NO. XXIX. — FRANK FORMAN
— "ABARIS" | 15/04/1899 —

If those at Nottingham to whom I looked for a photo had not kept me a day longer than I could afford to wait, I should have had a sketch last week of Frank Forman, and have had Tommy Morren for to-day. That would have been a far more fitting arrangement, for Forman's life story would have appeared side by side with the account of his doings in the international, at Birmingham, that day; whilst to-day, Morren would have been the man to run alongside the story of how the Cup was won. As it was, I had the cart before the horse, so to speak. However, better late than never, sirs, even in the matter of football Sketches. Perchance it is not, after all quite calamitous to have to write of Forman this week, instead of last, because one is able to speak while there lingers fresh in the memory the recollection of his latest and greatest performance. There can be no doubt that the game which Frank Forman played for his country against the Scottish team, last Saturday, better gives him title to rank as one of the finest players in the kingdom than anything he has accomplished before. It is not that what he did was better done than his previous bests. The essential merit of his work lay in the fact that he was operating in a position to which he was unaccustomed. That's what makes the difference. You take a smart posting team, in which every horse is of the best. In their ordinary stations the four will take you along like flying foxes. But you change the order of running: put the off-leader to the pole, in the collar of the near-wheeler, and the latter forward with the near-leader. You will probably have that team doing the journey upon its hind legs and marking time, a hundred beats to the bar, with its fore-legs. Only the ideal cricketer fields equally well anywhere. The average fieldsman has his own particular, pet place, and there best does himself justice and his side service. A sprint runner does not attempt a ten mile race, and a bass vocalist does not seek distinction by singing tenor solos. In most walks of life there's a place for a man, and in that station the man seeks to locate himself. He who can fill a variety of positions in turn, with unvarying success, is the one most to be envied. Football affords as good an instance of the one-man-one-placo theory as anything. Players find by accident, by experience, or by diligent experiment, the station to which they are best adapted, and, having so discovered, remain there for all their football life. In that one post a man may be a master, whereas, if you remove him to another, he is a lost soul, a misery to himself, a weakness in, and positive hindrance to, his team. Happy is that man who can conform to the peculiarities of demands of any position on the field. Into such an one Frank Forman is developing. By habit, training, and inclination as a right half-back, he has shown that he can play just as well as the pivot of the central line as behind a wing.

It is a fine testimonial to the abilities of a player barely twenty-two years of age, to have won five international caps in two seasons. That is what Forman has done. Speaking from memory, his first turn-out for his country was against Ireland last season. He missed the Welsh match, but at Glasgow, had a great deal to do with England's magnificent victory over Scotland, playing a game which caused him to be voted the best half-back on the field. This year he has had the honour of selection for each of the three matches, and the series of games culminated in a positive triumph for him last Saturday, as England's centre half. His success is not surprising to those who know him. He has had the very training necessary for the making of an athlete. Born at a pretty little place just inside Derbyshire, called Astonupon-Trent, he lived all his early days in the open country. I believe I am right in saying that his family are farmers, and that Frank did his preliminary muscle-hardening over many a hundred acres of fallow fields daily. Like his elder brother, Fred, he was a member of that good, little team which they used to have at Beeston in his boyhood's days. The brothers soon excelled their fellows, for, in 1894, they were persuaded to join Derby County as amateurs. With to-day's Cup finalists the pair played out that season. It was then that I first came across Frank. Unless I greatly mistake, he played left-half that day, against that pretty and clever wing, Neillie McCallum and "Tich" Smith. I well remember the surprise which his play occasioned to those who had not seen him play before. He was only a big school-boy of seventeen, ruddy-cheeked, and innocent looking, but very muscular then, and with a perfect infinitude of leg — just like a big puppy greyhound. Since then he has thickened out into a very finely built young athlete. He will probably measure a comfortable six feet, and weigh twelve and a half stones of solid bone and muscle. Nottingham Forest did a marvellously good day's business when they sent up to Mr. Harry Lockett League forms bearing the signatures of Frank and brother Fred. The two left Derby at the end of the 1893-4 season to join the Cup-holders, and did not cost a farthing in transfer. Derby County did not release them willingly, but you can't hold amateurs. For, as amateurs the brothers played until they could no longer afford the time necessary for football without incurring too serious pecuniary loss at home. Then, rather than desist from playing, they accepted the alternative-and the remuneration.

Since those days Frank has come along wonderfully, and to-day has no superior at right half-back — no equal, in fact, when he is on the top of his form. He is a tremendously difficult man to pass. If a ball be coming in the air, it's his, because of his great height. If he be beaten, he simply unfurls those mighty limbs of his, performs the "telescope trick," and gathers in the ball, even though it be a yard wide of or past him. If he had not been a footballer, he might have been champion high-kicker, or something of the kind. Last Saturday, when the Scots were pressing England, I watched him calmly shoot out his left foot, and hook the ball off Hamilton's head-a fearful height of a kick. I believe he could kick threepenny-pieces off a goal-bar of ordinary height. But, of course, it is not solely his elasticity and elongation of limb which make him what he is. Nature has generously supplied him with equipment for the game, but, apart from that, he plays football with that care and forethought which make a player the superior of his opponents. He can get a ball as surely as any man, not merely because he is blessed with natural anatomical advantages, but because he studies probabilities and possibilities, and goes in prepared to produce countervailing trick for each that his opponent will call to his aid. That's defence. In attack, Forman is a man to be feared. He plays beautifully to his forwards, but when the call comes, he can shoot harder than any half-back in Britain — not excepting Archie Goodal!. Those low, fierce shots of his have led to many a goal for the Foresters. The ball may be stopped by the goalkeeper, but the forwards know what is going to happen, and they pounce in upon the ball before the tenter can recover the use of his blazing, stinging fingers, and, phit! into the net it goes. Yes, Forman's a grand player, and one of whom Nottingham people think the world of. On the field, he is a fair, manly opponent, and forwards who play against him speak in terms of high praise of his methods. Off the field the young giant is an extremely pleasant, affable, gentlemanly fellow — just what a right-minded, right-spirited, hearty, honest young Englishman should be. He and Fred have won high honour for the football of the grand, old town in which they live, and are themselves as bright ornaments as the game has ever had there. They are now both successful business men, and, when comes the time when football is no longer for them, they will, I imagine, have reason to look back upon their sharo in the game with the proud consciousness that, during all their experience of play, they never did a thing for which they need neproach themselves, nor of which any could say an unkindly word. Meanwhile, however, Englishmen, Irishmen, Scotchmen, and Welshmen will all hope that the day may be long delayed ere occurs the necessity for such introspection and review. We could do with Formans in the game perennially.