“Too daring for the grey-beards?”: The Mental Health of Harold Gimblett

Harold Gimblett in 1936 (Image: Wikipedia)

The incredible first-class debut of Harold Gimblett, the 20-year-old son of a farmer, for Somerset in 1935 catapulted him to fame from the very start of his career. His 63-minute century against Essex was one of the most spectacular debuts by any player and suggested that a promising career was beginning. When Gimblett was forced to retire 19 years later owing to a severe mental health condition which required his admission to hospital, he had largely fulfilled that promise. Over those years, he was to prove more than useful. He became — and remains, almost seventy years after his retirement — Somerset’s leading run-scorer in first-class cricket. He was an entertainer much loved by the county’s supporters and played many great innings. And yet underneath the success, there was tension and bitterness, to which there were two contributing factors. The first was the nature of cricket in the years around the Second World War: a Somerset Committee which handled all professionals with a brutal lack of sympathy, empathy or understanding, and a sport riven by deliberate class distinction in which the amateurs were on top, and professionals were treated as menial hired hands (a distinction which was often harsher at counties like Somerset which had a greater proportion of amateurs in the team). But the second factor was Gimblett’s own lifelong struggle with mental health.

Most of what we know about this comes from Gimblett’s own account, provided in a series of tape recordings intended for the ears of David Foot, with whom he planned to collaborate on an autobiography. The project never got off the ground before Gimblett’s suicide in 1978, but Foot turned the searingly, painfully honest recordings into a 1982 biography Harold Gimblett: Tormented Genius of Cricket. There had never quite been anything like it before, owing to the fact that Gimblett did not intend his words to be published when he spoke them (but he gave permission, as did his widow after his death, for Foot to use them) and so they did not have the usual filter applied by sporting stars in writing their autobiographies. There is no parallel account of the life of a cricketer in the period around the Second World War. And yet his words find an echo in the experiences of modern players whose mental health suffers under the unrelenting pressure of professional and international sport. This can be seen most clearly in his memories of his Test debut for England in the first match of a series against India in 1936, in which he dreaded having to play. But an unbeaten, match-winning 67 in the second innings (the highest score of the game) provided him with another fairly-tale debut and meant that he retained his place. This proved something of a turning point for him.

At the time, the England selectors were looking around for new players to refresh the team and replace some veterans after a string of poor results. For the second Test, Gimblett’s opening partner was the debutant Arthur Fagg, who like him was only 21 years old. In a high-scoring game, Gimblett made just nine runs out of England’s 571 for eight declared. He also missed a catch when India batted and was dropped from the team for the third Test. While somewhat relieved to escape from the pressure, he was affected for the rest of the summer by what he perceived as his failure, which continued to weigh on his mind and impacted on his form. After his Somerset debut the previous summer, he had similarly struggled for consistency in the aftermath, but never questioned his own methods. Nor had he particularly clashed with the Somerset authorities. But something seemed to change (if we can believe his own account) now that he was an international cricketer. The Somerset Committee attempted to force him to temper his aggression, but he was not willing to compromise, even when he form had fallen away. For the rest of the season, he struggled with the hook shot, which he had always played successfully, and sought out Herbert Sutcliffe, an acknowledged expert at the shot, for technical advice. An unsympathetic Somerset Committee simply told him to stop playing the shot, which he refused to do. He also clashed with his captain after one game in which he hit a full toss for six in the last over of a day’s play; he was told that he would be dropped if he ever took such a risk again.

The result of all this was another loss of form. In his first five matches of the season, Gimblett had scored 623 runs with three centuries, at an average of 103.83. By the time of his selection for England, he had scored 1,041 runs in 12 matches at 57.83. In the remainder of the season, he managed just 605 runs at 18.91. His final record for 1936 was 1,608 first-class runs at an average of 32.81; respectable but far short of what seemed possible at the start. His temperament in big matches and his slip fielding were also questioned by Wisden, which, as it had done after his debut, counselled a more careful approach. But how much had the scrutiny of the opening weeks of the season, and the pressure — and what would probably today be termed as anxiety — before his England debut affected him? The effects lasted into the following two seasons, when Gimblett struggled to live up to the potential identified in the press. Others overtook him in the race for England places, and he seemed unsure of the best way to bat. He was heavily criticised in 1937 for his overly aggressive batting and was briefly dropped down the order. Yet he was outwardly unconcerned and stubbornly maintained his approach; sometimes he seemed overconfident and played in deliberately unorthodox fashion. Again, this is perhaps less an indication of arrogance and more a sign that all was not well. He still managed 1,500 runs that summer, at an average just over thirty, but fell away in 1938, and his average dropped to 27. Moreover, he was often unfit, battling “aches and pains”.

Gimblett at his wedding to Ria Burgess in 1938 (Image: Harold Gimblett: Tormented Genius of Cricket (1982) by David Foot)

Gimblett finally began to recover his batting skill in 1939, and made a distinct advance. Perhaps this was early a result of his previous experiences, or perhaps it arose from a change in his personal life. In December 1938, he had married Marguerita (Rita) Burgess, whom he had known for some years. They eventually had a son, Lawrence. Whatever the cause, Gimblett made an excellent start to the 1939, similar to that of 1936, and scored 905 runs in his first seven games. Such form resulted in a recall to the England team for the first Test against the West Indies team that toured during the season. Perhaps unfortunately, it was once more played at Lord’s, a ground that often made him uncomfortable owing to what he perceived as extreme snobbery and social prejudice. In the first innings, he was bowled by John Cameron for 22 when he lost sight of a flighted delivery; in the second, he hit his first two deliveries, bowled by Leslie Hylton, for four and six, as England chased a target against the clock. But in looking to score quickly, he was bowled by Manny Martindale. Unlike during his previous Test appearances, his fielding was singled out for praise in Wisden; he took one spectacular catch to dismiss Ken Weekes, for which he was congratulated by the new batter, Learie Constantine. But he had not done quite enough and was dropped for the final time, having played only three Tests for England. Although it is hard to be certain, some of his team-mates suspected in later years that, whenever there was a chance that he might come back into England selection, such as before a touring team was chosen, he deliberately batted poorly so that he would not be picked. Nevertheless, in 1939 he managed to maintain his form and finished the season with 1,922 runs at 40.89.

The outbreak of war in 1939 brought a pause in Gimblett’s career, and he found the next few years difficult. He volunteered for the Air Force, but for reasons that are not quite clear was instead allocated to the Fire Service where his duties involved dealing with the aftermath of bombing raids. Foot notes that some of Gimblett’s team-mates thought that guilt from not seeing active service affected him after the war. But he was equally affected by his experiences as a fireman, especially when some of his colleagues were killed in an air raid, and he possibly suffered depression from having to deal with the destruction. Foot had received information that “his dormitory locker was full of pills.”

When county cricket resumed, Gimblett did better than ever. Somerset were surprisingly good in 1946 and finished fourth in the County Championship; Gimblett was a key player, averaging almost fifty. More circumspect than he had been, he still was capable of powerful shots but was less reckless. He scored his first double-century when he hit 231 against Middlesex in 320 minutes (32 fours, 1 six). If there was a slightly drop-off in 1947, the team leaned almost entirely on his runs in 1948. Against Sussex that summer, he scored 310 (465 minutes, 37 fours, 2 sixes), the highest innings by a Somerset player, surpassing the 52-year-old record set by the amateur Lionel Palairet, who scored 292 in 1896. However, the Somerset Committee refused to recognise the achievement. Gimblett said: “Arthur Wellard went to see the secretary, Brigadier Lancaster. ‘Harold’s just made 300. Will you allow a collection around the ground for him?’ The answer was prompt: “He’s paid to score 300. There will be no collection.’ I think that was when I first decided my career with Somerset was going to end. I was deeply hurt.” He and his team-mates suspected that the Somerset hierarchy were displeased that a professional had beaten the record of a famous and revered amateur from the past. But that was not his only spectacular achievement in 1948: against Glamorgan, he scored 70 which included six sixes in 13 balls from Len Muncer.

Somerset in 1946, illustrated on a benefit leaflet for F. S. Lee (Image: Harold Gimblett: Tormented Genius of Cricket (1982) by David Foot)

This immediate post-war period was perhaps Gimblett’s peak as a cricketer. He was adored by the Somerset crowds and enjoyed their adulation. But this brought its own internal pressures. While he struggled with the scrutiny and expectations of playing for England, and although he did not like journalists or the press in general, he enjoyed hogging the headlines for Somerset and was sometimes jealous of team-mates who usurped the attention. He hated to fail, and team-mates described how he would throw his bat around the dressing room if he was dismissed cheaply; they knew to keep away. Nor did they criticise him, because he did not respond well; in fairness, he did not especially enjoy praise either. Yet it left him with a reputation as something of a prima donna, not least because his reactions could be unpredictable. Foot tells several stories: how he once refused a drink from a Somerset member after he scored a large century, and had to be persuaded to accept; how he angrily shouted at Lancashire members who were critical of an umpiring decision that went against their team: “Why don’t you go back to the bloody mills and do an honest day’s work”; how when he was dismissed early in an innings played at Lord’s, and an MCC member complained “I’m sorry you are out, Gimblett; I’ve come a long way to watch you bat”, he stopped and replied: “You ought to have bloody well stayed at home.”

Nor was he a particularly good team-mate. Although he got on well with the other professionals, he was not especially interested in their success. He did not usually watch them bat, and only rarely offered technical advice despite being knowledgable about such matters. And he did not always consider the interests of his team while he was batting; he sometimes played how he wanted to play rather than as the situation demanded and sometimes was prone to play deliberately poorly if he knew selectors were watching. One amateur team-mate, according to Foot, suggested that if he was hit by a short ball (although he was generally very skilled against bouncers and fast bowling), he sometimes surrendered his wicket shortly after. Nevertheless, when the mood took him, he was a good team man, getting his head down and seeing off the new ball, or battling through difficult situations when Somerset were in trouble. Yet he never wanted responsibility and captaincy held no appeal for him.

Perhaps more importantly, Gimblett rarely got along with the amateurs in the team and could be difficult for the captain to deal with, particularly at a time when Somerset had a succession of short-lived captains who struggled to establish themselves. In fact, he had a problem with authority, refusing the demands of the Somerset Committee to drop the hook shot; he lacked deference even towards figures as distinguished as Pelham Warner. As the writer (and former Somerset player) R. C. Robertson-Glasgow put it: “Someone remarked that perhaps he is too daring for the grey-beards. My own view is that he is also too daring for the majority of the black-beards, brown beards and the all-beards, who sit in judgement on batsmen; in short, too daring for those who have never known what it is to dare in cricket.” The editor of a local newspaper who went to school with Gimblett called him an “infuriating enigma”. John Daniell, a hugely influential figure at Somerset for much of Gimblett’s time there, was baffled by the opener. He was often heard muttering: “That bloody Gimblett”. The latter in turn never forgave Daniell for rejecting him as a Somerset player before he made his famous debut (when he was chosen, just as an unsuccessful two-week trial was coming to an end, largely because no-one else was available).

Off the field, Gimblett had a reputation as a hypochondriac; he complained of aches and pains and suffered from migraines. He frequently visited doctors and was known, particularly after his mental health struggles became serious, for always having bottles of painkillers in his kit. He often kept to himself and was very introverted. Yet his rebelliousness was admired by his fellow professionals, who often conformed to get ahead.

Gimblett set another record in 1949, when he reached 2,000 first-class runs in the season for the first time; his 2,063 runs was the highest in a season for Somerset (beating Frank Lee’s 2,019 runs in 1938). During another solid season in 1950, Gimblett made runs for Somerset against the touring West Indies team. As a result, when Len Hutton withdrew from the England Test side, Gimblett was chosen to replace him. However, Gimblett developed a painful carbuncle on his neck and therefore was unable (or perhaps unwilling) to play; there were suggestions that the carbuncle might have arisen through the stress of his selection.

During the 1950–51 season, a “Commonwealth XI” toured India and what was then known as Ceylon; this took place at the same time that an England team toured Australia. Gimblett was chosen in the Commonwealth team and did reasonably well on the field. But he did not enjoy the tour: “It was a bad time for me — I had no energy, no spark, no conversation. I became very withdrawn. At first I wondered whether I’d picked up a bug. But it was purely mental.” He also struggled with Indian food and climate; he lost weight and came home looking very thin. Foot concluded that “Gimblett was temperamentally unsuited to touring”. But even this might be harsh; the experience he describes sounds very similar to the accounts of more recent England players, like Jonathan Trott and Marcus Trescothick, who hated the life of a touring cricketer, which exacerbated their symptoms of anxiety.

Gimblett batting at Bristol against Gloucestershire in 1953 (Image: Harold Gimblett: Tormented Genius of Cricket (1982) by David Foot)

The after-effects of the tour lingered into the 1951 season and Gimblett took a complete break in July, after doctors told him that he was “run down”. When he returned in August, he scored three centuries. The instability of the Somerset team cannot have helped; both the captain and Gimblett’s opening partner changed with bewildering frequency in this period. During his benefit season of 1952, he scored 2,000 runs again. At the end of the season, he took his family on a six-month trip to Rhodesia after being invited there in order to coach and play a little cricket. He was tempted to stay but chose to honour his Somerset contract and, according to Foot, “the pending political mood [in Rhodesia] bothered him.” Although he scored heavily again in 1953, there were suggestions that he had stopped enjoying the game and rumours of his imminent retirement, or his need for psychiatric treatment, circulated. Although he continued to bat well, Foot suggested that he was “inclined to look an old man” even though he was only 38. Gimblett himself said: “I couldn’t take much more. I was taking sleeping pills to make me sleep and others to wake me up. By the end of 1953, the world was closing in on me. I couldn’t offer any reason why and I don’t think the medical profession knew, either. There were months of the past season that I couldn’t remember at all.”

After struggling over Christmas 1953, Gimblett was admitted to the mental hospital Tone Vale (near Taunton) and had electro-convulsant therapy twice a week. He was a patient for sixteen weeks before rejoining Somerset for the 1954 season. He struggled through pre-season and played the first game although he wanted to come off mid-innings. When he was out for 29, he returned to the dressing room and had what Foot called “a bitter little monologue”, while Gimblett said that “I wanted to get it all out of the system in one go.” There were suggestions that he was reported to the Secretary; in the next game, he scored a duck against Yorkshire and when he returned to the dressing room, said that he couldn’t take any more. He left the ground mid-game; he batted in the second innings but was told by the captain to take some time off. He never played for Somerset again; he was soon a patient at Tone Vale once more. When he returned to the county ground later in the season to sit in the scorers’ box, he was ordered to leave.

The rejection, and lack of sympathy from Somerset throughout his career, left Gimblett bitter. Although he served on the Somerset Committee in the 1960s, and was heavily involved in fund-raising, he never quite forgave the county. These feelings were doubtless exacerbated by his mental health struggles, which continued for the rest of his life. He never knew the cause because he never received a diagnosis. But his problems were by no means limited to his cricketing experiences.

At the time of his enforced retirement, Gimblett had amassed an excellent record. He had scored 23,007 first-class runs at 36.17 (and took 41 wickets at 51.80); of those, 21,142 were for Somerset and even today, almost seventy years after his retirement, he remains Somerset’s leading run-scorer in first-class cricket, just ahead of Marcus Trescothick. In among those runs, he scored fifty first-class centuries; all but one came for Somerset, but he is second to Trescothick in the list of leading century scorers for the county. His innings of 310 remains the fifth highest score for Somerset; it was surpassed by Viv Richards in 1985 (and the record-holder is currently Justin Langer with 341). In his three Test matches, he scored 129 runs at 32.25.

After leaving Somerset, Gimblett briefly played professionally for Ebbw Vale Cricket Club, having struggled to find other employment. He also began to work at a steel works in South Wales as a safety inspector. He struggled with his mental health and the job in the steel works — and the unions — and at one point drove back to Somerset alone for a day, not returning home until the night. In his second season at Ebbw Vale, he left the steel works and took a job working on a farm but his schedule left him too tired to play for the club mid-week and his contract was terminated by mutual agreement. He later took a job at R. J. O. Meyer’s Millfield School as the head coach, with half an eye on returning to play for Somerset. Meyer was supportive but the Committee did not want Gimblett to return. In any case, he worked for twenty years at Millfield, performing various roles (including running the sports shop) and playing plenty of informal cricket. When Meyer retired, Gimblett’s relationship with the school became fractious and he began to hate his job. At one point, recognising that he was struggling, he applied to another school before changing his mind. He once more was treated in a mental hospital with electro-convulsant therapy. He retired on medical advice, not least as he was struggling with various physical ailments (some of which required surgery in later years).

In his final years became more and more reclusive, and by the end of his life actively disliked cricket. Even his wife, to whom he remained close, told Foot that she never entirely understood him. In his turn, Gimblett felt that he had been unkind to her early in their relationship, and regretted it. In March 1978, Gimblett took an overdose and was discovered next morning by his wife. Foot summarised this unhappy ending: “The tragedy is that he was able to share too little of the joy and sheer pleasure he brought to the game of cricket.” But this seems too simple of a conclusion for a complicated man who clearly had endured serious mental health problems which would have been beyond the comprehension of his contemporaries, little understood by the medical establishment of the time and even when Foot was writing in 1982 remained a source of shame and stigmatisation. Perhaps in the modern world — and even in modern cricket — Gimblett might have received better treatment (in both the medical and professional sense).

We cannot do justice to such a complex issue — nor, in fairness, to a complex life — here. But perhaps we can consider his standing as a cricketer. A sympathetic obituary in Wisden, although it did not mention his cause of death, summarised his career very effectively: “People sometimes talk as if after [his debut] he was a disappointment. In fact his one set-back, apart from being overlooked by the selectors, was when in 1938, probably listening to the advice of grave critics, he attempted more cautious methods and his average dropped to 27. But can one call disappointing a man who between 1936 and his retirement in 1953 never failed to get his 1,000 runs, who in his career scored over 23,000, more than any other Somerset player, and fifty centuries, the highest 310 against Sussex at Eastbourne in 1948, and whose average for his career was over 36?”

“My God, look what they’ve given me!”: Archie MacLaren and the 1902 Ashes

The England team for the first Test of the 1902 Ashes. Back row: G. H. Hirst, A. A. Lilley, W. H. Lockwood, L. C. Braund, W. Rhodes, J. T. Tyldesley. Front row: C. B. Fry, F. S. Jackson, A. C. MacLaren (captain), K. S. Ranjitsinhji, G. L. Jessop. (Image: Archie (1981) by Michael Down)

Archie MacLaren captained England in 22 Test matches, more than anyone else before the Second World War. Yet he won just four of those games and lost eleven. He holds the unenviable record of leading England to three consecutive series defeats against Australia between 1899 and 1902, and returned to lose a fourth in 1909; no other England captain has managed to repeat this dubious feat. Despite having a reputation as a formidable tactician, and numbering several Australian players among his supporters, the general view — perhaps unarguable given his record — is that he was a poor captain.

Certainly, his abrasive nature did not lend itself to a leadership role, nor did his frequent clashes with Test selectors over the composition of his team. On the other hand, he was capable of spotting ability where others had missed it, most famously when he selected Sydney Barnes, Colin Blythe, Len Braund and Gilbert Jessop to tour Australia under his captaincy in 1901–02. And any fair judgement of MacLaren’s captaincy must take into account that circumstances were often against him and defeats could not always be solely attributed to his leadership. He stepped in during the absence of the official captain Andrew Stoddart in Australia in 1897–98, leading England to their only win of the series but losing his other two matches. When he was made the captain full time for the last four Tests of the 1899 series, he lost his first game but the team demonstrably improved throughout the summer and although they could not force a win in the final three games, a 1–0 loss did not reflect how well England had played. During the aforementioned 1901–02 series, MacLaren had a team that was nowhere near full strength, which was not his fault, and a 4–1 series loss was not unexpected. Nevertheless, his captaincy and some of his selections during 1909 were at least partially responsible for England’s 2–1 loss that summer, in a series that did much to damage his legacy as captain.

Therefore, if the 1899 series actually reflects quite well on MacLaren as captain, the 1909 series was disastrous for him, and he had little realistic chance of winning in 1901–02, the case against him is far from proven. Which means that any considered judgement of MacLaren as captain comes down to his other series in charge: the famous 1902 series, a summer which illustrates perfectly MacLaren’s strengths and weaknesses.

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MacLaren and Ranjitsinhji return from inspecting the pitch before the first Test at Birmingham

To begin with, it showcased his ability as a tactician. In the first Test, played at Birmingham, he extended England’s innings when several of his team-mates favoured a declaration (at the time, declarations were only permitted after lunch on the second day). He timed the closure to perfection and Australia were bowled out for 36, having to bat when the pitch was at its worst; his decision to switch the ends from which George Hirst and Wilfred Rhodes were bowling early in the innings was the catalyst for the Australian collapse (although the idea may have come from Hirst, who was struggling with the footholds). He also pulled off a masterstroke, appreciated by critics, when he brought in a silly point when Reg Duff was facing Rhodes; the Australian almost immediately sent a catch there. But that game also demonstrated another trait of MacLaren’s captaincy — bad luck. Rain prevented any serious play on the final day, when Australia faced almost certain defeat. Misfortune followed him — along with the rain — to Lord’s where play was only possible for a touch under two hours, all on the first day, in the second Test. Given that Australia, ravaged by injury and illness, struggled to field eleven fit players, England would have been strong favourites in good weather.

The third Test was played at Sheffield, the only such match to take place at the ground, by which time Australia had a fully fit team and had found their form. The beginning of the game was typical MacLaren. He had already insisted that Gilbert Jessop should be included in the England team, despite the reservations of the other selectors and the press about whether his aggressive batting was suitable for Test matches. Then, after seeing the state of the pitch, MacLaren sent a message — almost certainly without the approval of the selectors, although it is impossible to be certain — to Sydney Barnes asking him to play. Barnes played ahead of Bill Lockwood (who had been in the team for the first two Tests but had not bowled a ball owing to the weather) and Yorkshire’s Schofield Haigh, a wet-wicket specialist. Because the telegram which summoned him arrived quite late, Barnes was not present when the match begun and Haigh fielded in his place. To the confusion of the crowd, Haigh — whom they believed to be in the team — went off when Barnes arrived; when they realised what had happened, they barracked both Barnes and MacLaren. Yet it soon looked as if MacLaren had made an inspired selection; Barnes took six for 49 and Australia were bowled out for 194 on a good pitch. The captain’s field-placing, particularly the leg-side field he employed for Barnes, drew praise.

But luck once more went against him; bad light on the first evening made batting difficult and England collapsed from 61 for no wicket to 102 for five. By the time that the batsmen appealed against the light — which the laws at the time permitted — England’s innings was in ruins. On the second morning, they were all out for 145. Perhaps another factor against MacLaren was that the wickets were split equally between Monty Noble and Jack Saunders, two bowlers — especially the latter — whose actions were widely regarded as suspect. With a lead of 49, Australia went on the offensive and MacLaren lost control. First Victor Trumper took on the danger-man Rhodes, hitting him out of the attack. He and Clem Hill looked to score at every opportunity, frequently hitting at least one boundary from every over. When Trumper was out for 62 (scored in 50 minutes out of a total of 80), Hill continued to be aggressive, regularly taking ten or more runs off an over. MacLaren frequently altered his field and repeatedly changing the bowling, giving the impression of panic. Later in the innings, he went too much the other way, keeping Len Braund and Hirst on too long when they were proving expensive. And although one end of the pitch, from which Saunders had been very effective, was offering sharp turn, MacLaren used Rhodes from the other for most of the innings. When he finally switched him round, Rhodes bowled a spell of four wickets for no runs in 19 deliveries to end the Australian innings for 289.

By then, Hill had scored 119 (in 145 minutes), and England needed 339 to win. Although MacLaren and Jessop (who had been promoted to open the batting) scored brutal half-centuries, England were bowled out for 195 on the final morning. Many post-mortems were critical of MacLaren’s captaincy, particularly his bowling changes. To make matters worse, Barnes had been ineffective in the second innings having been so obviously favoured by MacLaren. Another issue was that the English fielding on the second day was suspect — several catches went down and many overthrows were conceded, adding to the impression that the home team were rattled by Australia’s aggression on a day that 405 runs were scored and 16 wickets fell. MacLaren still had support — several newspapers suggested that umpiring decisions went against England, and the England wicket-keeper A. A. Lilley told the Daily Express after the match that MacLaren was the best captain in the world.

But, crucially, he may have lost the faith of the selectors, and his unilateral call-up of Barnes perhaps played a part. Unusually, MacLaren was not at the selection meeting to chose the team for the fourth Test; the captain was always a co-opted member of the committee in this period, although there was nothing in the rules that said he had to be. The only amateur added to the panel — as allowed in the rules — for that game was Stanley Jackson. Why MacLaren was absent will never be known. C. B. Fry later wrote an eyewitness account of what took place at the meeting in Life Worth Living, his 1939 autobiography; but unfortunately, Fry was not present either, except in his own imagination.

So we do not know what happened precisely; MacLaren later wrote that the selectors refused two suggestions he had made by letter. After the initial meeting, another bowler was added to the team in case the pitch was affected by rain. This bowler was Fred Tate; the story goes that the selectors added Tate because they thought MacLaren would not dare pick him, and therefore stick to the team they wanted. Like many such stories it has little basis in reality — Barnes had not been an option at Sheffield, but MacLaren included him anyway. Fry suggested that Lord Hawke would not allow Schofield Haigh, a more obvious selection, to play as it would have weakened his Yorkshire team that was already providing three Test players, but the initial teams announced for the second and third Tests contained four Yorkshiremen (although the fourth was left out of the final eleven on both occasions); and it should again be pointed out that Fry was not at the meeting. Additionally, Tate was having the best season of his life and was high in the first-class averages — at this stage of the season, he was ahead of Rhodes, and many newspapers had suggested that he should be picked. Most criticism of Tate’s selection came with the benefit of hindsight; there was little complaint beforehand.

Another strange selection — although receiving far less subsequent attention — was that of the Somerset amateur Lionel Palairet. His form had not been good all season, and he may have been picked purely on the basis of his innings of 90 against the Australians for his county; at the time of his selection he was 57th in the national averages. Critics were doubtful before the match began, and events proved them correct: in four innings in the final two Tests, Palairet managed just 49 runs. There were several batsmen with better records pressing for a place — including, if an amateur was required, Yorkshire’s T. L. Taylor who was high in the averages and had been selected for the second Test without making the final eleven.

Where MacLaren did become involved in selection was through his omission of Hirst in favour of Tate when the match began. Most writers have interpreted this as a spiteful action to make a point to the selectors, but again it is not clear cut. It is hard to see why MacLaren would choose to weaken his team, and at this period of the season, Hirst was horribly out of form, particularly with the ball — his match figures at Sheffield were 25–2–99–0, and his two innings produced scores of 8 and 0. Perhaps even an out-of-form Hirst should have played, but it was an understandable choice in the circumstances, particularly as the conditions called for the inclusion of a wet-wicket specialist such as Tate.

Fred Tate in 1905 (Image: Wikipedia)

Lionel Palairet in 1895 (Image: Wikipedia)

Many thousands of words have been written about the fourth Test of the series, many of them based only loosely in reality. For our purposes, we need only a broad outline. Australia won the toss on a wet pitch that was certain to become very difficult for batting as the day progressed. MacLaren’s plan to keep the batsmen quiet until the pitch came to his bowlers was foiled by what must have been one of the greatest innings of all time, played by Victor Trumper. MacLaren years later explained at a dinner, as related by Neville Cardus, how he had carefully planned his approach. Using lumps of sugar from the dinner table to illustrate his field, he said: “Gaps be damned! Good God, I knew my man — Victor had half-a-dozen strokes for the same kind of ball. I exploited the inner and outer ring — a man there, a man there, and another man covering him … I told my bowlers to pitch on the short side to the off: I set my heart and brain on every detail of our policy. Well, in the third over of the morning, Victor hit two balls straight into the practice ground, high over the screen, behind the bowler. I couldn’t very well have had a man fielding in the bloody practice ground, now could I?”

Trumper scored a century before lunch; he and Reggie Duff slaughtered the bowling in an opening partnership of 135 in 80 minutes and at lunch the total was a remarkable 173 for one. After that, with the pitch drying out (and therefore becoming “sticky”) the bowlers came into the game, and Australia were all out for 299. After some scares, a century from Stanley Jackson — who shared a partnership of 141 with Len Braund — hauled England to within touching distance on the second day, when they were all out for 262. That evening, with the pitch relatively good, Bill Lockwood was unplayable and Australia slumped to 10 for three.

Up until this point, MacLaren had done little wrong, except fail to keep Trumper quiet — which was definitely excusable as Trumper was a genius. But now, he lost the match and series through carelessness. With the score on 16, the Australian captain Joe Darling hit Braund in the air to deep-square-leg; the fielder was Fred Tate. He dropped the ball. Darling went on to top-score with 37, and his partnership of 54 with Syd Gregory was crucial. England struck back, and Australia were 85 for eight at the end of the day, just 122 ahead, but overnight rain ruined the pitch and made such a lead immeasurably more valuable — another example of MacLaren’s poor luck. But the crucial moment was the dropped catch, which would have left Australia 12 for four. Tate, who was criticised for many years after for this miss, was not used to fielding in the deep; for Sussex he usually fielded at slip. When an anonymous Pelham Warner wrote about the game in The Times in 1919, he related a “story” he had heard that both Jackson and Ranjitsinhji had offered to field in the deep instead of Tate, but MacLaren refused. Warner’s article provoked a reaction from MacLaren, who wrote a long letter in reply, setting out his detailed defence.

MacLaren’s explanation was that part of the issue arose because Darling was left-handed and his partner Gregory right-handed. For Braund, MacLaren had a predominantly leg-side field — his account suggests he had seven men on that side. When Gregory scored a single, it meant that five fielders had to cross to the other side; one, Lionel Palairet, had to cross the entire length of the ground. MacLaren suggests that Ranjitinshji was “dead lame” — something that was almost certainly untrue but may have been a valiant protection of his close friend, who was in no fit mental state for cricket as he was on the verge of bankruptcy — which limited his options. MacLaren then explained:

“As Darling was hitting out at every ball I felt that, with the great amount of what became off-break to the left-handed batsman, Braund was getting on the ball, the spin would most likely cause Darling’s hit to carry behind rather than in front of the square leg boundary, and I accordingly placed Lionel Palairet in that position with Tate in front. Braund then asked me if he might not have L. C. H. Palairet in front where Tate was fielding, and although I pointed out that the finer long-leg was more likely to get the catch, he still preferred to have Lionel Palairet in front where Tate was fielding, and as I never went against any bowler of judgement, Tate was allowed to take the fine-leg position and Palairet came in front to occupy the position in which he usually fielded for Somerset. Tate got behind the catch and had the misfortune to drop it. No one was more sorry for Tate than myself and, although I had the greatest respect for Tate as a bowler, it was in my opinion far too late in his career to ask him to play for the first time in so critical a period in the Test games.”

MacLaren further claimed that Jackson, rather than offering to go into the deep, preferred to remain close in. He noted that, with four men on the leg-side boundary, if all of them had switched sides each time the batsmen crossed, “each fieldsman would have covered some 1,200 yards in the over. It is always necessary to save not only your fieldsmen as much as possible, but also time.”

Such a detailed public defence after seventeen years — Alan Gibson wryly observed that MacLaren “later spent much breath defending himself on this point” — suggests a man who had dwelt on the game a great deal; but MacLaren was always keen — as in the case of Tate — to absolve himself of any blame. One interpretation, noted by Bernard Whimpress and Nigel Hart, was that MacLaren did not want to ask an amateur to cross the field when a professional could do so; but this and other later explanations seem confused about who was fielding where. If we believe MacLaren, he merely swapped the positions of two deep fielders, but it does beg the question why Tate was on the boundary at all. Incidentally C. B. Fry, in his fantasy version of the selection meeting for this Test, claimed to have argued against his county team-mate Tate’s selection on the grounds that he could only field at slip. This clearly never happened, and more revealing are Fry’s newspaper columns written for the Daily Express in 1902 shortly before the fourth Test which make no mention of Tate at all and focus mainly on his concerns over the form of Lockwood (who took eleven for 76 at Old Trafford), Rhodes and Hirst.

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Bill Lockwood bowls to Victor Trumper in the fifth Test of the 1902 series, played at the Oval

On the final morning, Australia added just one more run, leaving England needing 124 to win on a now-difficult pitch. MacLaren got them off to a good start, and England had reached 68 for one before collapsing; the captain was third out with the score 72, caught on the boundary hitting out rashly. Amid great tension, England eked out runs but lost regular wickets; when the ninth wicket fell for 116, eight runs were still needed. Rhodes was still there — even then, he was a solid batsman — but the last man was Fred Tate. After a rain interruption, which can only have increased his nerves, Tate edged a lucky boundary before being bowled. Australia won the match by three runs, and took a 2–0 lead in the series with one match to play.

This three-run loss became famous, one of the most talked about games of cricket ever played. It was followed by an almost-equally-famous game at the Oval when England recorded a consolation win by one wicket, another incredibly tense result in which Gilbert Jessop — restored to the team at MacLaren’s insistence — scored a 77-minute, 76-ball century and the last pair of Hirst and Rhodes supposedly “got ’em in singles”. But England had lost the series by then. While MacLaren cannot be held entirely responsible for the two losses — several of his players crumbled under pressure at the crucial time, not least his “star” batsmen of Fry and Ranjitsinhji — it cannot be denied that his decision-making at Sheffield and Manchester contributed to the defeats. Except in the selection of Tate — which was not as ridiculous as claimed later — and perhaps Palairet, the selectors made few terrible errors that would have affected the outcome. If the available options did not always meet with MacLaren’s approval, he was well-known to have an idiosyncratic approach to selection. Although Jessop’s innings at the Oval may be seen as a vindication for MacLaren, it was his only Test century; at that level, he averaged under 22, scored just three other fifties and only passed 25 once more in a Test career lasting until 1912.

The series also gives an indication of why MacLaren’s record was so poor. As a leader, he was hardly inspirational. Would a different, more sympathetic captain have prevented the batting collapses, or the mistakes in the field? His fury in the first Test when Ranjitsinhji ran him out — admittedly in a very careless way — affected the batsman afterwards until he too was out for a low score. And some of his outbursts cannot have helped the team. The idea that he said “My God, look what they’ve given me!” when he saw the team for the fourth Test seems to rest largely on a tale of Cardus, but Jimmy Catton recalled in his Wickets and Goals (1926) meeting MacLaren shortly before the fourth Test: “MacLaren tossed his head and laughed as he told me that the selectors had chosen Fred Tate, known as “Chubby”, to play for England on the morrow. Evidently he was surprised, and his style was suggestive of the old question — what next?” This account, and MacLaren’s outraged public reaction to the selections of 1909, might indicate where the idea of “Look what they’ve given me!” came from. Such an attitude must have been demoralising. Similarly, another story — again, the provenance is doubtful, but the tenor matches what we know of MacLaren — comes from that Test; when he was out in the fourth innings, he returned to the dressing room, threw his bat and shouted that he had “thrown away the match and the bloody rubber”. Again, hardly likely to encourage the men still to bat.

MacLaren’s reputation as an extreme pessimist, an endearing source of amusement to friends such as Ranjitsinhji, must have also had a demoralising effect. Pelham Warner considered him too negative to be a good captain, and Fry described him as “iron and joyless … under him you entered every game bowed down with the Herculean labour of a cricket match against Australia; you went as in a trance to your doom.”

In judging MacLaren’s effectiveness as a captain, it is the 1902 series that tips the balance against him. Unlike his earlier captaincy experiences, there were no excuses except for some occasional bad luck: he did not take over mid-series or lead an unrepresentative side. On the contrary, most critics judged that the 1902 team was — with the hindsight-tinged exception of poor Fred Tate — one of the best to take the field for England. Although the Australian team was unusually strong, it was not much different to the team that Pelham Warner — who did not have a full-strength team — beat in 1903–04 or that Stanley Jackson defeated in 1905. And key points in the series — the Australian second innings at Sheffield and at Manchester — were influenced by his decisions as captain.

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Stanley Jackson leads England out for the second Test at Lord’s in 1905, followed by MacLaren — his “partner rather than a lieutenant in the command”. C. B. Fry and A. O. Jones are close behind.

Can anything be salvaged of MacLaren’s reputation? Perhaps. For the 1905 Ashes series, the selectors opted for a new captain — Stanley Jackson, the man passed over in 1899 when MacLaren was appointed. But the relationship between the two men remained good. After Jackson led England to a 2–0 win, he publicly acknowledged that he had enjoyed better luck than MacLaren; he also generously said that MacLaren’s tactical input was invaluable — he called him a “partner rather than a lieutenant in the command” — and he not only took charge in the field when Jackson was bowling, he also accompanied him when he inspected the pitch prior to games. But there were none of the selection controversies that dogged the 1902 and 1909 series, and no stories of problems behind the scenes. Perhaps Jackson was simply able to get a little more out of the team than MacLaren ever did.

How do we sum MacLaren up? Maybe the fairest way is to describe him as an excellent tactician but a poor leader. Or a good judge of talent but a terrible manager of players. Alan Gibson thought that England under MacLaren “must have been a good side to watch, save for the passionate partisans, but an uncomfortable side in which to play.”

If the 1909 series finally destroyed his reputation, he perhaps had the last laugh when his 1921 hand-picked side defeated Warwick Armstrong’s all-conquering Australian team. Then in the winter of 1922–23, at the age of fifty, he led an MCC team to Australia and New Zealand. Asked to captain largely on the basis of that match in 1921 and his position as Lancashire’s coach, he ruffled a few feathers on the tour but had one final triumph. A few days after his 51st birthday, he took the field for the final time in first-class cricket as his MCC team played a representative New Zealand team. He scored exactly 200 not out, declaring as soon as he reached the milestone. His team won by an innings, and perhaps realising that this was the perfect way to bow out, he pleaded injury and did not play again on the tour. On the way home, he sent a request to Lancashire for an advance on his salary as coach; they refused and quietly replaced him, citing the same injury which curtailed his tour. The ending was typical MacLaren.

“The excuses begin to run thin”: Archie MacLaren, batsman and captain

Archie MacLaren’s batting stance (Image: George Beldam, Great Batsmen: Their Methods at a Glance [1905])

Archie MacLaren captained England more times than anyone else before the Second World War and yet has one of the least impressive records in the role. His reputation has declined dramatically over the years, particularly as stories emerged about what an unpleasant man he could be. However, many of MacLaren’s worst characteristics emerged through almost constant financial worries which made him insecure and defensive. His arrogance, autocratic nature and abrasiveness were in many ways a facade. There are plenty of stories of those who got to know him finding a lot to like, and for the many tales of his pessimism, angry outbursts and contrariness, he rarely seems to have treated professionals badly — or at least no worse than his contemporaries. There are also examples of his kindness and a caring attitude rarely evident to the public. If MacLaren was no saint, he was perhaps not as terrible a person as some later portrayed him. But it was not as a character but as a cricketer that MacLaren was remembered. And his record as captain is the one that came to define him to posterity. Is his reputation as a poor captain a deserved one? Or was something deeper at play?

For all his adventures off the field, few have questioned MacLaren’s record as a batsman. But those who remembered him as one of the greatest of batsmen — including the writer of his Wisden obituary — may have been swayed more by style than substance; a key point is that he played as an amateur, which altered the dynamic considerably. His best years at home were 1895 and 1897, the only times he averaged over fifty in English first-class cricket. In terms of run-scoring, his best season was 1903 when he scored 1,886 runs at an average of 42.86. But he only reached 1,000 runs in a season nine times in a career that lasted over thirty years. Even taking into account his frequent absences, this is a poor record. In many seasons, his average was distinctly unimpressive, even at a time when run-scoring was generally lower. His overall first-class average of 34.15 does not stand out when compared to other batsmen: of his leading amateur contemporaries, C. B. Fry averaged 50.22, Ranjitsinhji 56.37 and Stanley Jackson 33.83; if Jackson’s first-class batting record is similar to MacLaren’s, his Test record is vastly superior: he averaged 48.79 to MacLaren’s 33.87. And Jackson was an all-rounder, taking nearly 800 first-class wickets. Of the top professional batsman, Tom Hayward averaged 41.79, Bobby Abel 35.46 and David Denton 33.40. Against the defence that MacLaren played on some difficult pitches at home in Lancashire, his almost exact contemporary Johnny Tyldesley (a professional) averaged 40.66 also playing mainly for Lancashire.

MacLaren was generally a better batsman in Australia — four of his five Test centuries were scored there — where his average was considerably higher in both Test and first-class cricket. The obvious conclusion is that he was not quite as good as everyone thought, but a more likely explanation is that MacLaren, like many amateur batsmen in this period, needed conditions to be in his favour so that he could demonstrate the glorious strokes that men like him supposedly brought to the game. He was certainly capable of batting in difficult conditions, and throughout his career there were examples of him succeeding where no-one else could. But more often, he needed circumstances to be in his favour, when he could dominate with his stylish strokeplay. This can be seen in two of his most famous batting achievements.

In July 1895, he played for Lancashire against Somerset at Taunton. Lancashire won the toss and MacLaren opened the batting. He remained at the crease the entire first day, and into the afternoon session of the second. In 470 minutes of batting, he scored 424 runs — the highest score in first-class cricket at the time, surpassing W. G. Grace’s 344 in 1876 — including one six (which at the time had to be hit out of the ground, not just over the boundary) and 64 fours. It was a considerable achievement, and stood as the first-class record until 1923 when Bill Ponsford scored 429; it was the highest score in England until Brian Lara scored 501 not out in 1994 and remains one of only ten first-class quadruple centuries. But Somerset were a notoriously weak team in this period. Earlier in the season, W. G. Grace had scored 288 against them. MacLaren faced only two established bowlers (Sammy Wood and Edwin Tyler); much of the work was done by two part-timers — Lionel Palairet and Gerald Fowler — and the 17-year-old Herbert Gamlin, who in a first-class career comprising three games, took two for 207. Nine men bowled in total, and because the laws at the time only allowed declarations on the third day, Lancashire simply batted until they were all out midway through the second day.

The second example had more merit at first sight. Captaining the Gentlemen against the Players at Lord’s in 1903, MacLaren scored 168 not out after his team had followed-on 293 runs behind. He shared a partnership of 309 with C. B. Fry (who scored 232 not out) and the Gentlemen reached 500 for two before declaring to allow the Players a little batting before time ran out. On the face of it, this was a good performance: in the most high-profile game of the season, against the best professional bowlers, in a pressure situation. The partnership between him and Fry, which took just three-and-a-half hours, was reckoned one of the best batting displays of the “Golden Age” for the manner in which it came. But even here, there are factors which made such style possible. The Players lacked both George Hirst and Bill Lockwood, two of the best bowlers in England; Sydney Barnes, the main bowler, managed just one over in the entire match before being forced off the field injured; and when MacLaren came out with the score 191 for two, the attack, a man short, had already been worn down by a partnership of 142 between Fry and Ranjitsinhji.

MacLaren’s off-drive illustrated in a sequence by George Beldam (Image: George Beldam, Great Batsmen: Their Methods at a Glance [1905])

So even MacLaren’s best performances come with a caveat, but to think in this way is to judge batting from that period by a modern standard. At the time, amateur batting was not about proving yourself in difficult conditions, or succeeding under pressure — although many amateurs regularly achieved both of those things. It was playing in the correct, attractive way taught at public schools. In other words, MacLaren was judged by his contemporaries to a different standard than a batsman would be today because of who — and what — he was. Statistics say that Johnny Tyldesley or Bobby Abel were better batsmen than him; but they were almost playing a different game. As professionals, their job was to score runs any way that they could, especially if the going was tough. When conditions were good for batting, their job was to score a single and get the glamorous amateur on strike. Professional batting was about utility, amateur batting was about style. This is perfectly illustrated by stories about two other famous amateurs who played at the same time as MacLaren. At Sussex, C. B. Fry established a formidable opening partnership with the professional Joe Vine. Fry expected his partner to take up a lesser, defensive role which would not overshadow him. Vine told Arthur Gilligan, a later Sussex captain, that: “I once hit three fours in the same over, and Mr Fry came up to me and told me plainly that it was my job to stay there and leave that sort of cricket to him.” Stanley Jackson expected something similar at Yorkshire. Joe Darling, who played for Australia, remembered one incident at Bradford in 1896 when the professional batsman Jack Brown turned down an impossible single called by Jackson, only to be told that he had to run whenever called.

It seems like a ridiculous system but there was little need to change it until external factors came to bear. The County Championship was dominated by teams with a strong nucleus of professionals but no-one cared too much as long as there was plenty of amateur talent on display. And until the 1890s, there was not too much need to worry about Australian cricket. But in the latter part of that decade, a combination of talented individuals and tactically astute leadership — first from Harry Trott and then Joe Darling — made the Australian Test team a much greater threat. All that mattered to them was winning; style was a secondary concern. The result was that, between the tour of Australia by W. G. Grace’s team in 1891–92 and the end of the 1909 series in England, Australia won 24 and lost 17 of the 54 Tests played, and won seven of the twelve series. The qualification should be added that the English teams which toured Australia in this period often were missing some of the best players for various reasons, and only the home Tests were truly representative of English cricket. But in the same period, Australia won six and lost seven of 21 Tests in England, and won three of the six series. Between 1897–98 and 1909, it was even worse for England: Australia won 19 Tests and lost just 10, while winning six of the eight series, including the 1899, 1902 and 1909 series in England.

MacLaren’s straight drive, illustrated in a sequence by George Beldam (Image: George Beldam, Great Batsmen: Their Methods at a Glance [1905])

An English resurgence in results in the brief period before the First World War owed as much to the brilliance of two players — Jack Hobbs and Sydney Barnes — and a self-destructive rift in Australian cricket as to any change in how the Test team was run. But it cannot be ignored that the man who captained England most frequently in the period of disaster was none other than Archie MacLaren. Nor that the biggest successes for England between 1891–92 and 1909 — the wins in 1894–95, 1903–04 and 1905 — were under the leadership of Andrew Stoddart, Pelham Warner and Stanley Jackson. And can it be a coincidence that the renaissance after 1909 followed the retirement of MacLaren?

MacLaren’s record is terrible. Of his 22 Tests as England captain, he won just four and lost eleven. The team lost every series in which he led (and while he was only in sole charge during three series, he led the majority of the other two). Despite these results, it was not until his disastrous final series, the 1909 Ashes, that his reputation was damaged. In later years, the devoted Cardus continued to extol him as an ideal captain. And most observers judged him to be extraordinarily astute in a tactical sense; from what contemporary accounts suggest, he was considerably ahead of his time in thinking about these matters.

What was MacLaren like as a captain? During his career, there was less scope for brilliance than might have been possible in later times. For example, the arcane laws about declarations prevented much innovation there (until 1900, they were not permitted except on the third day of a three-day match). Uncovered pitches, and the danger of rain producing a sticky wicket, meant that if you won the toss, you batted. Particularly in county cricket, the preferred tactic in the field was to put on your best bowlers and leave them on until they dropped; “change” bowling was disdained; at Lancashire, for example, Arthur Mold and Johnny Briggs took almost all the wickets in the mid-1890s, when MacLaren was captain. Both swing and googly bowling were unheard of before the turn of the century, and until MacLaren’s retirement remained novelties which only a small handful of cricketers had perfected. So a captain had little to do, and few choices to make. But within these bounds, the contemporary consensus was that MacLaren was an unusually good tactician. He studied batsmen, planned for them and placed fields accordingly. He often shuffled his batting order to meet a particular challenge — a very modern strategy which divided opinions at the time.

But somehow, it didn’t work; his tactical know-how never translated into on-field success. To lose as often as he did (particularly when others in the same period did rather better) might suggest that the issue lay with him. His poor record was not limited to Test cricket; in twelve seasons as the captain of Lancashire, in a period when the team was one of the best in the country, he only won the County Championship once. As Alan Gibson wrote: “The excuses begin to run thin, sieved through such a tale of failure.” In his defence, it should be said that several factors outside MacLaren’s control had an impact. In the interests of fairness, it is worth examining each series in turn to see what might have been behind the results.

In his first two series, MacLaren was not the first choice as England captain. In 1897–98, he stepped in when Andrew Stoddart, the official leader, was unable to play after the sudden death of his mother. The team was not his, and so he cannot be held responsible for the 4–1 series loss (he was captain for the sole victory but lost his other two games). Less clear-cut is the 1899 series. W. G. Grace led England in the first match of the five-Test series (which was drawn), but stood down after realising that he was no longer worth his place in the team. C. B. Fry, who was a selector for the series, later claimed accidental responsibility for Grace’s retirement. In his version of the selection meeting for the second Test, Fry arrived late and when he was asked by Grace if he thought MacLaren should play, he said yes without knowing that the others had been deadlocked over whether Grace or MacLaren should be captain. Fry believed that he therefore was the man who ended Grace’s Test career. But this version is dubious — as are many of Fry’s tales — as it would have been possible for MacLaren and Grace both to play.

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Archie MacLaren chasing the ball during his first Test as captain, at Lord’s in 1899

Whether Fry was responsible or not, MacLaren was chosen to take over for the second Test, even though he had not played any cricket that season — his first appearance came in that match — because he was working as a schoolteacher. He was also hampered because Stanley Jackson, annoyed to have been overlooked for the captaincy, opted not to play. MacLaren scored 88 not out in the second innings in an unavailing attempt to save the game, but Australia won quite easily. Although he might have lost his first match as official captain, MacLaren’s reputation rose when England demonstrably improved as the series progressed. But for rain, they might have won the third Test: the final day was washed out when England, 19 for no wicket overnight, needed 177 in the fourth innings. And if Australia’s strong batting and the three-day duration of Tests at the time meant that England’s bowlers could not take 20 wickets on the flat pitches, the home team were in a dominant position in both of the final two matches. Therefore, although Australia won the series 1–0, this perhaps disguises a more complicated story. MacLaren was one of many after this series who called for Test matches in England to be extended, although he vacillated on this point; in later years, he was a supporter of three-day Tests.

The next time MacLaren led England, the team was literally his own. He was asked to captain a side in Australia during the 1901–02 season. As with all tours of Australia at this time, many leading cricketers — particularly amateurs — opted not to take part. Furthermore, owing to MacLaren’s dispute with Lord Hawke over whether the MCC should control tours to Australia, Wilfred Rhodes and George Hirst, the leading bowlers in England, were made unavailable by Yorkshire. A combination of these factors, and a desire from the Melbourne Cricket Club — which financed the tour — for new faces, meant that MacLaren assembled a very experimental team. It was no surprise that England lost 4–1 — even their one win was unexpected — and this was no disgrace in the circumstances. Instead, the tour established a lasting reputation for MacLaren as a talent-spotter. The most famous example from the series is that he invited Sydney Barnes to tour after he had played just once for Lancashire, on the strength of his bowling to MacLaren in the nets. Barnes, over the course of the next decade, proved himself to be one of the greatest bowlers of all time. But the relationship between the two was not easy; one of many apocryphal sayings attributed to MacLaren was supposedly made during the journey out to Australia (in some versions, the team were about to cross the Tasman sea on a rickety ship), when during stormy weather he told one of the team: “If we go down, at least that bugger Barnes will go down with us.” MacLaren also selected Colin Blythe and Len Braund, both of whom had long and successful Test careers after making their debuts in 1901–02, and Gilbert Jessop, who he always championed as a potential match-winner even when others had doubts.

MacLaren’s team that beat the 1921 Australians. Back row: H. Ashton, C. H. Gibson, A. P. F. Chapman, G. A. C. Wood, G. Ashton. Second row: G. A. Faulkner, A. C. MacLaren (captain), G. N. Foster, M. Falcon. On ground: C. T. Ashton. W. Brearley is missing from the photograph. (Image: The Cricketer, 10 September 1921)

MacLaren’s reputation as a talent-spotter was later bolstered after the First World War when, after spending the whole of the 1921 summer claiming that he could pick a team to defeat Warwick Armstrongs’ all-conquering Australian team, his hand-picked, all-amateur side unexpectedly won at the end of the season to end Armstrong’s hopes of going home unbeaten. But these successes are balanced by several idiosyncratic selections, most notably during the disastrous 1909 Ashes.

This final series of MacLaren as England captain was the one which ruined his reputation. But the culpability was once more not entirely his. The panel of selectors that year — Lord Hawke, H. D. G. Leveson-Gower and C. B. Fry — was one of the worst to pick an England side. From their continual changes to the side, to a series of questionable choices, they were widely (and fairly) blamed by the press and public for England’s humiliating 2–1 loss. MacLaren even publicly distanced himself from their decisions, writing in the press that the team was not one that he had chosen — perhaps not an attitude likely to create team harmony. But MacLaren too blundered in that series. He was opposed to the selection of Jack Hobbs, who made his home debut in the first Test of the series and won the match with a brilliant innings. MacLaren’s own poor form was criticised, and he made the excuse that, in effect, he had only agreed to play as a favour to the selectors. And a series of mistakes during the final Test were largely the fault of MacLaren, who opted not to include a fast bowler and horrendously over-bowled his “secret weapon” Douglas Carr. And it is an inescapable fact that there were no such selection problems in 1905 or 1907, when MacLaren was not the captain, and that all three of the selectors were at other times members of spectacularly successful panels — Hawke in 1905, Leveson-Gower in the late 1920s and Fry in 1912. Did the problems simply arise through the clash of personalities between him and his fellow selectors, particularly Lord Hawke?

If we are balancing the books on MacLaren’s captaincy, the record so far is not as bad as it looks, or as terrible as MacLaren’s later reputation might suggest. The team of 1897–98 was not his, he had little chance of success in 1901–02, and the 1909 selectors bore a large responsibility. On the positive side of the ledger, he uncovered some talent in 1901–02, and presided over an improvement in the team in 1899. The negative side consists mainly of his clashes with the Lord Hawke, and his poor selection/captaincy in 1909. The case is not conclusive, and if his captaincy had a negative effect on the 1909 series, it seems to have been beneficial in 1899 and irrelevant, given that his team were outmatched, in 1901–02. Which means that, if we are going to judge MacLaren fairly, the 1902 series against Australia is the one that matters. It is there that we will see whether or not MacLaren deserved his contemporary reputation as a good captain, or his modern reputation as a terrible one.