‘Who ever hoped like a cricketer?’ wrote R. C. Robertson-Glasgow. The experience of writing the story of Jack Iverson suggests to me that biographers must run them close; it was hope rather than expectation that prompted me to contact many of the people who assisted me, thus hope brought the often surprising rewards. There are, accordingly, a multitude of names to thank.
My interest was aroused by Jack Iverson the cricketer. As I began investigating his sub-district and district careers, many of his former teammates and opponents willingly answered my questions: from Brighton, Colin Shipley, Alan Tudor, Lou Carter, Len Hayball and Geoff McDowell; from Melbourne, Harcourt Dowsley, Jack Green, Clive Fairbairn, Jack Daniel, Geoff Longney, Ian Huntingdon, Lindsay Kline, Colin and Ian McDonald; from Fitzroy, Bill Jacobs, Kevin Kearney, Harold Shillinglaw; from St Kilda, George Murray.
When it came to exploring Iverson’s first-class and Test career, I received help and advice from many others: from Victoria, Ken Meuleman, Roy Howard, Bill Johnston, Ian Johnson, Sam Loxton, Neil Harvey, Doug Ring and George Thoms; from Queensland, Bill Brown, Ernie Toovey and Ken Archer; from New South Wales, Keith Miller, Richie Benaud, Arthur Morris, Alan Davidson, Stan Sismey and Barry Rothwell; from England, John Dewes.
Several journalists and historians with an interest in Iverson’s career also gave me the benefit of their impressions and observations: my inspirational friend David Frith, John Woodcock, Percy Beames, Stephen Gibbs, Robert Coleman, Peter Pierce, Jason Steeger, Phil Derriman, Alf Batchelder, Richard Cashman, Warwick Franks, Spiro Zavos and Alan Trengove. Ray Webster, the most generous and energetic of cricket scholars, laid his remarkable accumulation of names and addresses open to me, while Ken Williams provided some wonderfully detailed statistics.
Rex Harry and John Gleeson spoke to me at length of their experiments and experiences with the Iverson method. In assessing my subject’s technique, I had helpful advice from Dr Michael Levenda, surgeon Greg Hoy, biomechanist Bruce Elliott and Dr Frank Pyke of the Victorian Institute of Sport. Thanks to the zeal of Rodney Butler at the National Film and Sound Archive, I was blessed with the opportunity to watch Jack Iverson bowl.
I quickly discovered, however, that I was also exploring the life of a most fascinating man. Those I must thank for helping me on my way are chiefly the members of his immediate family: his sister Ruth Rinder, with whom I enjoyed a delightful and fruitful correspondence; his daughters Beverley McNamara and Sherry Holt, who made available priceless recollections, records and images of their father; Jack Iverson’s niece Robyn Boothroyd; his nephew Ian Quintell; plus Barry Holt and Tony Boothroyd, who welcomed me into their homes and volunteered much of interest. I was also able to call on friends and acquaintances of Iverson, spanning many years: Alan and Charles Meckiff, Mary Rowe, Arny Northcombe, Margaret Sevier, Cedric Jansz, Ken Shepard and Ivor Carolan.
In trying to piece together Jack Iverson’s youth, I had welcome assistance from his old school (and mine) Geelong College, from Kristin Fry, Deb Carr, Bruce Jamison and Carol Barnard. Many old Collegians took the trouble to write to, see, or offer material to me: especially Jim Carstairs, plus Dr Norman Wettenhall, Herb Tippett, Tom Bleakley, Gordon Eaton, Norman Dennis, Lance Wray, Geoff Hicks, Des Gaunt, Garry Armstrong and Bob Merriman.
Recreating Jack Iverson’s period as a jackaroo, I had several strokes of good fortune. On the advice of Aileen Hockley of the Castlemaine Historical Society, I contacted the very marvellous Sam Palmer (a woman with perhaps the funniest answering machine message in the world), who after considerable effort steered me to a former neighbour, Neil Neilson. Jack Long of the Maldon Golf Club filled me in on its history. The daughters of the great industrialist Essington Lewis, Jane Nevile and Mary Munckton, went to enormous trouble on my behalf, showing me round the property on which Iverson had worked for their father in the 1930s. To stand in the same spot as Jack Iverson had, in having his photograph taken more than sixty years before, was an unforgettable experience. Thanks also to the staff of University of Melbourne archives, who steered me to appropriate material in the Lewis papers.
Jack Iverson’s war record was researched at the Australian War Memorial in Canberra, whose staff could hardly have been more helpful. I also had the opportunity to speak to several former colleagues, especially Ken Noldt, Bert Davey, Bill Carmody and Max Scott. While in Canberra I was also welcomed by the National Dictionary Centre, responsible for the Australian Dictionary of Biography, and offer thanks to both John Ritchie and Anthea Bundock. And I was favoured throughout my stay by the hospitality of Ian and Romula Templeman, and Kevin and Margaret Hollis, which compelled me, fleetingly but beneficially, to converse about matters unrelated to Jack Iverson; something at the time I was finding rather difficult.
Researching the immediate aftermath of the war, I enjoyed talking to members of the Blind Cricket Association, especially Dick and Jean Wyatt, Doug Sloan, Damien Clemens and Garry Stinchcombe. In looking at Jack Iverson’s later years, I had eager and efficient assistance from staff at the Public Records Offices at Laverton and Casselden Place and the Department of Births, Deaths and Marriages. Susan Harcourt of Harcourt Legal Services, a lovely lady, helped with searching property titles. Rosemary Jones of St John’s Anglican Church in Toorak, an equally lovely lady, dug out old marriage certificates. Ronald Conway and Peter Seal, the son of Dr Eric Seal, helped me understand a little better the mysteries of the human mind and those who seek to heal it. Leonie Graham of Sandringham Library guided me to source works on the area. Esmond O’Reilly and John Donald, members of the Victorian Police Force who investigated Iverson’s death, were an advertisement for the professionalism of the constabulary. Staff at ABC Archives and Australian Archives couldn’t help me out much, but Guy Tranter gave it his best.
On a host of occasions, I had the pleasure of working in one of my favourite places in the world, the library of the Melbourne Cricket Club. My thanks to its staff, as always, for their assistance and interest, especially David Studham, Ross Peacock, David Allen and Eric Panther.
Philippa Hawker, a friend and colleague for whom my regard is unstinting, was kind enough to spend a weekend reading the manuscript, and to reassure me that I wasn’t off on a folly of my own. A circle of my nearest and dearest also advanced this quest, sometimes by answering requests, driving me somewhere, or simply allowing me to prattle on endlessly about someone they’d never heard of: Caroline Wilson, Richard Sproull, Jim Schembri, James Kirby, Kaz Cooke, Gabrielle Coyne, John Harms, Malcolm Schmidtke, Suzie Freeman-Greene and, as has always been the case, my mother Isabel Haigh. And as so often, I enjoyed the measured and judicious support of my publisher Michael Heyward, Melanie Ostell and Emma Gordon Williams, and the proof reading virtuoso George Thomas. Their faith in this project from inception has been a source of strength.
The dedication for this book is to someone who was and remains someone very special to me. Julie Tootell was a friend of my family’s for as long as I can remember. She was also always keenly and sincerely interested in whatever I was working on, and wrote to me whenever I published a book. This is the first time she will not, for, on 5 March 1999, Julie died. Ten days later, I had the honour of delivering the eulogy at her funeral.
Julie was ill when I mentioned to her the first time that I was writing about Jack Iverson. She was, as always, enthusiastic. She mentioned how the gym teacher at her school had told her off for trying to bowl like him. She recommended a title searcher to help me, and wrote on my behalf a letter to Jane Nevile, whom she knew. Even in hospital, Julie was full of questions about what I might have discovered. She dearly wanted to read this book, and I dearly wanted her to, but the last time I saw her when I mentioned that the opportunity might not present itself, she replied: ‘Don’t worry. Wherever I am, I’ll read it.’ I hope she enjoys it.