The Twelfth Man 2016

11 everyone else had drifted away, I picked up a bat and Frank bowled to me. Now this was a very interesting exercise, because he was by now in his 60s and somewhat arthritic, and I wasn’t all that far behind him in terms of age. He creaked his way to the crease and bowled some roundish- armed medium-pacers, which I prod- ded back down the concrete-and- matting pitch. After a while he became exasperated. Why didn’t I clobber some of these harmless deliveries? I tried to explain to him: I was still seeing the man who murdered the Aussies in Sydney all those many years ago. Any moment, surely, he was going to let rip with one of those invisible yorkers – or worse still, a bouncer homing in on my naked temple. He continued to toss down his harmless half- volleys, which you couldn’t very well duck. My problem, though, remained my all-too-vivid memory. Come on, I told myself, whack this old trundler back over his almost hairless head. But that was a problem too, for Frank had already been bald in 1954. I simply couldn’t separate the vision of the electrifying express bowler of long ago from the old chap now roundarming a ball towards me at perhaps a mere 60 mph. Soon we'd both had enough, and went off for a Four- Ex. There were outings – the four of us – to Surfers, where one evening, to liven things up, I suggested we converse in French. I had an A level in the subject – though long, long ago – while my hero had actually taught the subject in Melbourne. He won this one by an innings. I tapped hard on my memory bank and strung a few sentences together, but M’sieur Tyson ran rings around me, and laughed his head off. And when we drove up into the McPherson range for a picnic, Frank’s arthritic ankles meant that the car brakes were hit rather violently, and the poor ladies in the back were close to fainting by the time we came to a halt. Frank was completely unaware of their discomfort. It was such a great pleasure for us and our ladies to visit Wombwell some years ago. Winter it may have been, but the atmosphere in that room was so warm and cosy – and nostalgic. Frank was characteristically eloquent, and I remember wondering what it must be like to have such on-field accomplishments behind you, and now to have to accept that it was all so long ago, and perhaps of little interest to young folk of now – though on this particular occasion I knew that the WCLS members hung on every word and were thrilled at Frank’s presence in that room. That was probably the year when I signed Frank up for one of our “Press Tests”. It was staged at the Kirkstall Recreational ground, and I asked him if he wanted to bowl his eight overs straight through or four and four. He grimaced, thought about it, and said: “How about two, two, two and two?” It turned further to comedy when he reached the end of his shortened run-up and perceived our wicket-keeper standing up over the stumps. I pictured Godfrey Evans leaping to take the ball half-a-mile back at the SCG so long ago. But that was indeed long ago. England’s 1950s killer fast bowler and this admiring former teenager have both been so pleased to be Patrons of the Wombwell. I just wish Frank was still around to entertain us and allow us to see and hear someone who left a huge mark on Ashes history. By way of postscript, when I was last at “the Wombwell”, a lovely evening which I remember so fondly, we stood in memory of Bob Appleyard, who had just passed away. Bob, of course, was also part of the 1954/55 Ashes triumph, and although I recall seeing him bowl in the two Sydney Tests, and further remember him watching (with no pleasure) the Sydney Test of 52 years later, the outstanding memory is of him making precious runs in a last-wicket stand of 46 with Brian Statham in December 1954. The Test was won next day by England by 38 runs. I’m also reminded that Bob rang me one evening on behalf of the Yorkshire committee to Photo: David with Ursula Tyson, Debbie Frith and Frank Tyson Photo: courtesy – David Frith collection