January 19, 1914
Match: International, British Championship, at Racecourse Ground, Wrexham.
Wales – Ireland 1-2 (0-1).
Wales (2-3-5): Teddy Peers (Wolverhampton Wanderers), Lloyd Davies (Northampton), Llew Davies (Wrexham), Edwin Hughes (Manchester City), Ernest Peake (Liverpool), J.T. Jones (Stoke), Billy Meredith (Manchester United), Evan Jones (Bolton Wanderers), Walter Davies (Millwall), William “Lot” Jones (Manchester City), Ted Vizard (Bolton Wanderers).
Ireland (2-3-5): Fred McKee (Belfast Celtic); William McConnell (Bohemians), Alex Craig (Greenock Morton); Val Harris (Everton), Patrick O’Connell (Hull City), David Rollo (Linfield); Edward Seymour (Bohemians), Samuel Young (Linfield), Billy Gillespie (Sheffield United), William Lacey (Liverpool), Louis Bookman (Bradford City).
The goals: 0-1 Gillespie (11 min.), 0-2 Gillespie, 1-2 Evan Jones (pen.).
Ernest Peake, Liverpool (Joint Everton and Liverpool Match Programme: January 18, 1913):
The first International has come and gone, and Wales is the poorer thereby. Wales caught a cold at Wrexham, the place where in ages that are long since forgotten four-day race meetings were held and carnivals such as Chester now enjoys were the joy of the townsfolk. Wrexham is a noteworthy place, my sirs. It was noteworthy to Ireland until yesterday as the one place where Ireland has never won a match. But Ireland suffered its patience to last no longer, and when Ireland gets a two goal lead – well by jingo, it holds to it.
We, that is our select party, skipped under the Mersey’s water. There was Daniel of Everton, otherwise Director Kirkwood, Messrs. Tom Crompton, Tom Watson, E.A. Bainbridge (of Liverpool F.C.), Mr. Edwin Berry, and others, in the latter category being one Bradshaw to guide our solo-ing, and on “Jimmy Quinn,” who, in matters national, takes time by the forelock. Once upon a time he took some rare fish to Wrexham for a feed for his footballing friends, and when the landed at the hotel were informed that the tasty fish had been cooked and – was being eaten by someone else. Memories such as this keep a party from grumbling over miserable failures and eight-trick abundances.
On the return journey we escaped the crush and tumbled right into jovial company, there being a nomadic tribe and “Moore,” whose football knowledge is only equalled by his story of sports-ology. ‘Tis said he would have evicted one football critic out of the window – but, there, you don’t want to know of my troubles. Besides, we finished up good friends when he found I was “The Bee.”
(Liverpool Echo: January 20, 1914)