by Mayukh Ghosh

Somerset v Gloucestershire in 1953.

A 24 year old journalist finally met the great cricket writer. It was the only time he had met him.
"He had sat silently behind most of us for the whole of the day's play, eventually scribbling his piece for The Observer, I believe. In a quiet, courteous voice, he asked if he could borrow my phone to send his match report to London. Only when he began his dictation did I realise who he was. Nothing in my life was more willingly donated."

On March 4 1965, snow was falling heavily.
Elizabeth went out with a shovel to clear a path to the gate. It was hard work and took some time. When she returned to the house, her husband was unconscious.
He had taken a massive overdose. The inquest concluded that a morbid fear of snow contributed to the cause of death.
Not everyone agreed to that. People who knew him well were not convinced with the explanation.

It was in the genes. His father was not the most mature of men. His brother suffered from bouts of anxiety.
The novelist, Graham Greene, a distant cousin, suffered from depression.
Moreover, he had a forgettable childhood. His father was not mentally fit enough to take care of him. His mother was often too stern on her children.

The young man embraced the game of cricket. He found peace when he played it.
But, when things were not going well, the 'Black Dog' crept up on him.

But Raymond Robertson-Glasgow could write. He could write well. He could, in fact, write very well.
He was the master of the short character sketch. Drawing from his experience of playing with and against his subjects, he went to the heart of them as men and as cricketers in so few words.
He wrote as much as possible. Often to avoid the demons.

He once wrote a paragraph on a pre-war Somerset batsman who steadfastly refused cucumber with his salad lunch. The player claimed that it gave him red spots in front of his eyes.
"And left him with a tricky decision, back at the crease, not knowing for certain which was the correct ball."

That 24 year journalist named David Foot later wrote, " Pure Wodehouse. Or should it be pure Robertson-Glasgow? .....been my literary hero and my unattainable model....."

Raymond Robertson-Glasgow was born on July 15, 1901.