Published: Aug 03, 2017, 12:00 PM (IST)
Edited: Jul 31, 2017, 02:36 AM (IST)
Alfred Atfield of Gloucestershire had a rather eventful career but his feats are not really fascinating. However, Arunabha Sengupta writes about one glittering feat of his career.
Alfred Atfield was a journeyman cricketer. He played for Gloucestershire thrice in 1893, not making much of an impact. He was pushed down to No. 10 in the batting order by his final innings, and fought back with 45 runs against Fred Martin and Alec Hearne of Kent.
WG Grace did not forget this display of valour. When he saw Atfield again, he welcomed him back. But that reunion would have to wait for a few years.
Atfield did not play for the county side again, spending his days in the sun for Wiltshire for a few years. By the end of the decade he had journeyed to try his luck in South Africa, doing the odd coaching job. He appeared in one match for Natal, against Abe Bailey’s side. And then when he returned to England WG recruited him to turn out for his newly-created London County side for two seasons.
True, Atfield did not really set the cricket fields on fire with his bat or ball. But he did have one glittering moment in his career.
In 1903, he was 35, still playing club cricket in London. And at the same time he gave in to the persuasions of his heart and decided to venture into matrimony.
It was in June that year, bang in the middle of the summer season, that he got married. The ceremony took place early in the morning. It was a small function at St George’s, Hanover Square in London. A few of his cricketing mates were in attendance as the couple took their vows in front of the priest.
Once the ceremony was over, and the wedding breakfast had been partaken, Atfield proceeded to Lord’s. There he batted for Cross Arrows, his club, and flayed the bowling attack to get a century before lunch.
18 years after this Neville Cardus got married in Chorlton Registry Office, Manchester. And he created a huge fable around going with his fiancée Edith to Old Trafford, watching the Lancashire innings get underway, rushing back to Chorlton Registry to make Edith his wife, and returning to Old Trafford to find that the Lancashire innings had advanced by exactly 17 runs in the interim.
On scrutiny, this story, like many of Cardus’, disintegrates disastrously. That fictitious match was played in the writer’s fertile imagination and documented by his rather unscrupulous pen. However, there was no such caveat for the deeds of Atfield.
The Gloucestershire man did say his vows, kiss the bride, gulp down his breakfast and rush to Lord’s to hit his way to a hundred before his next meal. In spite of rubbing shoulders with WG and travelling all the way to South Africa to play at Durban, that perhaps remained the best day of cricket in Atfield’s life. Certainly the happiest.
