SPECTATOR SPORT
Just getting down to it
Frank Keating
THE belated CBE for Cyril Washbrook in the birthday honours list was doubtless dreamed up one drizzly day at Old Traf- ford by John Major and his Lancaster sports minister, Robert Atkins. Jolly good for them. Perhaps next they might try to wheedle knighthoods for Denis Compton and John Arlott before those two old boys of summer finally unbuckle their pads.
Nice that Washbrook's recognition came on the eve of a Lord's Test match against the West Indies. Forty-one years ago at Lord's, the West Indies won their cataclys- mic victory against England which set the steel bands joyously plink-plinking and shifted the balance of world cricket. The doughty, pugnacious Washbrook was one of the few to 'read' the mesmeric spin- bowling of Ramadhin and Valentine. With 36 and 114, he top-scored in both innings for England in that match — and for good measure scored another century in the next Test at Nottingham, although again it did not prevent another rout for England.
A couple of Decembers ago, on the morning of his 75th birthday, I telephoned Washbrook to wish him happy returns. I sensed that, deep down, he was touched to get a call out of the blue from an unknown whipper-snapper, although that was not remotely enough to get him to modify the famous autocratic gruffness which had intimidated successive generations of Lan- cashire Colts for over half a century. The day before, I said, I had spoken to Sir Len Hutton (teamed with Washbrook as indel- ibly as Derry & Toms, Crosse & Blackwell, or Hobbs & Sutcliffe), who had said, 'Cyril was my best and favourite opening partner: the ideal: technique, composure, staunch- ness: and a firm friend too'.
Said the old man who used to wear his cap at a jaunty angle and relish hooking whizzers almost off the hairs of his patri- cian's nose: 'That's very kind of Len. I remember as if it was yesterday, coming out after tea at Jo'burg '48-'49; going down on to the ground with Len; vast crowd, and this fellow comes out of it and says "only 30 more for the record, boys", Len looks at me and mutters, "What's he on about?" "Blow me", I say, "not a clue". "Well", says Len, "We'd better get 30 more and see what record it is, eh?" ' It remains England's highest opening partnership of all time — 359, and both men not out.
In 1956, five years after his last match for England, he was a Test selector. They met at the Bath Club in London for Sunday lunch. England were one down with three to play against Australia. The chairman, Gubby Allen, asked Washbrook to leave the room. When they called him back he was told, 'Cyril, you may be 41, but get yourself up to Headingley with your bat and pads.' He was staggered. So was Fleet Street, who went predictably potty about the arrogant gall of a selector picking himself.
On Thursday morning, at three minutes after noon and England reeling on 17 for three, the square-shouldered, middle-aged man in the rich, creamy shirt of Blackburn flannel, strode steadfast to the wicket to join the young captain, May. 'No, I wasn't nervous. I just got down to it'. They put on 187 together, turned the match and, as it happened, the series. Washbrook scored 98, 'my proudest innings ever'.
Who, sir, was the best bowler you ever faced? `Lindwall'. Had there been anyone since, perhaps Lillee or Holding or Mar- shall or Hadlee, who had come near to matching Lindwall?
'Ppumpph!' if that's how you record a disdainful, dismissive grunt.
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