Early football writers had to rely on some creative methods to complete their match reports. Thankfully one journalist left a book to show us how it was done

“I started reporting soccer in a very humble way,” recalls BJ (Bill) Evans in his 1946 book How to Become a Sporting Journalist. As an apprentice at the Western Daily Mercury in the early 1900s, Evans was sent out to cover minor league matches on a bicycle with two carrier pigeons in a basket. At the end of each half, he would fold up his written report, attach it to one of the pigeons and release it into the sky. “The bird wheeled over the ground,” he wrote, “often cheered by the two or three hundred spectators, and then made his way to the pigeon loft of the Mercury.”



Evans went on to make his name between the wars as chief sports writer for the Star (a now-defunct London evening title unconnected to the modern daily), earning a reputation as a “master-craftsman of sports journalism”. His book, part-careers guide, part-memoir, provided inspiration for a generation of highly regarded writers. The late Frank Keating wrote several times of the book’s influence on his career, saying: “It changed my whole life.”

Revisited almost 70 years after it was written, How to Become a Sporting Journalist provides an entertaining glimpse into the profession’s formative years, long before Twitter, live blogs and Sky’s Sunday Supplement. Evans refers to himself as “a link between the old-fashioned and the modern”. He saw sports coverage expand as newspaper circulations increased, working practices change with the arrival of new technologies and previously anonymous journalists step out from behind nom de plumes (Evans’ was “Polaris”) and into the public eye.

One of the early tales recounted in the book involves a trip to report on a Plymouth Argyle reserve game, at which Evans was asked to play in goal after the team’s keeper sprained an ankle while stepping from his charabanc. “I placed my basket of pigeons inside the goal net,” Evans recalled, “and I honestly believe that it was anxiety for them even more than my desire to acquit myself well that enabled me to keep my end up. I even saved a penalty.”

Evans was able to leave his pigeons behind after moving to London in the 1920s. The Star had private telephone lines connected to local football grounds, allowing him to phone in his reports. This technological advancement leads Evans to provide a related piece of advice: “Always avoid words and phrases which may sound confusing over the wire.” Some of the book’s advice remains useful today. “Cliches are the refuge of the poor sports writer,” is one enduring tip.

In particular, Evans implores readers to strive for accuracy. “The sports reporter should regard himself as a historian, a purveyor of facts,” he wrote. At big matches, without the benefit of TV replays, Evans would have a friend stand behind him with binoculars to ensure that no detail was missed. “If I were at all uncertain about any happening, I went into the players’ room to get my facts right, thus securing first-hand information. The reader doesn’t want you to guess who scored a goal, but wants to know who did actually score it.”

As a keen sportsman (he was a champion cyclist), Evans preferred the company of footballers, cricketers and boxers to fellow journalists: “I can honestly claim that the most famous footballers in a period of 20 years regarded me rather as a friend and fellow player than as a newspaper man.” His close relationship with players helped in ghost-writing columns and life stories, which he regarded as one of the most interesting and lucrative aspects of journalism.

Evans ghosted for Jack Cock, the England and Chelsea forward who was also a music hall and movie star, one of the biggest celebrities of the 1920s. There were no agents or other obstacles to negotiate. Evans lived near Cock and visited him every weekend, ghosting his life story before Sunday evening sing-songs. Another famous friend was England goalkeeper John Sutcliffe, who once rescued Evans after he collapsed during a bike race, picking him up off the street and reviving him with hot Oxo.

That Evans is not better remembered by fans and journalists today is partly because his archive of work (plus his collection of memorabilia) was destroyed when a bomb hit the Star offices during the second world war. “All my treasures went at one fell swoop,” he recalled. Dispirited by the devastating effects of the war, Evans retired from journalism in 1945 to farm a smallholding on Canvey Island. “When you are satiated with Cup finals,” he wrote, “you can always turn to the land and grow turnips.”

• This article appeared first in When Saturday Comes

• Follow When Saturday Comes and Paul Brown on Twitter

