One hundred and fifty years ago next month a bunch of blokes went down the pub and invented football. The 1860s marked the high Victorian summer of British sporting inventiveness. It seemed that whenever two or three men gathered together they created, or systematized, another great sport.Inventing a sport requires three essentials: power, self-confidence and leisure. Victorian Britain had all three in abundance. Sport was the hobby of Empire, and most of the world’s most popular games emerged from Britain: cricket, golf, boxing, tennis, rugby, snooker and more.
If
one man embodied the Victorian spirit of sporting creativity, it was
Ebenezer Cobb Morley, a solicitor from Hull, whose legacy has brought
sporting pleasure to millions across the world, but whose name is all
but unknown. As we prepare for football’s 150th birthday, it is surely time to remember Morley and celebrate a spirit of sporting ingenuity that has all but vanished.
On
October 26, 1863, Morley gathered a dozen former English public school
men at the Freemasons Tavern in Lincoln’s Inn Fields to try and make
sense of football. The result was the Football Association, the first
formal rules of the game and the birth of what would eventually become
soccer – the word probably comes from the abbreviation of ‘association’
into ‘soc’, and thus ‘soccer’.
Football
dates back to the Middle Ages, but until Morley called his meeting, it
was closer to chaotic brawling than organized sport. Different teams
played by different rules, and sometimes by none at all, some wearing
pointy hats that made them look like garden gnomes. Rival public schools
clung to their own versions: one set of rules could be played in the
first half, and another in the second. In some schools, younger boys
served as goal posts.
Violence
was integral. Traditional Shrove Tuesday games might range over open
countryside and involve hundreds of players. A Frenchman, observing one
such game in Derby in the early 19th century, remarked: ‘If the Englishmen call this playing, it would be impossible to say what they call fighting.’
The
first 13 rules drawn up by Morley and his chums described a game far
closer to rugby: handling was allowed, and there was no forward passing,
no crossbar and no goalkeeper. Players were forbidden to wear boots
with projecting nails or iron plates, or to attach gutta percha, a hard
rubber substance ideal for stomping on opponents, to their heels.
The
modern game might benefit, however, from some of Morley’s laws: under
the original rules there were no penalties, no shoving or pushing, and
pitches could be up to 100 yards wide and 200 yards long, which might
make for a more fluid game.
The
association’s rules were revised almost as soon as they were written
down. A new offside rule allowed the ball to be kicked forward to
another player, so long as there were at least three (later two)
opponents between the kicker and the goal. Queen’s Park Club in Glasgow
then came up with the truly game-changing tactic of ‘combination play’ –
passing the ball rapidly from one player to another, a technique that
utterly flummoxed English public schoolboys trained to charge wildly at
the opposition. Partly as a result, Scotland lost only two of the first sixteen matches against England.
Once
the rules were established, they became all but immutable. The fluidity
of sport in its early stages gave way to rigidity. Britain invented
most sports when it ruled the waves but then, in a reflection of
imperial hubris, flatly refused to waive the rules once they had been
established.
Religion,
politics, literature all evolve over time, but the major sports have
hardly changed in the past century and even the most minor tweak is
accompanied by vast gusts of controversy. As sport becomes more
professional, its adherence to set rules becomes ever more fixed.
It
is a measure of Britain’s imperial reach that boxing still sticks to
the rules endorsed by the Marquess of Queensbury in 1867. (Queensbury
didn’t actually devise the rules: that was done by Welshman John Graham
Chambers, another of history’s unsung sporting architects.)
Almost
the only substantial change in cricket has been the acceptance of
overarm bowling, an innovation initially dismissed as a ‘singular, novel
and unfair style’. Adolf Hitler played only once, with British PoWs
during the First World War and tried to change the laws of the game by
banning pads and making the ball even harder – a crime, in the eyes of
some Englishmen, on a par with invading Poland.
Of
the major sports, only rugby regularly attempts to improve itself by
altering he rules. The others remain immovable. Tennis was invented for a
Victorian garden and has hardly changed since, even though the
power-hitting of the modern game means that a better sporting spectacle
would be created with a slower ball, wider court and higher net.
The
football goal remains the same size (8ft high and 8 yards wide) as it
was in Victorian times, even though human beings are generally taller,
and goalies vastly so.
Next
month there will be a flurry of events marking the birth of modern
football, but it is also an opportunity to celebrate the heyday of
sporting entrepreneurship when people in pubs sat around discussing how
to invent, regulate and improve a multiplicity of sports, and proving
that sport is an intellectual as well as an athletic pastime. Britain
led the way in devising modern sports; it should also take the lead in
revising them.
Morley
drew up the outlines of what would eventually become the beautiful
game; today he lies at the edge of an unlovely and abandoned graveyard
on Barnes Common, despite a contribution to world culture that is
without equal.
Ebenezer
Morley, Britain’s forgotten football star, is my candidate for the
fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square: for what better symbol of Britain
could there be than a statue of a man with Victorian whiskers, a pint of
beer in one hand and a football in the other?Adapted from: Sporting hero who thought outside the box, Ben Macintyre, The Times, 27.09.2013.
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