afternoon, this 10 year old was smuggled (as usual) into the press box at Old Trafford, under my late father’s overcoat. My team Manchester United had been hammered by Burnley 6- 1 a few days earlier, continuing what for them had been an ordinary season. United’s manager, the legendary Matt Busby had made one notable change to the side thrashed a few days earlier, bringing in a slightly built 17 year old Irishman, George Best.

My memories of that game are blurred but I do remember the bright orange colour of the ball, in vogue in those days and that this young boy, George Best scored one of the goals as United exacted 5 -1 revenge on their Lancashire neighbours. Best had made his debut earlier in September that year, but his fatherly mentor and manager, Matt Busby decided that George needed a little more toughening in the reserves before he would be let leash on the English first division. Best was never again left out of a United side during Busby’s reign, after that Burnley match.

I would subsequently forego the relative comfort of the press box to watch United with my school friends on the Old Trafford terraces. Best reigned supreme at United for 11 years outshining no such lesser names as Bobby Charlton and Denis Law. Still a youngster, I was not allowed to attend mid week matches, but can remember many a morning waking up after a midweek fixture and asking my dad “How did we go ?”. Very often, the response would be simply “Bestie murdered them”

• 

As a child I dreamed of playing for United and I wanted to be Georgie Best. I wore my shirt out over my shorts like George, I tried to imitate George’s dribbling style and mannerisms and as soon as I was able to shave, I would try to grow the “designer stubble”. My family moved to Australia in March 1967 and I was devastated. How could I live without my United, my idol, Georgie Best.I didn’t have to wait long however, as Manchester United toured Australia in June that year. On a rain soaked Sydney Showground on a Wednesday evening, United put three goals past a Sydney representative side and George Best scored a memorable goal from a short corner. I later played with the man marking George that night, Cliff Van Blerk. Cliff is a lovely fellow but as a full back he could tackle as hard as anyone. Well Cliff fondly recalls that although he played in the NSW Federation (State League) into his 30’s, his struggle with George Best that night took 10 years off his life.

Having had this shot of Manchester United and Best, I carried on my life in Australia progressing through the local football ranks until 1970 when I was offered a trial with Manchester United. Truly a dream come true. I had three months at United and witnessed first hand the character and the footballing brilliance of George Best. I played in the United “B” team and was fortunate to be on the same training pitch and play in small sided games with George.

United offered to keep me on for a further twelve months, but I was homesick and decided to return to Australia. Maybe I was still trying to imitate Best, who himself fled Manchester for Belfast, after just one day at United before later returning. I played many years in the local NSW State League still trying to be George. I tried (successfully) to flick the ball away from a goalkeeper like Best did to Gordon Banks in Belfast. I went through a period of consistently trying the audacious lob that Best pulled off against Spurs at Old Trafford. I gave up shooting with power for a whole season -just lobbed everything. How ridiculous !

I was content to live out my life in Australia and enjoy the childhood memories of a player whose artistry, courage, speed and sheer football brilliance will never be matched. Out of the blue I came across George again in 1983. By now he had become a footballing mercenary and he arrived in Australia that year to play for Brisbane Lions in the old National Soccer League. Along with thousands of others, I travelled to Marconi Stadium to see George play. All came with great expectations but George, by then 37 had a quiet match but we didn’t care – he was George Best.

When George’s stint with Brisbane came to an end, he stayed on for a short while and amazingly I would again end up on the same pitch as my idol. The Best resume which showed “work experience” ranging from the world’s most famous football club to Dunstable Town, suddenly had a new entry – Dee Why Swans. George, a little short of cash at that time, agreed to play for Dee Why for a reputed sum of $5,000. A crowd of several thousand turned up at Cromer Park, Dee Why where my team Manly Warringah were to play Dee Why. George played the full match. He struck the post early in the first half from 35 metres, just to remind the crowd that they were in the presence of a one time superstar. Manly won 3 -2 but George did manage to get on scoresheet. When George scored, nobody cared that he was conservatively 3 metres offside. George rounded our keeper Mark Dower, with the same ease that he did when beating the Benfica  goalkeeper, Jose Henrique to score that famous 1968 European Cup Final goal.

A shy and modest man despite the fame and adulation, George Best was the complete footballer. The adjectives to describe his talent are never ending and only those who saw him at his peak can bear testament to his true greatness. The world of football is an immeasurably better place for his life and was greatly saddened by his premature death.

George Best died in a London hospital on 25th November 2005 from complications resulting from an earlier liver transplant.

David Jack

Copyright 2005

                     

                                     

One day the MLB and his father had to find an alternative way to get to school, due to a malfunctioning motor vehicle. The father being the wise man that he wasn’t, pinpointed the bus the night before on his surprisingly up to date timetable. The father told the MLB that the bus would pick the two of them up at Sir Thomas Mitchell Drive at 8.32 a.m. There was no doubt in the father’s mind about this Thomas being the pick up point.

Father and MLB stood twenty metres away from the bus stop to avoid the burning sun. The father stood in the shade of a withering bottlebrush and the MLB stood in the shade of his father, standing in the shade of the bottlebrush. When the bus had not appeared by 8.42 a.m. the Ruth, married to the man with a lawnmower welded to his arms, arrived. “Would you like a lift anywhere ?” she said. The father said “No but my wife would like one under her bottom“. After the little bit of banter, father and MLB got into the car. MLB legs, arms, school bag and recently polished Clarks shoes flailing wildly, climbed over the baby seat in the back of the car. Fortunately baby was not on board.

The Ruth said she was going to Forestville which was in the opposite direction, so father and MLB left her company at Forest Way in the hope of sponging another lift. The father approached a young teenage girl standing on the corner watching all the cars going by. “Is this a bus stop?” asked the father with the beads of sweat on his face obviously causing some consternation within the mind of the young girl. When she finally composed herself and looked down at the beautiful blonde boy, she realised that he could not be in the custody of a paedophile. “Yes” she replied.

Although it was a bus stop, the next bus that arrived did not stop at the stop but went around the corner. The father grabbed the bag of the MLB, to which the MLB was attached and hurried after the bus. The driver opened the door as the MLB searched in vain for his new bus pass. MLB was bitterly disappointed that after waiting so long for his pass, he would not get to use it. He was determined to ensure that his mother’s efforts to obtain his bus pass would not be in vain. Five minutes elapsed with the driver saying 43 times “don’t worry about it”. Finally MLB produced the document smothered in Cottees strawberry jam and squashed sandwich remains and held it proudly aloft.

The father saw the beautiful little one get on the bus, praying to Jesus, Mary and Joseph that the very patient bus driver would carry him safely to The Belrose Public School. The father was by now saturated in sweat and carried on his way to meet the $30 million dollar client. The beautiful little MLB arrived safely at school on time.

P.S. The father declared that this was the most humid day of all time and that the “MLB” (Miserable Little Bastard) was really not so.

To Kieran

With love 

Dad x