Untitled Document

Sergeant Leonard Hutton was in Pinderfields Hospital on the outskirts of Wakefield in 1942. He had broken his left forearm in a fall on the last day of a Commando course and was having to come to terms with the likelihood that he would never again play first-class cricket. He was in the hands of Mr Reginald Broomhead, a pioneering orthopaedic surgeon who was slowly expanding the frontiers of bone-graft surgery in the treatment of serious fractures.


F S Jackson: the prologue

F S Jackson: the prologue


	Hutton had undergone two operations, and after the second – involving the removal of a 3-inch piece of bone from his right leg which was then implanted in his arm – he was bed-bound, alone with his thoughts and his pain. There was always pain, sometimes more, sometimes less, but there was always pain. Pain, doubt, and hour upon hour of trying not to think about what might have been. He was feeling very low one day when the ward sister approached his bed. "A gentleman would like to see you", she told him. Hutton had not been expecting a visitor and he was somewhat taken aback when he discovered that his visitor was none other than the President of the Yorkshire County Cricket Club, Sir Stanley Jackson. The well-wisher spent about an hour at Hutton's bedside. The talk was mostly of cricket, for both men were Yorkshire born and bred, and both men had, in their own ages, taken the field for England and put an Australian attack to the sword. Sir Stanley reminisced about the players of his era. He was a man who had played under the captaincy of W.G. Grace, bowled at the great Trumper in full flow, had been Archie MacLaren's captain at Harrow, and Ranjitsinhji's at Cambridge, had served as Lord Hawke's faithful lieutenant for a dozen years, and once – on a famous day in 1902 – in league with George Hirst, bowled out Joe Darling's Australians at Headingley for 23 runs. From afar, the Yorkshire President could seem a little aloof, a rather daunting figure (as befitted a former Chairman of the Unionist Party and Governor of Bengal, who, it was said had no time for fools). Yet as he shared some cricketing memories his kindness and concern left a lasting impression on the young Hutton. Hutton was then twenty-six, and to men of his generation Sir Stanley Jackson was hardly less a giant of the game than W.G. Grace or Victor Trumper. In 1905 he had captained England with brilliant success against a formidable Australian side, and for good measure topped both the English batting and bowling averages in the Test Matches. Sir Stanley confided that his one regret was never having toured Australia. He had often been on the verge of going, but something had always cropped up. The conversation soon turned to bowlers, as often happens when batsmen get together. Sir Stanley recounted tales of the great Australians he had faced: Spofforth, Jones, Cotter, Turner, Trumble and Gregory. F.R. Spofforth was aptly named ‘the Demon’ for his mastery of variation of pace, but Ernest Jones (who once sent a ball whistling through W.G.'s beard and said, with a shrug, ‘Sorry, Doc, she slipped’) gained his vote as the fastest bowler he had ever encountered. In that same match at Sheffield Park in 1896 – when Ernest Jones had ruffled the Great Cricketer's whiskers – he also contrived to crack two of Sir Stanley's ribs. Hutton had many visitors in hospital, but this visit came when he was at a low ebb and for a short while it took him out of himself, out of the lonely inner world of pain and doubt. As Sir Stanley spoke of his own playing days he breathed life into the legends of that golden age before the First World War. There was nothing in his manner to suggest he had the slightest doubt that when cricket started up anew after the war, a certain L. Hutton would be opening the batting for Yorkshire. Sir Stanley lived in London and travelling was no easy matter in 1942. Hutton knew the journey up to Yorkshire – by some quirk of fate a round trip of 364 miles – could only have been a difficult and wearying affair for a man who was in his seventy-second year. He was touched that the great Jackers had gone to so much trouble on his account. The old man's heart must have gone out to the young man trapped in that hospital bed with his left arm encased in plaster from fingertip to shoulder. He had lived his life to the full and the thought of a career such as Hutton's withering before his eyes must have seemed infinitely sad. Lord Hawke, Sir Stanley's predecessor as Yorkshire President, had declared in an ill-considered moment; "Pray God, no professional shall ever captain England!" Hawke had no stauncher friend and ally than Stanley Jackson, but Stanley Jackson was never a man who blindly submitted to the shackles of tradition. Had Sir Stanley known on that day in 1942 that the pale young man in the hospital bed was destined to become the first professional of the modern era to captain England, he would have been the first to offer his heartfelt congratulations. Although Sir Stanley Jackson did not live to see that day, he and Sir Leonard Hutton stand shoulder to shoulder in cricket's hall of fame: two sons of Yorkshire, captains of England both, and winning captains, too. © Phil Coldham

Hutton had undergone two operations, and after the second – involving the removal of a 3-inch piece of bone from his right leg which was then implanted in his arm – he was bed-bound, alone with his thoughts and his pain. There was always pain, sometimes more, sometimes less, but there was always pain. Pain, doubt, and hour upon hour of trying not to think about what might have been. He was feeling very low one day when the ward sister approached his bed.

"A gentleman would like to see you", she told him.

Hutton had not been expecting a visitor and he was somewhat taken aback when he discovered that his visitor was none other than the President of the Yorkshire County Cricket Club, Sir Stanley Jackson.

The well-wisher spent about an hour at Hutton's bedside. The talk was mostly of cricket, for both men were Yorkshire born and bred, and both men had, in their own ages, taken the field for England and put an Australian attack to the sword. Sir Stanley reminisced about the players of his era. He was a man who had played under the captaincy of W.G. Grace, bowled at the great Trumper in full flow, had been Archie MacLaren's captain at Harrow, and Ranjitsinhji's at Cambridge, had served as Lord Hawke's faithful lieutenant for a dozen years, and once – on a famous day in 1902 – in league with George Hirst, bowled out Joe Darling's Australians at Headingley for 23 runs.

From afar, the Yorkshire President could seem a little aloof, a rather daunting figure (as befitted a former Chairman of the Unionist Party and Governor of Bengal, who, it was said had no time for fools). Yet as he shared some cricketing memories his kindness and concern left a lasting impression on the young Hutton.

Hutton was then twenty-six, and to men of his generation Sir Stanley Jackson was hardly less a giant of the game than W.G. Grace or Victor Trumper. In 1905 he had captained England with brilliant success against a formidable Australian side, and for good measure topped both the English batting and bowling averages in the Test Matches.

Sir Stanley confided that his one regret was never having toured Australia. He had often been on the verge of going, but something had always cropped up. The conversation soon turned to bowlers, as often happens when batsmen get together.

Sir Stanley recounted tales of the great Australians he had faced: Spofforth, Jones, Cotter, Turner, Trumble and Gregory. F.R. Spofforth was aptly named ‘the Demon’ for his mastery of variation of pace, but Ernest Jones (who once sent a ball whistling through W.G.'s beard and said, with a shrug, ‘Sorry, Doc, she slipped’) gained his vote as the fastest bowler he had ever encountered. In that same match at Sheffield Park in 1896 – when Ernest Jones had ruffled the Great Cricketer's whiskers – he also contrived to crack two of Sir Stanley's ribs.

Hutton had many visitors in hospital, but this visit came when he was at a low ebb and for a short while it took him out of himself, out of the lonely inner world of pain and doubt. As Sir Stanley spoke of his own playing days he breathed life into the legends of that golden age before the First World War. There was nothing in his manner to suggest he had the slightest doubt that when cricket started up anew after the war, a certain L. Hutton would be opening the batting for Yorkshire. Sir Stanley lived in London and travelling was no easy matter in 1942. Hutton knew the journey up to Yorkshire – by some quirk of fate a round trip of 364 miles – could only have been a difficult and wearying affair for a man who was in his seventy-second year. He was touched that the great Jackers had gone to so much trouble on his account.

The old man's heart must have gone out to the young man trapped in that hospital bed with his left arm encased in plaster from fingertip to shoulder. He had lived his life to the full and the thought of a career such as Hutton's withering before his eyes must have seemed infinitely sad.

Lord Hawke, Sir Stanley's predecessor as Yorkshire President, had declared in an ill-considered moment; "Pray God, no professional shall ever captain England!" Hawke had no stauncher friend and ally than Stanley Jackson, but Stanley Jackson was never a man who blindly submitted to the shackles of tradition. Had Sir Stanley known on that day in 1942 that the pale young man in the hospital bed was destined to become the first professional of the modern era to captain England, he would have been the first to offer his heartfelt congratulations.

Although Sir Stanley Jackson did not live to see that day, he and Sir Leonard Hutton stand shoulder to shoulder in cricket's hall of fame: two sons of Yorkshire, captains of England both, and winning captains, too.