GEOFFREY HOWARD
1909-2002
Geoffrey
Howard was one of the finest administrators in the history of English cricket
– some would say the finest.
Born
in 1909 into a family imbued with Fabian ideals, he was a good enough batsman to
play for Middlesex in 1930, declining an invitation to join the Lord’s ground
staff. But it was only after the war, when he found it hard to settle back into
banking, that he turned to cricket to earn his living.
In
1947 he became Surrey’s assistant secretary, making such an impression that
within two years he overcame regional prejudice to become secretary at Old
Trafford. Sixteen years later he returned to The Oval where he stayed till
retirement in 1974.
They
were not easy years, between the brief post-war surge in attendances and the
advent of television’s fat cheques. It took imagination and hard work to keep
the game solvent.
At
Old Trafford he insisted on ground improvements, realising that with affluence
would come an intolerance of primitive conditions. At The Oval, he forced the
Surrey aristocrats to accept commercial ventures like advertising boards and pop
concerts. He even turned up at a committee meeting in a coloured shirt. “Why
don’t we wear this in the Sunday League?” He was a man before his time.
He
had only been Lancashire secretary for three summers when M.C.C. appointed him
to manage a six-month tour of India. With just two journalists and 16 players,
he set off with the words of the M.C.C. secretary ringing in his ears: “Rather
you than me, old boy. I can’t stand educated Indians.” Fortunately the new
manager loved them, Indians and Pakistanis. He admired greatly their
post-independence spirit, and he became their liaison man when they toured
England.
Four
years later he took an ‘A’ team to Pakistan. It was a happy tour, but he
needed all his diplomatic charm to quell angry feelings when a local umpire got
drenched in an out-of-hand rag.
His
greatest triumph came in 1954/5 with Len Hutton’s team in Australia. With no
assistant and no funds in the bank when he arrived, he was a manager who played
all the parts: ambassador, press relations officer, selector, travel
co-ordinator, banker (albeit operating from a personal overdraft), gentle
disciplinarian, convenor of the boisterous Saturday night club, even
psychologist as he coaxed a dispirited captain out of bed on the morning of the
third Test. After a disastrous defeat at Brisbane, when Hutton put Australia in,
Frank Tyson became the Typhoon, Colin Cowdrey came of age, and they returned 3-1
victors.
“Nothing
was more certain,” Tyson says, “than an enjoyable tour if Geoffrey Howard
was the manager. Had he been able to spare the time away from his young family,
he could have extended England’s dominance of world cricket till the end of
the decade.” Trevor Bailey calls it “the happiest of all my tours” while,
for Tom Graveney, “Geoffrey was in a class of his own.”
It
was typical of the Lancashire secretary that, on his first day back at Old
Trafford, he left his mail unopened and cycled round the ground to talk to his
staff. His early education had been a progressive one, with an emphasis on
practical skills, and he never lost his respect for craftsmen.
He
was a must for every major committee at Lord’s, and for years at The Oval he
sat up late, constructing with pencil and rubber next year’s first-class
fixture list.
Retirement
brought no rest. He created a home out of a cow barn, he shook up the Minor
Counties Association in eight years as its treasurer, and at the age of 92 he
embarked with me on his memoirs. It was an exhausting undertaking, but he never
let the pace slacken. “The clock is ticking,” he would gently remind me.
He
was the most valuable of witnesses: warm, humorous and wise. But I soon realised
that I was not just writing a collection of memories. I was portraying a great
man, a man who represented all that was best about England and about English
cricket.
The
late recognition startled him. “Do people really think these things about
me?” he asked as the tributes poured in. Then he would ring me with delight:
“You’ll never guess who has just telephoned.” And it would be Mike
Brearley, Bob Appleyard, David Sheppard. Or a member of one of his hospitality
tours. Or his secretary at Old Trafford. He remembered them all.
Like
his grandfather, the pioneer of garden cities, he cared for people. He was the
perfect English gentleman, always courteous, never succumbing to prejudice.
He
still loved cricket, admiring the Sri Lankan batting this summer at Lord’s.
“I always thought that they were the most naturally gifted of all the
cricketers on the sub-continent.”
Then,
as summer turned into autumn, he came to accept his impending death, facing it
with the same clear eye as Shakespeare, whom he quoted with a smile:
‘Golden
lads and girls all must,
As
chimney-sweepers, come to dust.’
His wife Nora had predeceased him, but he is survived by four daughters, who will miss him greatly – as will all of us who knew him in his second family, the world of cricket.