A special tale about Australian Cricketer Archie Jackson and the towel
In the late 1920s the press and public were clamouring for a policy of youth in the selection of the New South Wales cricket team. The blues had won the Sheffield Shield only once in 5 years. This was not good enough for the cricket fans of the Waratah state, who were conditioned to winning. The great era, which had begun in the postwar years were drawing to a close, and legends, such as Mailey, Gregory and Andrew were no longer the dominant force they’d once been. So onto the greensward of the SCG, determined to make it their own strode players like Archie Jackson, Don Bradman and my father Alec (Äcka’) Marks – mere teenagers who had barely begun to shave.
