The history of cricket is littered with untimely deaths. Some, such as Hedley Verity, Ken Farnes and Colin Blythe, were established players who were the victims of war, others, such as Ben Hollioake, were cut off in their prime, while others still never made it to first class cricket. In the 1953 Wisden the report of Hereford Cathedral School’s season starts with the matter of fact, if rather chilling, statement ‘An otherwise good season was marred by the death through polio just after the last match of MJ Allsebrook, who after three years as captain stood down for 1952 in favour of JT Harries’. Who knows how many potentially great cricketers were cut down without ever having the chance to fulfil their potential? In amongst these tragic stories, however, one stand out: the story of the batsman who some thought was better than Bradman.
Archie Jackson was born in Scotland in 1909 but shortly before his fourth birthday his father, who had spent his teenage years in Australia and had returned there eighteen months previously, brought the family over to join him in New South Wales. Money was tight in the Jackson family – the story has it that young Archie only had one pair of trousers that his mother would threaten to confiscate if he was naughty – but his father made him his first bat and soon the boy was fixated with cricket, playing in the street until it was dark and doing everything that he could to watch his heroes in action.
It also swiftly became apparent that he had a rare and precocious talent and he joined Balmain cricket club, where he came under the wing of legendary leg spinner Arthur Mailey. At the age of sixteen he topped the Sydney grade cricket averages and the following summer, having started the season with two centuries, he made his first class debut at the tender age of seventeen, scoring eighty-six in the second innings and following this with his first two first class hundreds.
‘we had a feeling that something was amiss with this young
fellow in 1930. Those of us who were closely associated with him knew that the
English climate did not suit him; he was not himself. He still batted with the
same charm that only he was capable of, but it was apparent that he was not the
same Archie as that of 1928-29’
‘I remember once, in England during the 1930 series, in
scoring 73 at the Oval in the fifth Test, he was taking quite a physical
beating. As he came down the wicket to level a high spot or two he said: `Well,
Harold, it's only a game, but what a grand one we're having today! I hope
you're enjoying our battle as much as those spectators seem to be. You know,
you've hit me almost as many times as I've hit you! I wish you'd drop one a
little off line occasionally.' I never knew him to flinch or complain at any time.’
Back in Australia, he played with varying success in the
first four tests against the West Indies in 1930-31, but unknown to anyone at
the time this would be his last involvement in first class cricket. He began
1931-32 season in good form for Balmain and was selected for New South Wales
but had to withdraw from the side after collapsing, coughing up blood.
Initially he thought that he was suffering from influenza, but by July 1932 he
had been diagnosed with tuberculosis and admitted to hospital.
Archie Jackson was twenty-three when he died and had played just eight test matches, never again reaching the heights of that spectacular debut. His batsmanship is now largely forgotten, memories crushed by the brevity of his career and the achievements of Bradman, but he deserves to be remembered as more than just the greatest ‘what if?’ in cricket history but as a great batsman in his own right.
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