THIRD DAY
In constant sunshine the third day began and ended, but it had in it little of brightness or pleasure for English cricket. The Australians devoted themselves to the twin-souled cause of consolidation and attrition. Bradman abstained from gaudy hits; he and Kippax began the morning as though Australia’s position in the match still needed cement in the foundations. Neither batsman seemed likely to get out, except through some error gross and inexplicable. Bradman, like Kippax, waited for the loose ball, punished it mercilessly without going beyond the safe scope of known and practised technique. No wickets fell before lunch; Australia were then 544 for 2; and after lunch Bradman and Kippax resumed activity or operations exactly where they had left off at half past one. Somebody in the press box asked if King George was expected at Lord’s again, and I added the hope that he would bring the entire Court with him. The scalded bowlers worked in shifts waiting for the mistake Bradman or Kippax would surely make in God’s good time; and at ten minutes to three Bradman lifted a ball from White into the air – the only ball he raised an inch from the ground in all the length and magnitude of his innings. Chapman ran yards on the off side, and held the catch. Bradman scored 254 in five hours and a half; on the third day he made 99 in three hours, playing with a comfort which told us that he was for reasons of policy not moving along at a quicker or more murderous speed. Kippax soon followed Bradman to the pavilion’s refreshing shade. He tried to cut White and played on. His 83 pleased the eye of the connoisseur all the time.
Here happened the ferocious Australian onslaught which for hours had been in sinister preparation. McCabe, Richardson, Oldfield treated the England attack sardonically; every ball was hit somehow, in the air, on the ground, into the crowd, 56 in 25 minutes. The declaration by Woodfull at the total of 729 for 6 was regarded by everybody present not only as an act of policy but also of Christian charity. One of the scoreboards patriotically declined to register the number 7. Australia’s innings had lasted ten hours and ten minutes; England were destined eight years later to take revenge for this monstrous spawning and spoliation; but we could not know this on the glorious summer’s day of our discontent at Lord’s in 1930. A sad day it was to the end. Hobbs and Woolley, when England went in again 304 behind, scored 45 in half an hour by means of strokes good and strokes not so good. Grimmett immediately discovered spots on the wicket, the same wicket which only a few moments earlier had suggested a batsman’s field of a cloth of gold. Hobbs walked down the pitch and prodded it. When Bradman left his crease it was always to prod the bowling. Grimmett coaxed Hobbs forward and bowled him with a leg break. He placed a silly mid-on under Woolley’s nose. As a retaliation Woolley hit Grimmett square and trod on his wicket while doing so. Apparently fearing the presence of the ‘silly’ mid-on, Woolley pulled his stroke farther round than he would have done if no ‘silly’ mid-on had been in his way; he was obliged in consequence to move back on his stumps in order to shorten the ball’s length. Craft as well as misfortune contributed to his undoing. At half past six, England’s 98 for 2 definitely announced that Australia were on the verge of an astonishing and illustrious victory.
FOURTH AND LAST DAY
At the end of this great and enchanting match, I sat on the Green Bank at Lord’s, hurriedly writing my description of the day’s play just after five o’clock. I could begin my article for the Manchester Guardian in no better way than this –
There is a passage in Tom Jones where Fielding, having got his plot terribly complicated, calls on all the high Muses, in person and severally, for aid; because he tells us, ‘without their guidance I do not know how to bring my story to a successful conclusion’. As I write this report, I feel also the need of inspired and kindly forces. The day’s play, in the old term, beggars description . . .
England had virtually lost the match by noon; in the last hour of the afternoon – my God, they nearly won it back. And they lowered the flag only after being forced to submit by sheer odds. When twelve o’clock chimed from the clock covered with ivy at the nursery end England were 147 for 5; Hobbs, Woolley, Hammond, Duleepsinhji and Hendren out; and the Australians were 157 ahead and another innings in hand. Grimmett was at his exercises again, wheedling his victims out, by slow flight which hovered before the crease, the ball an Ancient Mariner’s eye, fixing the batsman on the spot, until it span with the noise of wasps. Now, as we could hear the England innings splitting on its beam ends, Percy Chapman came in. Before making a run he spooned Grimmett to midwicket, totally confounded by flight. The chance was the easiest ever offered to fieldsmen in a Test match. The ball hung obligingly, waiting to be caught. Two Australian fieldsmen dithered – and the ball fell harmlessly to earth between them. I can see at this distant hour and in the distant place where I am writing these lines the wild incredulous stare of Grimmett’s eyes; and I think I can hear also a slightly demented laugh. Chapman proceeded to play an innings fantastic and audacious, with skill half blinded by hazard and gallantry. G. O. Allen helped him staunchly in a stand which, coming as it did after the impotence of Hammond and Hendren, seemed absolutely secure, once Chapman had discovered that he could kick Grimmett’s breaking-away ball (the ‘googly’ to Chapman’s left-handed bat) with his legs and pads; he then proceeded to kick and frustrate it by pedal movements which were scarcely related to any known formulated footwork. At lunch Chapman and Allen were still not out, England 262 for 5. And all Lord’s wondered and hoped . . . could the match after all be saved? Alas, after the interval, Grimmett’s straight ball ensnared Allen, but not before the sixth wicket had added 125 in 95 minutes. Allen’s courage and trustfulness in a straight bat played forward entitles this innings to an immortal place or chapter in the Foxe’s Book of Martyrs of Cricket. Chapman’s cricket was played as though in a strange dimension of unreason with a method in all the apparently inverted science. Some of his strokes, technically to be counted and described as mishits, seemed somehow to have the power and certainty of strokes made and directed from the bat’s true middle. With a combination of pushwork with his pads and a delayed forward lunge, he upset Grimmett’s tactics in the very first stage of his innings, when England’s position was at its worst. Grimmett was obliged to pack the on side and pitch his leg break – off break, of course, to Chapman – wide to the off stump. But as soon as Chapman had obtained a ‘sight’ of the ball, he repeatedly pulled Grimmett round, square or to long on, or in spaces between these two points. No cricketer entirely speculative could hope to hit Grimmett hard and often simply by flinging his bat through the air. Chapman pulled Grimmett for six, pulled or drove him for six three times. In an hour he scored 69. A mighty straight drive from Grimmett lifted the astonished, happy crowd to the height. This was Chapman’s hour; he was in a beatitude. His bat performed wonders and it was as if he did not know it was performing wonders. He sent a ball into the deeps of the packed multitude on the Mound stand. Seldom has an innings in a Test match stirred a crowd to such jubilation as Chapman inspired now; it was a jubilation in which people saw visions and experienced unwonted impulses towards perfection. We should probably have to refer to Jessop’s rout and rape of the Australians at the Oval in 1902 to find an equal to Chapman’s century at Lord’s in 1930. His 121 was made out of 207 in two hours and a half; and England in a second innings, broken of back halfway, survived to achieve a total of 375. A run-out, which threw away White’s wicket when he was defending safely enough with Robins at the other end, no doubt had a subtle and far-reaching influence on the result of the match, a result that was not reached in the matter-of-course way expected by the Australians and everybody else at all interested.
At ten minutes to four, Woodfull and Ponsford walked confidently into the sunshine to compile the nominal 72 needed for victory. Against Tate and Hammond, Ponsford batted as though intent on getting all the runs himself. Two fours from Tate set him in excellent motion. Woodfull then sent a severe chance of a catch to Duleepsinhji at mid-on; and an over or two afterwards Robins, who had found a s
pot at the pavilion end, bowled Ponsford beautifully. Bradman, in next, was as usual slow in his progress to the wicket; the crowd remained, of course, to see him bat. People who had seen his first innings told those who hadn’t exactly what they thought he would do to finish off the game. He scored a non-committal single before he lay back and cut Tate ferociously, a great stroke cracking in the air like gunshot. It disturbed the pigeons. Thousands of eyes flashed to the boundary. Chapman was in the ‘gully’, standing in his favourite position as the ball was bowled, legs apart, arms semi-folded, left elbow resting on the top of the right hand. As Bradman made the stroke, Chapman bent down, picked up the ball an inch from the grass, threw up a catch beyond belief, and assumed his usual upright stance, legs slightly apart, left elbow . . . and so on. The roar of the crowd expressed ecstasy and incredulity simultaneously. I was watching the match at this point in the company of Sir James Barrie, in front of the Tavern. As Bradman departed from the crease, on his way back to the pavilion, Barrie spoke to me, saying: ‘Why is he going away?’ ‘But surely,’ I said, ‘surely, Sir James, you saw that marvellous catch by Chapman?’ ‘Oh yes,’ replied Barrie. ‘I saw it all right. But what evidence is there that the ball which Chapman threw up into the air is the same ball that left Bradman’s bat?’
Spin by Robins ensnared Kippax, caught at the wicket by Duckworth with a terrible noise and yelping. Australia 22 for 3. Could England . . . but nobody dared tempt Providence by asking. Young McCabe the next batsman was met by Woodfull, who spoke to him. Robins lost his length; McCabe plundered 13 in an over, settling the account and issue. As the cricketers came from the field, the light of a glorious June afternoon shone on them; it shines on them yet. A victory in four days won in the face of a total of 425; England, though needing 304 to save defeat by an innings and though down and out at noon on the last day, in the fourth innings of a dusty Lord’s wicket, forced Australia to sweat and strain at the finish. It was the match of everybody who played in it. Victor and vanquished emerged with equal honour; and the chief laurel crowned the fair perspiring brow of A. P. F. Chapman. The match of every cricketer’s heart’s desire.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆
From Lord’s Cricket Ground we move to an obscure venue in the north of England. The Lancashire League has always featured some bitterly contested matches. Each team is made up of ten workaday players, young and old, and one well-regarded ‘professional’. In this particular match the professionals were two of the immortals. The man writing of their clash, although then unknown, is now regarded as one of the greatest of all cricket writers.
C. L. R. JAMES
Barnes v. Constantine (1932)
Sydney Barnes is generally admitted to be the greatest bowler cricket has yet seen. I had a glimpse of him the other day in action. He is fifty-nine years of age (the date of his birth given in Wisden is incorrect). Yet the man is still a fine bowler. It was an experience to watch him.
To begin with, Barnes not only is fifty-nine, but looks it. Some cricketers at fifty-nine look and move like men in their thirties. Not so Barnes. You can almost hear the old bones creaking. He is tall and thin, well over six feet, with strong features. It is rather a remarkable face in its way, and could belong to a great lawyer or a statesman without incongruity. He holds his head well back, with the rather long chin lifted. He looks like a man who has seen as much of the world as he wants to see.
I saw him first before the match began, bowling to one of his own side without wickets. He carried his arm over as straight as a post, spinning a leg break in the orthodox way. Then he had a knock himself. But although the distance was only a dozen yards and the ball was being bowled at a very slow pace, Barnes put a glove on. He was not going to run the risk of those precious fingers being struck by the ball. When the preliminary practice stopped he walked in, by himself, with his head in the air, a man intent on his own affairs.
His own side, Rawtenstall, took the field to get Nelson out. League sides will sometimes treat the new ball with Saturday-afternoon carelessness; not so Rawtenstall. Ten of them played about with an old ball: Barnes held the new. He fixed his field, two slips close in and the old-fashioned point, close in. Mid-off was rather wide. When every man was placed to the nearest centimetre Barnes walked back and set the old machinery in motion. As he forced himself to the crease you could see every year of the fifty-nine; but the arm swung over gallantly, high and straight. The wicket was slow, but a ball whipped hot from the pitch in the first over, and second slip took a neat catch. When the over was finished he walked a certain number of steps and took up his position in the slips. He stood as straight as his right arm, with his hands behind his back. The bowler began his run – a long run – Barnes still immovable. Just as the ball was about to be delivered Barnes bent forward slightly with his hands ready in front of him. To go right down as a normal slip fieldsman goes was for him, obviously, a physical impossibility. But he looked alert, and I got the impression that whatever went into his hands would stay there. As the ball reached the wicketkeeper’s hands or was played by the batsman, Barnes straightened himself and again put his hands behind his back. That was his procedure in the field right through the afternoon. Now and then by way of variety he would move a leg an inch or two and point it on the toe for a second or two. Apart from that, he husbanded his strength.
He took 7 wickets for about 30 runs, and it is impossible to imagine better bowling of its kind. The batsmen opposed to him were not of high rank, most of them, but good bowling is good bowling, whoever plays it. Armistead, a sound batsman, was obviously on his mettle. Barnes kept him playing; then he bowled one of his most dangerous balls – a flighted one, dropping feet shorter without any change of action and, what is so much more dangerous, pitching on the middle wicket and missing the off. Armistead, magnetized into playing forward, had the good sense to keep his right toe firm. The wicketkeeper observed Armistead’s toe regretfully, and threw the ball back to Barnes. Up to this time Armistead had relied almost entirely on the back stroke. It had carried him to where he was without mishap. A forward stroke had imperilled his innings. Behold there the elements of a tragedy, obvious, no doubt, but as Mr Desmond MacCarthy says, the obvious is the crowning glory of art. Armistead played back to the next ball. But he couldn’t get his bat to it in time. Barnes hit him hard on the pads with a straight ball, and the pads were in front of the wicket.
He went from triumph to triumph, aided, no doubt, by the terror of his name. When Constantine came in I looked for a duel. Constantine was not going to be drawn into playing forward. Barnes was not going to bowl short to be hooked over the pavilion, or overpitch to be hit into the football field. Constantine also was not going to chance it. For on that turning wicket, to such accurate bowling, who chanced it was lost.
Constantine jumped to him once, and a long field picked the ball up from the ground, where it had been from the time it left the bat. Barnes bowled a slow one, that might almost be called short. It pitched on the leg stump. Constantine shaped for the forcing back stroke. The field was open. But even as he raised himself for the stroke he held his hand, and wisely. The ball popped up and turned many inches. Another ball or two, and again Barnes dropped another on the same spot. It was a sore temptation. Constantine shaped again for his stroke, his own stroke, and again he held his hand; wisely, for the ball broke and popped up again. So the pair watched one another, like two fencers sparring for an opening. The crowd sat tense. Was this recitative suddenly to burst into the melody of fours and sixes to all parts of the field? The Nelson crowd at least hoped so. But it was not to be. Some insignificant trundler at the other end who bowled mediocre balls bowled Constantine with one of them.
After that it was a case of the boa constrictor and the rabbits, the only matter of interest being how long he would take to dispose of them. But, nevertheless, old campaigner as he is, Barnes took no chances. Slip would stand on the exact spot where the bowler wanted him, there and nowhere else. When a batsman who had once hit him for two or
three fours came in, Barnes put two men out immediately. As soon as a single was made, the outfieldsmen were drawn in again and carefully fixed in their original positions, although the score might be about 50 for 8 or something of the kind. Barnes had lived long enough in the world of cricket to know that there at any rate it does not pay to give anything away. Nelson failed to reach 70. As the Rawtenstall team came in, the crowd applauded his fine bowling mightily. Barnes walked through it intent on his own affairs. He had had much of that all his life.
The Picador Book of Cricket Page 40