If one were asked to name three of the greatest full-backs that ever graced the Association game, one would be compelled to include the late Nicholas J. Ross as one of the illustrious three. Walter Arnott of Queen's Park, Glasgow, would be my second selection, and A. M. Walters, the old Charterhouse boy, the third. I don't profess to place them in their order of merit. On his special days each man would be unapproachable. There are others whose names will go down to history as amongst the greatest full-backs, who on certain occasions or during certain years quite equalled the prowess of my noble trio. John Forbes of the Vale of Leven and Blackburn Rovers, P. M. Walters, brother of "A. M." and his habitual partner in the Corinthian team, A. H. Harrison of Oxford University and the Corinthians, L. V. Lodge of Cambridge University and Corinthians, "Nick" Smith of Glasgow Rangers, and Dan Doyle of Glasgow Celtic — these men were all giants of the game, and yet they hardly came into the category of my dauntless three. It is doubtful if we have any full-back of modern times quite equal to the men I have mentioned. I know the universal tendency is to glorify the past at the expense of the present, but after making every conceivable allowance I doubt whether we could give one name in the present day of a man who played the game with the success that these heroes of old played it. And when I take my dauntless three and make a selection I can only say that though Nick Ross was probably no better back than the other two, he was the man above all else that ever kicked a football that I would have on my side. No one, I take it, ever kicked quite so artistically as Walter Arnott; no one ever "placed" the ball so well to his forwards as the auburn-haired Scot. No one ever tackled quite so sturdily as A. M. Walters; no man came off so victoriously in a strenuous charge. Nick Ross could kick artistically — and otherwise; he could "place" the ball beautifully to his comrades; he could take care of himself in a charge; he rarely came second best out of a scrimmage, but it was not all nor any of these qualities that made him a man in a million. Ross was probably the best full-back that ever lived, because he not only could do everything in perfection that a full-back ought to do, not merely because he knew everything that a back ought to know, but because he had the faculty of winning matches. He possessed the indefinable something, that magic quality which, for lack of a better word, we call genius. I only know of two other footballers who have possessed the same quality in the same degree. These are Ernest Needham of Sheffield United and G. O. Smith of the Corinthians. In actual play the eye of Ross seemed to range over all the field. He was able to take in at a glance the strength and the weakness of the opposition. After a time the whole team seemed to become absorbed in his personality, and Preston North End, the team with which he will forever be identified, seemed to be dominated by the spirit of one man, and that man was N. J. Ross. 

He had not such a power of mesmerism as Walter Arnott, but he had something about him equally effective, equally terrible. The wing forwards opposed to Ross often seemed to lose their courage, their skill, their knowledge of the game. If the outside man tried a dash past him he would lose the ball, or be gently persuaded into touch. If he tried to pass, Nick would anticipate the movement, intercept, and send the ball sailing gaily in an opposite direction. When Nick had thoroughly beaten or "cowed" his own wing, he would find time, if need be, to assist his partner. If the half-backs were shaky, Ross would stiffen them up by generous example. If the forwards were grown weary, he would suddenly nip in amongst them; and, by some startling offensive movement, turn the whole tide of battle. This was frequently seen in his later days when he took over the captaincy of Everton, which was then one of the younger of the League clubs. He was supposed to play back — and he did — but as a matter of fact he played practically everywhere. He was quick to discern not only the weaknesses of his own side, but also the weaknesses of his opponents. He kept "playing on" to the weakness of the opposition, while he carefully nursed and safe-guarded the weakness of his own team. In actual play, especially in a Cup tie, he seemed like a man possessed, yet in spite of all his fire, all his dash, all his activity, he always remained cool in an emergency, collected in a scrimmage, calm in the wild whirl that often sends twenty-two strenuous men crazy with excitement. He had the dual temperament of fire and water. His flame never danced and flickered; it glowed steadily and lit up all the scene. He seemed to see everything before it happened. He could tell if the rush of the opposing forwards spelt danger or was only a ruse. He possessed the instinct of knowing when a goal was about to be scored, and yet he was no magician! He could not tell whence came those inspired periods when he did everything right and could do no wrong. He was in the hurly-burly of the game, and whether it lasted moments or hours he scarce could tell. He owed little or nothing to superior physical gifts. He was neither very big, nor very strong, but he was very fast. As an athlete many a man has surpassed him; as a footballer only a few have quite touched the same transcendant note. It was in instinct and intuition that he differed from most men. He knew the psychological moment to win a game. For pressing home an advantage he had no equal. For stopping a movement that means a goal he had no rival. 

Once in a famous Cup tie against the Old Carthusians an opposing forward found himself at an open goal. Ross, racing across from the wing, bore down upon his enemy. The fatal kick was being taken when the great back swooped down upon the forward who was about to immortalise himself. Exactly what happened no one ever knew. Perhaps Ross himself could not have told you. Unkind critics, after the match, tried to explain the incident by saying that the North Ender trod on his adversary's heel. The fact remains that the forward never made the kick forward which would have settled the match, and the ball rolled harmlessly away. He was always a picturesque figure in the field. Although neither very tall nor very thin, he gave one the appearance of both, and his sharp, clean-cut features gave him a make-up almost Mephistophelian. In a crowd he was the cynosure of all beholders. He held a high opinion of his own abilities, but never expressed it egotistically. When the brothers Walters were commonly spoken of as a couple of ideal backs, Ross expressed his dissent. He thought A. M. was much better than his brother P. M. "There is only one better back than A. M.," he once observed to that player. "Indeed," said A. M., "and who is he?" "Why, N. J. Ross, of course," said Nick, with a grin. Strange to say, Ross was not a member of the Preston North End Club during the year of its greatest triumphs, but it was Nick and his stalwart men that laid the foundation of modern scientific football, a game which will last so long as England is a nation, and so long as England is a nation the name of Nicholas J. Ross will endure. 

Ross was born in Scotland in 1862, and it was in 1874 that he was one of the chief promoters of the Edinburgh Rovers. He afterwards played for the Hibernians and Heart of Midlothian. When twenty years of age he was made captain of the Hearts. Wherever he went his powerful personality always came to the front. It was not till 1883 that he visited England. He obtained work in Preston, and afterwards he joined and became captain of the club he was about to make famous. Up till then he had played as a forward, but he soon found his true vocation as back. We have seen many great footballers in our day, but, take him all in all, we may not look upon his like again.