In the days of yore, when these white hairs were brown--or was it
black? At any rate, they were not white--and I was at school, it was
always my custom, when Fate obliged me to walk to school with a casual
acquaintance, to whom I could not unburden my soul of those profound
thoughts which even then occupied my mind, to turn the struggling
conversation to the relative merits of cricket and football.
'Do you like cricket better than footer?' was my formula. Now, though
at the time, in order to save fruitless argument, I always agreed with
my companion, and praised the game he praised, in the innermost depths
of my sub-consciousness, cricket ranked a long way in front of all
other forms of sport. I may be wrong. More than once in my career it
has been represented to me that I couldn't play cricket for nuts. My
captain said as much when I ran him out in _the_ match of the
season after he had made forty-nine and looked like stopping. A bowling
acquaintance heartily endorsed his opinion on the occasion of my
missing three catches off him in one over. This, however, I attribute
to prejudice, for the man I missed ultimately reached his century,
mainly off the deliveries of my bowling acquaintance. I pointed out to
him that, had I accepted any one of the three chances, we should have
missed seeing the prettiest century made on the ground that season; but
he was one of those bowlers who sacrifice all that is beautiful in the
game to mere wickets. A sordid practice.
Later on, the persistence with which my county ignored my claims to
inclusion in the team, convinced me that I must leave cricket fame to
others. True, I did figure, rather prominently, too, in one county
match. It was at the Oval, Surrey _v_. Middlesex. How well I
remember that occasion! Albert Trott was bowling (Bertie we used to
call him); I forget who was batting. Suddenly the ball came soaring in
my direction. I was not nervous. I put down the sandwich I was eating,
rose from my seat, picked the ball up neatly, and returned it with
unerring aim to a fieldsman who was waiting for it with becoming
deference. Thunders of applause went up from the crowded ring.
That was the highest point I ever reached in practical cricket. But, as
the historian says of Mr Winkle, a man may be an excellent sportsman in
theory, even if he fail in practice. That's me. Reader (if any), have
you ever played cricket in the passage outside your study with a
walking-stick and a ball of paper? That's the game, my boy, for testing
your skill of wrist and eye. A century _v_. the M.C.C. is well
enough in its way, but give me the man who can watch 'em in a narrow
passage, lit only by a flickering gas-jet--one for every hit, four if
it reaches the end, and six if it goes downstairs full-pitch, any pace
bowling allowed. To make double figures in such a match is to taste
life. Only you had better do your tasting when the House-master is out
for the evening.
I like to watch the young cricket idea shooting. I refer to the lower
games, where 'next man in' umpires with his pads on, his loins girt,
and a bat in his hand. Many people have wondered why it is that no
budding umpire can officiate unless he holds a bat. For my part, I
think there is little foundation for the theory that it is part of a
semi-religious rite, on the analogy of the Freemasons' special
handshake and the like. Nor do I altogether agree with the authorities
who allege that man, when standing up, needs something as a prop or
support. There is a shadow of reason, I grant, in this supposition, but
after years of keen observation I am inclined to think that the umpire
keeps his bat by him, firstly, in order that no unlicensed hand shall
commandeer it unbeknownst, and secondly, so that he shall be ready to
go in directly his predecessor is out. There is an ill-concealed
restiveness about his movements, as he watches the batsmen getting set,
that betrays an overwrought spirit. Then of a sudden one of them plays
a ball on to his pad. '_'s that_?' asks the bowler, with an
overdone carelessness. 'Clean out. Now _I'm_ in,' and already he
is rushing up the middle of the pitch to take possession. When he gets
to the wicket a short argument ensues. 'Look here, you idiot, I hit it
hard.' 'Rot, man, out of the way.' '!!??!' 'Look here, Smith,
_are_ you going to dispute the umpire's decision?' Chorus of
fieldsmen: 'Get out, Smith, you ass. You've been given out years ago.'
Overwhelmed by popular execration, Smith reluctantly departs,
registering in the black depths of his soul a resolution to take on the
umpireship at once, with a view to gaining an artistic revenge by
giving his enemy run out on the earliest possible occasion. There is a
primeval _insouciance_ about this sort of thing which is as
refreshing to a mind jaded with the stiff formality of professional
umpires as a cold shower-bath.
I have made a special study of last-wicket men; they are divided into
two classes, the deplorably nervous, or the outrageously confident. The
nervous largely outnumber the confident. The launching of a last-wicket
man, when there are ten to make to win, or five minutes left to make a
draw of a losing game, is fully as impressive a ceremony as the
launching of the latest battleship. An interested crowd harasses the
poor victim as he is putting on his pads. 'Feel in a funk?' asks some
tactless friend. 'N-n-no, norrabit.' 'That's right,' says the captain
encouragingly, 'bowling's as easy as anything.'
This cheers the wretch up a little, until he remembers suddenly that
the captain himself was distinctly at sea with the despised trundling,
and succumbed to his second ball, about which he obviously had no idea
whatever. At this he breaks down utterly, and, if emotional, will sob
into his batting glove. He is assisted down the Pavilion steps, and
reaches the wickets in a state of collapse. Here, very probably, a
reaction will set in. The sight of the crease often comes as a positive
relief after the vague terrors experienced in the Pavilion.
The confident last-wicket man, on the other hand, goes forth to battle
with a light quip upon his lips. The lot of a last-wicket batsman, with
a good eye and a sense of humour, is a very enviable one. The
incredulous disgust of the fast bowler, who thinks that at last he may
safely try that slow head-ball of his, and finds it lifted genially
over the leg-boundary, is well worth seeing. I remember in one school
match, the last man, unfortunately on the opposite side, did this three
times in one over, ultimately retiring to a fluky catch in the slips
with forty-one to his name. Nervousness at cricket is a curious thing.
As the author of _Willow the King_, himself a county cricketer,
has said, it is not the fear of getting out that causes funk. It is a
sort of intangible _je ne sais quoi_. I trust I make myself clear.
Some batsmen are nervous all through a long innings. With others the
feeling disappears with the first boundary.
A young lady--it is, of course, not polite to mention her age to the
minute, but it ranged somewhere between eight and ten--was taken to see
a cricket match once. After watching the game with interest for some
time, she gave out this profound truth: 'They all attend specially to
one man.' It would be difficult to sum up the causes of funk more
lucidly and concisely. To be an object of interest is sometimes
pleasant, but when ten fieldsmen, a bowler, two umpires, and countless
spectators are eagerly watching your every movement, the thing becomes
embarrassing.
That is why it is, on the whole, preferable to be a cricket spectator
rather than a cricket player. No game affords the spectator such unique
opportunities of exerting his critical talents. You may have noticed
that it is always the reporter who knows most about the game. Everyone,
moreover, is at heart a critic, whether he represent the majesty of the
Press or not. From the lady of Hoxton, who crushes her friend's latest
confection with the words, 'My, wot an 'at!' down to that lowest class
of all, the persons who call your attention (in print) to the sinister
meaning of everything Clytemnestra says in _The Agamemnon_, the
whole world enjoys expressing an opinion of its own about something.
In football you are vouchsafed fewer chances. Practically all you can
do is to shout 'off-side' whenever an opponent scores, which affords
but meagre employment for a really critical mind. In cricket, however,
nothing can escape you. Everything must be done in full sight of
everybody. There the players stand, without refuge, simply inviting
criticism.
It is best, however, not to make one's remarks too loud. If you do, you
call down upon yourself the attention of others, and are yourself
criticized. I remember once, when I was of tender years, watching a
school match, and one of the batsmen lifted a ball clean over the
Pavilion. This was too much for my sensitive and critical young mind.
'On the carpet, sir,' I shouted sternly, well up in the treble clef,
'keep 'em on the carpet.' I will draw a veil. Suffice it to say that I
became a sport and derision, and was careful for the future to
criticize in a whisper. But the reverse by no means crushed me. Even
now I take a melancholy pleasure in watching school matches, and saying
So-and-So will make quite a fair _school-boy_ bat in time, but he
must get rid of that stroke of his on the off, and that shocking
leg-hit, and a few of those _awful_ strokes in the slips, but that
on the whole, he is by no means lacking in promise. I find it
refreshing. If, however, you feel compelled not merely to look on, but
to play, as one often does at schools where cricket is compulsory, it
is impossible to exaggerate the importance of white boots. The game you
play before you get white boots is not cricket, but a weak imitation.
The process of initiation is generally this. One plays in shoes for a
few years with the most dire result, running away to square leg from
fast balls, and so on, till despair seizes the soul. Then an angel in
human form, in the very effective disguise of the man at the school
boot-shop, hints that, for an absurdly small sum in cash, you may
become the sole managing director of a pair of _white buckskin_
boots with real spikes. You try them on. They fit, and the initiation
is complete. You no longer run away from fast balls. You turn them
neatly off to the boundary. In a word, you begin for the first time to
play the game, the whole game, and nothing but the game.
There are misguided people who complain that cricket is becoming a
business more than a game, as if that were not the most fortunate thing
that could happen. When it ceases to be a mere business and becomes a
religious ceremony, it will be a sign that the millennium is at hand.
The person who regards cricket as anything less than a business is no
fit companion, gentle reader, for the likes of you and me. As long as
the game goes in his favour the cloven hoof may not show itself. But
give him a good steady spell of leather-hunting, and you will know him
for what he is, a mere _dilettante_, a dabbler, in a word, a worm,
who ought never to be allowed to play at all. The worst of this species
will sometimes take advantage of the fact that the game in which they
happen to be playing is only a scratch game, upon the result of which
no very great issues hang, to pollute the air they breathe with verbal,
and the ground they stand on with physical, buffooneries. Many a time
have I, and many a time have you, if you are what I take you for, shed
tears of blood, at the sight of such. Careless returns, overthrows--but
enough of a painful subject. Let us pass on.
I have always thought it a better fate for a man to be born a bowler
than a bat. A batsman certainly gets a considerable amount of innocent
fun by snicking good fast balls just off his wicket to the ropes, and
standing stolidly in front against slow leg-breaks. These things are
good, and help one to sleep peacefully o' nights, and enjoy one's
meals. But no batsman can experience that supreme emotion of 'something
attempted, something done', which comes to a bowler when a ball pitches
in a hole near point's feet, and whips into the leg stump. It is one
crowded second of glorious life. Again, the words 'retired hurt' on the
score-sheet are far more pleasant to the bowler than the batsman. The
groan of a batsman when a loose ball hits him full pitch in the ribs is
genuine. But the 'Awfully-sorry-old-chap-it-slipped' of the bowler is
not. Half a loaf is better than no bread, as Mr Chamberlain might say,
and if he cannot hit the wicket, he is perfectly contented with hitting
the man. In my opinion, therefore, the bowler's lot, in spite of
billiard table wickets, red marl, and such like inventions of a
degenerate age, is the happier one.
And here, glowing with pride of originality at the thought that I have
written of cricket without mentioning Alfred Mynn or Fuller Pilch, I
heave a reminiscent sigh, blot my MS., and thrust my pen back into its
sheath.
[16]