Cricket
Bronze Age Heroes
By GUY G1SBOURNE
THE'Old England X1' on show at Lord's last Saturday was not quite what I would have meant by the term. My heroic age of cricket was the winter of 1936-37, when G. 0. Allen's team fought Homeric battles in Australia, and the headmaster announced after prayers that Ham- mond was not out overnight. This I knew, having got up before dawn to hear Macdonald's voiCe coming and going faintly over the crackling wires, and later, at breakfast-time, the softer twang of Alan Kippax summing up the day's play. On good days Kippax was an oracle of priest- like power; when he gave the score there was poetry all the way, down to the 'Sundries, 15' at the bottom. 'Hammond has now complete com- mand of the beouling' was an incantation, a rune to be drawn forth from one's treasure house and repeated in moments of triumph or stress. In the many bad dawns that followed Australia became the enemy, cunning, ruthless, implacable, whose bowlers, though no better thah ours, could wreck an innings out of a blue sky, and whose batsmen never got out unluckily, never disturbed a bail in the act of &brilliant hook. A low score by Bradman could not be repeated: it was only a temporary reprieve, like Achilles in his tent. The England I agonised over meant Ames, Ley- land, Verity, Fames, Barnett, Voce, above all Hammond, taming the Melbourne gluepot with contemptuous grace and mastery, whom merely to see descending the pavilion steps with the majesty of a full-rigged ship was worth a hun- dred by anyone else.
All the same Saturday was, to my imagination, splendid bronze, if not the true gold. Bedser striding his short, superbly rhythmical and pur- poseful run from the Pavilion end, Evans stand- ing up to him, broad-bottomed and portly as a publican but still neat on trim feet, lkin at back- ward short leg, Edrich and F. R. Brown in the slips, Wright at third man just as he always seemed to be in the days when he was the un- luckiest of all bowlers, Washbrook discreetly prowling the covers, Compton at mid-on—it was a reasonable muster of demi-gods; and Lord's, its green mown turf striped like Regency wall- paper in the hot sun, its noble pavilion with that vague suggestion of marine elegance (as if the sea were just behind, where the silent cigar- shaped airliners dip down out of sight), the flickering trees along St. John's Wood Road and the great contented crowd, made a worthy arena for their sport. The Lord's Taverners had two Australians in their side, Miller and B. A. Barnett; and the way Barnett consistently played at and missed Bedser and was several times 'morally' bowled (a great word that, for the Eng- lish supporter), and then went on to make 92, roused flickers of the old indignation.
In the end the game came out so perfectly it might have been stage-managed. There was indeed a suspicion of indulgence to the old fel- lows in Sheppard's run-out at the start of the Taverners' innings, the Rev. David charitably neglecting to ground his bat. But he can hardly have bargained for the accuracy of the throw: Brown, at deep cover, a generous figure in art old sweater with cream-coloured choker, Old England's roast beef, rosy as a Queen Anne house, stooped and with admirable economy of effort threw the wicket down. Not always did the fieldsmen bend to the ball. Anno Domini told a bit with Alf Gover, who bowled from a short shuffled run, like an ageing manservant. But they held their catches, and one of them, taken on the run by lkin low down across his body to dismiss Dr. C. B. Clarke, was a beauty. Clarke, on the rampage, was cut short at 27. Barnett got 92 and Subba Row 82. Subba threw his wicket away, presenting Bedser with a tactful catch so placed that the great man had only to stand his ground and receive it into his huge hands. This action, like others, observed the fitness of things, for Subba Row's innings 'would have been over- priced at a hundred; even in a holiday mood his batting is slightly costive, never getting out of his shots the energy he puts into them. Miller, when 3, was dropped at mid-off. He gestured with a metaphorical tankard in the direction of the Tavern, flicked his hair from his eyes, and swept an imperious six to the Grand Stand. He stepped back and clipped a short ball from Compton gently over the Mound Stand into St. John's Wood Road. With a regal stroke off the back foot to long on he reached his 50, then swept once too often at Wright and was caught off a steepling hit by Edrich at slip. The Taverners declared at three o'clock, 319 for nine, with Norman Wisdom undefeated at No. 9: a rather bemused scoreboard credited him with 6.
The opening of Old England's innings was history rosy-fingered, seen through golden- coloured spectacles. Washbrook, answering Miller's bumpers with a stream of glorious cuts I and hooks, reached 50 in 45 minutes. Robertson, cultivated and unhurried, with high-bladed strokes off the back foot, followed a few minutes later. The stand made 126 in 49 minutes. By contrast Compton was not quite in touch. But his innings had the old eventfulness. He nearly fell on to his wicket first ball, avoiding a Miller bumper which barely cleared the stumps. He sat down just in time to dodge a massive off- drive by Brown. Twice he was nearly run out by Evans. Finally he holed out at mid-on, and suddenly England seemed to have thrown the game away with their old wantonness, and it became urgently important that they should win. Barnett had stumped an indecent number of people. Miller, sunning himself in the deep like a lion at grass, was brought on to clean up the tail. In the end two famous bowlers saw us through, Wright and Bedser, getting 'ern in singles. The last sight of all in a contest played for skill as well as pleasure, and satisfying to every sense, historical, dramatical, lyrical- pastoral, comical, characteristical, was Miller mobilising his energy in a sudden spectacular sprint along the rails and failing by centimetres to cut off the hit that brought England safe home, with two wickets to spare.
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