“If a man has talent and can’t use it, he has failed.”
Thomas Wolfe (American novelist)
The last bars crashed out and suddenly the orchestra was still. But oddly, the conductor was vigorously - some thought manically - still waving his arms about. What on earth was going on? It was 7th May 1824 in Vienna, and this was the eagerly anticipated premier of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony (the Choral), generally regarded as the greatest masterpiece of Western classical music. The composer, Beethoven, hadinsisted on conducting the symphony himself, but the trouble was that he was profoundly deaf. During rehearsal, the kapellmeister, the leader of the orchestra, had quietly told the musicians to follow his lead setting the tempo and to ignore the conductor on the rostrum, who was turning the pages of the score and beating time for music he could not hear. Thus, at the end of the actual performance, the orchestra and choir had finished but Beethoven was still busily conducting. Gently, the kapellmeister took hold of Beethoven’s arm to turn him round to see, but not hear, the wild scenes of acclamation, the whole audience on their feet, throwing hats and handkerchiefs into the air. It must have been a moment of the utmost poignancy for the composer.
Beethoven, the tortured genius
Beethoven had begun to lose his hearing at 28 and by the age of 44 he was profoundly deaf, unable to converse unless he passed notes back and forth between colleagues, friends and families. Yet astonishingly, he continued to compose. The Sixth, Seventh, Eighth and Ninth Symphonies, as well as other major pieces, were all composed in that silent chamber of his brain. Can you imagine what it was like to create the most remarkable music in your imagination and never to hear what it sounded like in a concert hall? No wonder the man, even in his lifetime regarded as a genius, was a cantankerous, erratic, awkward individual, unkempt and blunt to the point of rudeness, given to bouts of despair. Even a saint would have been sorely tested by his disability, when he had so much to contribute to the artistic richness of civilisation.
“When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless….”
Some of you might recognise this as the opening four lines of Milton’s sonnet, On His Blindness. The clue to his ‘Talent’ is in the title. By this time in his life, Milton was serving as Oliver Cromwell’s secretary in the Commonwealth, England’s government after the victory of the Parliamentarians in the Civil War and the execution of Charles I. Milton was already a towering figure in English Literature, second in reputation only to Shakespeare, and generally regarded as the greatest of English poets, most famous for his epic poems Paradise Lostand Paradise Regained.
John Milton
In 1652, at the age of 45, he went blind. As an articulate, impassioned and widely respected supporter of Protestantism and the Republic under Cromwell, he felt that his blindness had robbed him of the means by which he could serve God and fulfil his country’s destiny. How could fate - divine intervention - be so cruel as to blunt his sharp sword when the true religion and England’s safety was so much in need of committed warriors? He rails against the injustice of it all, as his frustration, his anger and his sense of impotence almost shout out from the printed page. But in the end, he reconcileshimself to God’s will and accepts his fate.
“They also serve who only stand and wait.”
Of all the memorable sayings of the legendary Liverpool manager, Bill Shankly, this is probably the most famous: “Some people believe that football is a matter of life and death. I am very disappointed by that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that.” Is sport really a matter of life and death? Or for that matter is music or poetry? Obviously, Shankly was speaking with his tongue in his cheek. But not entirely. Beethoven and Milton would have understood his sentiment. The notes on a musical score and the words on the written page meant the world to them, so much so that a life which robbed them of their talent was one that was scarcely worth living. So, the question I pose is whatit must have been like to lose, suddenly and unexpectedly, that which defines one’s life.
The Falstaffian figure of Colin Milburn was a cult personality in English cricket in the 1960s. In an era when sixes in Test match cricket were as rare as hen’s teeth, he smote plenty of them many a mile. He didn’t use a large bat; the only large thing about him was his size (19 stone). It is doubtful that he would have survived in the current age of bleep tests, body fat gauges and ice baths but he was indulged because he was a one-off, a maverick, who could score runs at the highest level, in spite of his size. Possibly his greatest innings was a spectacular 139* against Pakistan in Karachi in March 1969, which seemed to have sealed his place in the England teamfor years to come. Two months later, he was involved in a car accident, losing the sight of his left eye. He made several attempts at a comeback, but all were unsuccessful. He was a shadow of his former self and eventually had to retire. He never really reconciled himself to life after cricket and died aged 48, a sad and greatly reduced figure.
Colin Milburn
Another cricketer who lost an eye in a car accident was the Nawab of Pataudi. A glittering career had been confidently predicted for the prodigiously gifted Indian batsman, one whose stature was expected to exceed those of his famous forbears from the sub-continent – Ranjitsinhji, Duleepsinhjiand his father, the former Nawab of Pataudi. One morning driving down to Hove to play for Oxford University against Sussex, he was involved in a collision and a shard of glass penetrated and permanently damaged his right eye. Remarkably, he went on to play 46 Test matches, scoring six hundreds, captaining his country at the age of 21. Friends, colleagues and commentators privately wondered how many more runs he would have scored if he had had the sight of both eyes.
The Nawab of Pataudi
Gordon Banks was another who lost an eye in a car accident. It happened in October 1972 and the resultant eyesight problems forced his retirement at the end of that season. Some might claim that he had already secured immortality in his career, having won the World Cup in 1966 and pulled off the Save of the Century against Pele in the 1970 World Cup, but he was only 36 at the time of the accident, he was still regarded as the best goalkeeper in the world and goalkeepers tend to have longer careers than outfield players. It can be taken as read that an abrupt end to his playing career was a major psychological blow.
That save! Pele couldn’t believe it.
People forget that Brian Clough was a prodigious and outstanding goal scorer for Middlesbrough and Sunderland, before a horrendous collision with the goalkeeper caused irreparable damage to his knee, curtailing his burgeoning career at the age of 27. Of course, he went on to enjoy stellar success as a manager of Derby County and Nottingham Forest but as he freely admitted, even lifting the European Cup (twice) was scant compensation for no longer experiencingthe thrill of scoring goals.
Brian Clough had an extraordinary record as a goal scorer before his playing career was cut short at the age of 27.
James Taylor seemed to have secured for himself a permanent place in the England cricket team – to say nothing of his fearless fielding a short-leg – before a diagnosis of a severe heart condition in 2016 forced him to retire from professional cricket at the age of 26. At the time, he admitted he was lucky to be alive – and remained grateful for that – but life not playing cricket was hard and he suffered many dark moments in the aftermath of retirement.
For two of the most horrific injuries that occurred on a sports field, I happened to be present, one as a player, the other as a spectator. Steve Camacho was a West Indian opening batsman, hoping to cement his place in the Test side on the 1973 tour to England. In only their second match against Hampshire, he was felled by a wicked bouncer from the young fast bowler from Antigua, Andy Roberts, who had not been picked for the West Indies touring party but was keen to make his case against his countrymen when playing for his adopted county, Hampshire. I was fielding at short-leg and though I did not see the ball that hit Camacho (neither did he, obviously) because my eyes were fixed on his front pad, I did hear the sickening crack as his cheek bone was splintered. The sight was horrific. I was glad to be able to walk away from the scene of carnage once the medics had rushed out to Camacho’s assistance. We, the Hampshire players, minus an unconcerned Roberts, who was lurking at the top of his run, formed a sombre and concerned little huddle. The unspoken thought on such occasions is that it could have been any of us….but of course that will never happen because we will never take our eye off the ball, or abandon our trained technique to cope with the short ball, or forget to duck in time, or…..oh, the coping mechanisms for the possibility of injury for the professional player are many and varied. As Camacho was carried off, never to play again, we busied ourselves kicking dust into the crease to soak up the blood.
Thankfully I was far removed from the scene of David Busst’shorrific injury – I was high up in the stand – in the 1996 match between Coventry City and Manchester United at Highfield Road, but even from a distance it was obvious from the players’ immediate reaction that it was a bad one. So upset was he at the sight of Busst’s leg protruding at several unnatural angles that the United goalkeeper, Peter Schmeichel, vomited in his own goal area. It was considered to be one of the worst injuries in the history of football. Busstunderwent 22 operations and suffered a succession of infections in the wound and at one stage it was feared that amputation of the leg would be needed. Of course, he never played again. The testimonial held at the ground for his benefit – I was also present on that occasion – against the same Manchester United team the following season was a sell out; he was by all accounts a very popular player. He was only 28.
The horrific injury to David Busst
Each one of us at any moment in our life is subject to the randomness of fate, the possibility of illness, accident, injury, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. We all have at some stage been the victim of misfortune that we would rather have dodged. But it does seem that some unfortunate souls are more cruelly served by chance than others. We are not a Beethoven or a Milton, or even a Banks or a Busst, a Milburn or a Pataudi, a Clough or a Camacho, but we can all point to events, crossroads, happenstance in our lives when we wished that things might have gone better. I guess it’s a matter of how we deal with these setbacks. To be honest, I am in awe of Beethoven continuing to compose within the empty chamber of his brain and of Milton, who continued to write with the aid of an amanuensis. Their creative genius could not be quelled. But no matter how hard David Busst tried to regain his fitness, the struggle was beyond him. And that was very sad. For, as Benjamin Franklin said: “What’s use a sundial in the shade?”
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