We are too obsessed by success, by deeds of glory and heroic feats. As the World Cup looms and champions are about to be crowned and acclaimed, let us spare a thought for also-rans. In fact, on this occasion, it is probably very necessary that we do so
Let us therefore recall one of my favourite cricketers in this category – Alan Wells of England. You probably do not remember him but let me remind you of his exemplary Test match record. A few years ago in the twilight of a long career he was suddenly picked for England in the last Test match of the series England was playing against the West Indies.
Alan Wells strode to the wicket and was out first ball for 0 in his first Test innings, comprehensively beaten by an unplayable Ambrose delivery. He made a desultory 3 not out in England’s second innings when the Test was ending in a whimper.
That first-ball dismissal in his first Test innings must have been shattering for poor Alan Wells. For years he had been a leading English county batsman, for years he had been on the verge of Test selection, for years he had played his heart out to earn his moment of glory. And now at last at a ripe old age he finally makes the team – and is utterly defeated first ball by the great Ambrose.
At once he knows that he will never be selected again, he is too old, so his first Test will be his last. He doesn’t bowl, he doesn’t catch, he scratched 3 in a meaningless second innings, and now he retires back into the shadows forever.
How sad, one thinks.
But sadness should not be the lot of Alan Wells. We should spare more than a passing thought for him and those like him in this world. Let us remember not how they fail but how they try their best.
Of course, failure itself can be so distinctive that it earns a special sort of glory. Recall the famous case of Malcolm Nash. Cricket lovers will remember his name as long as the game lasts; he was the man Gary Sobers hit for a world record six sixes in one over in that Notts versus Glamorgan county match years and years ago. Sobers himself tells a very interesting story about that episode.
As they were walking off the field together at the end of the innings Sobers couldn’t help noticing that Nash was looking not at all down-in- the-mouth, almost grinning in fact. So he said to Nash: “Hey, Malcolm, you don’t look like a man who has just been clobbered for six sixes in six balls!” And Nash waved his hand at Sobers and made the significant reply: “To tell the truth, Gary, I feel pretty good. You’re not the only one going into the record books you know!”
And, of course, Malcolm Nash had got it absolutely right. If you can’t be a famous winner the next best thing is to be a famous loser. What’s the use of being in-between: do the job properly one way or another. I am not a great follower of table tennis, so I cannot even tell you who last year’s world champion was. But somewhere in my memory floats back the names of Tanaka of Japan and Dolinar of Yugoslavia. And the reason why they are likely to escape the fate of being utterly forgotten like so many others is because in their famous 1955 world men’s singles final Tanaka beat poor old Dolinar in three straight sets in a flat 13 minutes including time spent changing ends, towelling down, and retrieving Tanaka’s bullet smashes from amongst the spectators. That was the shortest table tennis championship match ever played and for all time Dolinar, who lost so comprehensively, will be linked in fame with Tanaka, who won so devastatingly. This sort of thing in sport is well known. It is sometimes called the “Schmeling Phenomenon.” Who would ever have remembered Max Schmeling if the great Joe Louis hadn’t knocked him out in a couple of minutes in the first round of their famous return heavyweight title match? Passing time would long ago have obliterated his name as it has obliterated the names of countless other, much better, fighters, had not Joe Louis conferred sporting immortality on Schmeling with that thunderous first-round knock-out.
For every great champion there are thousands of also-rans. Without this mighty throng of run-of-the-mill aspirants, without the anonymous army of try and try again competitors, without them all, it goes without saying, sport would not survive. And amongst these there are always one or two in any game anywhere who stand out as hopelessly, magnificently, memorably bad and, strangely enough, they are very often among our favourite characters in sport.
Anyone who knows sport will know what I mean. What would any game be without the loser who loses so spectacularly that he becomes a winner?”
When I was a young boy in Trinidad there was a man called A. Simmonds who played in all the tennis tournaments. He was always beautifully turned out at the start of every match. He was deadly serious about his game, he practised hard, and he always played his heart out, sweat pouring off him in streams, his knees often bleeding from hurling himself about on the clay courts. But he never won a match, and by never, I mean never. In 10 years he was beaten in the first round of every tournament he entered, and then in the first round of the Consolation event for first-round losers. But he never despaired. His entry would always be one of the first in the lists. By the time I came on the scene he was a great figure in Trinidad tennis. Crowds used to gather to see his matches and urge him on. Tennis would have been much the poorer without him. And I remember to this day, much better even than some famous Brandon and Davis Cup and Wimbledon matches in later years, the time I watched in a crowd of excited spectators as A. Simmonds won his very first match: it was a first round Plate match and he won 10-8 in the final set after a heroic struggle against a youngster of 13 just beginning in the game. But he won and lifted his arms in glory after all those years of trying and it was as if he’d won Wimbledon. Later the Club captain cracked a bottle of champagne and to resounding cheers everyone toasted A. Simmonds to the high heavens. And who will say he did not deserve it?
The more I think of it the more it seems to me that Alan Wells made one mistake. He should have made sure that he was bowled middle-stump for 0 first ball, preferably by Ambrose, in that second innings of his first and final Test.
Think of it: if he had made a king pair in his first and only Test match his immortality would have been assured. I can see him now, in years to come, his grandchildren at his knees, telling them how he achieved a special sort of glory in the long annals of the game.
Of course, readers will understand why at this time I am emphasizing the need not to concentrate too obsessively on the victorious. It is because I fear very much that I will not be able to write with relish and excitement about the West Indies as Champions in the World Cup or runners-up or even semi-finalists. I am hoping, however, that we scrape through to the quarter-finals or, at worst, perform gallantly and with pride in the preliminaries. But, please God, let us at least not disgrace our great tradition.
