And common men grow daily glummer,
In him contentment never fails;
To such a man it’s always Summer.
The Umpire
I’M MONARCH OF all I survey;
There isn’t a ruler to-day,
Not a Sultan or Tsar
Of a country afar,
Who can boast of a similar sway.
There’s always a something that checks them
No matter how great they may be.
They’ve got armies and such,
But their power’s not much
If you only compare ’em with me.
For I’m the infallible umpire,
The strict, indispensable umpire.
And you’ve got to abide
By what I decide;
It isn’t a matter for doubt.
If you’re peer or you’re peasant,
You’ve got to look pleasant
And go when I tell you you’re out!
Out!
How’s that? Run along, sir, you’re out.
The swell from the swaggerest club,
The ‘rabbit’, who’s there as a sub.,
The veteran grey
(Who was good in his day),
The wholly incompetent cub,
The man who thinks cricket a business,
And the fellow who thinks it a spree,
I handle the lot,
And I show ’em what’s what;
They all knuckle under to me.
For I’m the inflexible umpire,
The stern, incorruptible umpire;
I add to the woes
Of the bowler who throws,
When ‘No ball!’ I incessantly shout.
And the batsmen pursue me
With looks that are gloomy,
When I beg to inform ’em they’re out.
Out!
How’s that? Run along, sir, you’re out.
There once was a time when I played;
But those days won’t return, I’m afraid,
For alas, I must own
That I reached eighteen stone
And a quarter when last I was weighed.
I was once good at saving the single,
My limbs were so lissom and free,
But when bulkiness came
I abandoned the game
As a little too active for me.
And now I am simply the umpire,
The massive and dignified umpire,
My eyes are as keen
As they ever have been,
For your sight doesn’t fail though you’re stout.
If you’re leg before wicket,
Or caught when you snick it,
I see it, and tell you you’re out.
Out!
How’s that? Off you go, sir, you’re out!
MCC
IN SPEAKING OF our cricketers,
This maxim guideth me,
If they win a match they’re ‘England’,
If they lose they’re ‘MCC’.
Under MVC Rules
[‘A NEW GAME called Vigoro has been invented, which combines the characteristics of cricket and lawn-tennis. A trial match has been arranged at Lord’s, in which many county players are to take part, and Lord Hawke has announced his intention of introducing it into New Zealand during his forthcoming tour. It can be played all the year round, and, as the ball used is of soft india-rubber, equally well by both sexes. Batsmen, bowlers, and fieldsmen are all armed with racquets.’ – Daily Paper.]
From the ‘Sporting Man’ of Dec. 5, 1910.
… ‘And so ended the first of the five Test matches. We hold no brief for England, but we feel that it cannot be denied that the better side won. Except for an hour on the first day, when Miss Smith and Miss Robinson were at the wickets, the New Zealanders were completely outplayed. And this, in spite of the fact that the luck went dead against the home team from the outset, for with MacLaren unable to turn out, and Miss Jones suffering from acute neuralgia, England was by no means at its full strength. Again, during the majority of the three days snow fell heavily, and it is common knowledge that Lockwood is never at his best on a snowy wicket. Indeed, we seriously question the wisdom of the selection committee in playing him. On his day, it is true, Lockwood is the finest bowler in England. The peculiar twist of his racquet which invariably precedes an off-break is a secret which he shares with no other fast bowler. But since it was obvious from the outset that there would be snow, we think the committee should have given the place to Miss Brown, who rarely fails to do well on any wicket, and is known to have a partiality for the Lord’s ground. However, England won. That is the main point, and a victory so decisive will be the most fitting answer to the pessimistic letters which have appeared repeatedly of late in the columns of the Press. Our players may have their off-seasons, but, in view of this victory, it cannot be said with any semblance of reason that English Vigoro is degenerating. The first of the Test-matches has added immensely to the prestige of English Vigoro.
In fielding we still have much to learn from our visitors. The performance of the New Zealanders in England’s first innings, and indeed throughout the match, was a treat to behold. Anything finer than the catch by which Miss Slogginson dismissed Gilbert Jessop it has never been our lot to witness. At first sight the hit appeared perfectly safe. The ball had all the well-known force of Mr Jessop’s racquet behind it, and, as so often happens with soft india-rubber balls, was swerving nastily. Miss Slogginson, however, though fully thirty yards away, and up to her waist in a deep drift, nevertheless contrived to extricate herself and arrest the ball on her racquet just as it was about to clear the ropes. A wonderful effort, which brought down the house, together with a small avalanche from the roof of the pavilion.
Hirst and Rhodes both appeared a little stale. Playing since January without a break has had its effect on the two Yorkshire cracks, though their deliveries never looked easy. By a curious coincidence each secured his thousandth wicket this season in his first over.
In conclusion we have to thank the committee of the MVC and Ground for their treatment of the press representatives. The new stoves in the press Box are an excellent innovation. We wish we could express equal praise for certain of the other arrangements in force at Lord’s. The growing habit of stopping the game at five o’clock for a hot potatoes interval is the curse of modern Vigoro. It annoys the spectators, and is quite unnecessary.
Five Minutes on the Cricket Field
IF THE NUMBER of assistant-under-secretaries of county clubs were placed end to end they would reach from Hyde Park Corner to Peckham Rye.
There is no actual written rule prohibiting a Lancashire man from playing for Lancashire, or a Middlesex man for playing for Middlesex; but it is looked on as rather bad form for them to try.
If all the Surrey skippers skipped simultaneously there would be an earthquake.
The technicalities of cricket occasionally baffle the beginner, who is sometimes puzzled even by the fact that a team touring in Australia is called England when it wins a test match and MCC when it loses.
A cricketer must mount the ladder slowly. It was not till he had played with success for some years that the half-penny papers referred to Rhodes as Wilfred.
Now, Talking About Cricket
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 the skill of wrist and eye. A century v. the MCC 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 housemaster 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 Freemason’s 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, norrabi.’ ‘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 criticised. 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 criticise 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 schoolboy 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 results, 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.
Wodehouse At the Wicket Page 15
