Sportsmen have always tended to hunt and excel in pairs. Whatever their individual talents, we remember them especially in duplicate. It was Larwood and Voce, Hobbs and Sutcliffe, Trueman and Statham, Thomson and Lillee.
But Gow and Bacall? Er, that needs a little explanation. This, I suppose, is where pairings veer from the more obvious. We accept that fast bowlers, predacious by nature, like to prowl in twosome pursuit of a kill. Opening batsmen, attuned to each other's whims and insecurities, benefit from the unspoken assurances from a familiar mate down the track. It isn't just cricket, of course. Rugby has its muscled and menacing props who not only go round together but look, with their scowls and shaven heads, uncannily alike.
In my more youthful and active journalistic days I worked best with conflicting simultaneous briefs. These involved theatre and sport. The only complication was the logistical one when I had to make the challenging choice between Gielgud declaiming or Charlie George screaming for the ball.
Last week I came across a torn and faded newspaper cutting of an eventful meeting I had in February 1979. It was with Lauren Bacall so, sentimentally at least, it was worth keeping. She was in this country to publicise her autobiography and was in a bad mood. She didn't much like journalists and, no doubt because she had left her make-up case behind in London, she was less than welcoming to half a dozen photographers and TV cameramen who had also turned up at the bookshop in Bristol.
As I arrived, weary from lugging a heavy Uher radio tape-recorder up a long hill, she was leaving. It was an unscheduled early exit. The engine of her swish limo was already purring and her step on to the pavement was as purposeful as that of any Ashton Gate striker. For one impecunious freelance, her face of thunder spelled financial disaster and panic. My presumptuous intentions counted for nothing.
If this sounds like shameless name-dropping I apologise. But I shall eventually get to the point of this Friday-morning episode involving the style, ageless allure and histrionic range of the actress who once melted Bogart enough to become his wife. It was no time now for rerunning scenes from Key Largo or The Big Sleep, which I had studiously researched in preparation. Instead, for one of the few times in a diverse professional life, I let my instincts take over. I jumped in beside the driver and as if wholly dispassionate about what was happening, I directed him to a small fish restaurant a mile away. My instructions had come out with affected authority. In the back of the limo, La Bacall was spluttering her protests; a young PR woman, equally puzzled, was doing her best to placate her.
There is not a word of exaggeration in this account. The driver clearly thought I was part of the retinue. He pulled up at the restaurant and Bacall, flustered and still confused, followed us in. She rejected and then accepted a double gin, and I ordered a Dover sole for her. Blissfully, her rant at the expense of the Fourth Estate gradually subsided. Perhaps she really was, after all, "this nice Jewish girl who had been plucked for stardom", as the book blurb told us. I got my lengthy, cooperative radio interview and enough anecdotes for a newspaper piece next morning.
By then we were on more confidential terms. "The trouble is I've got so many things on my mind – like driving back to London and catching my plane at Heathrow," she said. "I know the feeling," I replied with intimate candour. "I have to see Gerry Gow, you know. Yes, another interview." I might as well have said Stanislavsky by the silence my words created
The revelation made no apparent impact. She must surely have heard of Gerry. Everyone in the West Country had. But I let it pass. He was now top of my agenda, this tousle-haired Glaswegian veteran of 300-plus games for Bristol City, who most Saturdays left scarlet stud marks as a ritualistic parting present to his opponents. He didn't believe in fannying about in midfield. He instilled fear: plenty of raw drama there. It is unlikely Gow ever went to a Bristol Old Vic matinee on a free afternoon.
I've no idea whether Gow would be flattered to be bracketed with Bacall. Yet the two of them remain affectionately wedged, at least psychologically, in my memory. From that unconventional audience with Mrs Bogart I kept my appointment with Gerry who went on to oblige me with a goal against Ipswich the following day. I didn't keep a record of my article about him – though I don't fancy "To Have and Have Not" warranted even a passing mention.
