CRICKET
The Delectable Woolley A FEW weeks more, and the greatest left-hander who ever played cricket for his living will have retired from the game, still displaying that nonchalant disregard for records and averages which raises him head and shoulders above the usual professional. It is as well to see Woolley while we can, to make the effort of a journey to a distant ground, for he will soon become legendary.
His farewell is of a piece with his career, for in this, his last season, instead of going into a majestic decline, he has been an opening batsman for Kent in every match in which he has played, has attacked the bowling in his old style whatever the state of the wicket, and has left his young partner Fagg, himself an aggressive batsman and young enough to be his son, looking like a slow scorer. Such is genius ; and it is good to recognise it while it is active, able to give a living not a retro- spective pleasure.
This week Frank Woolley was chosen to captain the Players at Lord's, one of the few occasions (such are the peculiarities of the game) when a professional may exercise what is perhaps a hidden talent. It is not the first time that such a distinc- tion has come his way, and of his qualities as a captain many have long been aware. A . man cannot play for thirty-two years in the highest class of cricket without acquiring knowledge in his very bones. Woolley's illustrious pupils, Duleepsinghi, the Nawab of Pataudi and Mr. H. T. Bartlett among them, are proof enough that he can impart it, can hand on his bright torch.
One by one, the great figures of pre-War cricket have passed : Hirst, Gunn, Rhodes, Hobbs, Hendren, Mead, Tate and a host of lesser names. Woolley has had a characteristic innings, for he alone of active cricketers played in Test matches before the War. He is an isolated peak, and lofty. Cricket is a kind as well as a great game, in that it gives its heroes so long a span. Rhodes played his first Test match against Australia in 1899, his last in 1926 ; Hobbs's international career was over twenty years ; Woolley played first for England in 1909 and last in 1934. Only George Geary, though a much younger man, seems imbued with something of the same amazing vitality : at the age of 45, blossoming as a batsman, he has already scored more centuries than ever before. With that of Woolley, his is now almost the only name which bridges that gap between the golden era of the game and today : for the War marks a curious, unreasonable but utter break in the spirit of English cricket. There are those who perceive a return to splendour : let us hope they are justified.
An attacking batsman—that has been Woolley's role from his first game, as it will be in his last. His style is flowing, and is based on every sound principle but that of safety. He' has always considered that the batsman's primary duty is to make runs, and that the faster he does so the more will he demoralise the bowlers ; incidentally, the more pleasure will he give to the spectators. No spectator has ever yet com- plained of dullness while Woolley was at the wicket, and in his own book, The King of Games, Woolley makes no secret that one of his chief aims in cricket has always been to provide entertainment : to consider the gate as well as the game. He has done so nobly.
There was a time when Woolley was as great a bowler as a batsman. That was before the War (when in company with Colin Blythe) and for a few years after. Then, for several seasons, he ceased to bowl, except in festival cricket. Last season and this have seen an unexpected but happy return to the crease—and if but a shadovi of his old self, he is still an artist. That short, graceful run, the swift slipping of the ball from the right hand to the left, the smooth curve of the arm and—a puzzler : the old guile is there still. Guile and attack : stout attributes when combined in-one man.
All good things must pass, even batting like Woolley's. It must be a cause for thankfulness that he leaves the game not to the polite murmurs of " how good he used to be," but with the knowledge in his opponents of how dangerous he still is. No player, not even Hobbs or Rhodes, will carry so great a store of affection into retirement, or will have said farewell with such a challenge. Perhaps, in some festival games, he will reappear in future seasons, not too late to greet another golden age of cricket. He is most convincing proof
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