Once life was an easy thing.
Yorkshire or Surrey or Kent were cricket champions. RANJI or W. G.
headed the batting averages; RHODES or RICHARDSON the bowling. The
office boy who knew these details plus the Boat Race winner and the
English Cup-holders could keep his end up in conversation. He even
found time to do a little work.
But now! That poor brain must know that McGinty of Fulham fetched
£1,000 when put up for auction, that the front line of Blackburn
Rovers represents an expense of £11,321 13s. 4d., and that Chelsea
have played before 71,935 spectators. He must know the champions of
the First, Second, Southern, Midland, and Scottish Leagues, and the
teams that gained promotion.
Then there is cricket--all worked out to "those damned dots," as
Lord RANDOLPH said in an inspired moment. Think of the strain of
remembering that Middlesex stands at 78.66 and Surrey at 72.94. And
the sporting papers are publishing lists of catches made; and lists of
catches missed are sure to follow. Think of it--you may have to name
the Champion Butterfingers in 1915!
Come to tennis. You must know the names of the Australian Terror, the
New Zealand Cyclone, the American Whirlwind. You must at a glance be
able to pronounce on the nationality of Mavrogordato or Froitzheim.
You have the strain of proving that the victory of a New Zealander
over a German proves the vitality of the dear old country.
Or boxing. How can an ordinary mind retain the names of all the White
Hopes or Black Despairs. At any moment some Terrible Magyar may wrest
the bantam championship from us. You must learn to distinguish between
WELLS, the reconstructor of the universe, and Knock-out WELLS. You
must be acquainted with the doings and prospects of Dreadnought Brown
and Mulekick Jones. You must know the F. E. Smithian repartees of JACK
JOHNSON.
Let us talk of golf. No, on second thoughts, let us notably refrain
from talking about golf. Only if you don't know who defeated TRAVERS
(_plus_ lumbago) and who eclipsed America's Bright Boy, you must hide
your head in shame.
We come to rowing. Once one could stay, "Ah, Leander," and with
an easy shrug of the shoulders pass from the subject. But when
international issues are involved, and the win of a Canadian or
American or German crew may cause _The Daily Mail_ to declare (for the
hundredth time) that England is played out, a man simply has to keep
abreast of the results.
There are a score of other things. Name for me, if you can, the
Great American Four, the hydro-aeroplane champion, the M.P. champion
pigeon-flyer, and the motor-bike hill-climbing champion.
And the Olympic games are coming! Who are England's hopes in the
discus-throwing and the fancy diving? What Britisher must we rely on
in the javelin hop-skip-and-jump?
Your brain reels at the prospect. We must decide to ignore all
future championships. We must decline to be aggravated if a Japanese
Badminton champion appears. We must cease to be interested if
Britain's Hope beats the Horrible Peruvian at Tiddly-winks.
There are three admirable reasons for this.
The first is that we must play some games ourselves.
The second, that, unless a check be put to championships, the
Parliamentary news will be crowded out of the papers and we shall find
ourselves in an unnatural state of peace and goodwill.
The third, which one puts forward with diffidence, is that somebody,
somewhere, somehow, sometime must do a little work.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Wife (with some sadness)._ "AH, WELL, HENRY, I SUPPOSE
IT'S A BIT TOO LATE FOR YOU TO THINK OF THAT NOW."]
* * * * *
TO THE MEMORY
OF
JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN.