The Picador Book of Cricket

by Ramachandra Guha

  Constantine, running seventeen yards and hurling the ball violently through the air, began sending back the Rawtenstall batsmen. One, two, three, wickets and bails flying every time. Forth from the pavilion came Barnes. He faced the West Indian fast bowler. He was older than Constantine’s father and the wicket was faster now. Barnes got behind the ball, the pitched-up ball, and played it back along the pitch to the bowler. He judged the ball quickly and so got there in time. He kept his left shoulder forward and that kept the bat straight. He played the slower bowlers with equal skill, and whenever there was a single to be taken he took it. He never lost one, and he was in difficulties to get into his crease once only. ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ he said decisively in a deep voice which could be heard all over the ground. His bones were too stiff to force the ball away. But his bat swung true to the drive and he got over the short ball to cut. He stayed there some 40 minutes for 10, and as long as he was there his side was winning. But Constantine bowled him behind his back. Barnes satisfied himself that he was out, and then he left the crease. He came in slowly amid the plaudits of the Nelson crowd, applauding his innings and their satisfaction at his having been dismissed. Courtesy acknowledged the applause. For the rest he continued as he had begun, a man unconsciously scornful of his milieu. After he left, Rawtenstall collapsed.

  Since then, Barnes has taken 5 for a few and startled Lancashire a few days ago by taking 9 for 20. In the years to come, it will be something to say that we have seen him.

  ⋆ ⋆ ⋆

  As player and reporter, J. H. Fingleton had a range of experience that exceeded even that of Neville Cardus. One must therefore take seriously his choice of the finest Test he had known. With typical modesty, he does not tell the reader that he made top score in his side’s first innings. This Australian touring side did not contain Bradman (who was unavailable) but it did have three peerless slow bowlers – Grimmett, O’Reilly and Fleetwood-Smith.

  J. H. FINGLETON

  The Best Test I Have Known (1958)

  I’ve seen some very exciting Test matches and I’ve seen some pretty dull ones (especially during the past few years when captains have been parsimonious in their outlook on the game), but as Tests ‘viewed’ cannot possibly compete with Tests ‘played’, from the viewpoint of personal interest, I’m going to plump very solidly for a Test in which I played. That Test produced two of the greatest innings of this century, and other critics, with no personal part in the game, might also consider this particular Test the best they ever witnessed. Even though it finished in a draw!

  The time was late December 1935. Victor Richardson’s team of Australians had won the first Test against South Africa in Durban, and, although the Springboks a few months earlier had taken the series from England in England, they were deep in the depths of despondency as the second Test came due at the Wanderers’ Ground, Johannesburg.

  It had been a sad homecoming for them. Jock Cameron, a champion wicketkeeper, one of the hardest and most scientific hitters known to modern cricket, and a prince of good fellows, was stricken with enteric fever on the voyage from England and had died. This cast an immediate blight over the tour and, in addition, Grimmett and O’Reilly, possibly the best spin-bowling combination known to Test cricket, had driven a feeling of inferiority into the Springbok ranks. Tremendous bowlers, these two, completely unlike in their tactics. You could bat for two hours against the two masters and not get a loose ball. Often, as I crouched at short leg with Vic Richardson, driving home still further the threat of O’Reilly in particular, I felt pity for the Springboks as I saw their creased looks of intense concentration and worry.

  Fleetwood-Smith was the third of the spinning trio. He, being a left-handed googly bowler, was entirely different from the others, but every batsman had moments of anticipation against him. He was likely to bowl the best batsman in the world head, neck and heels (as he did Hammond once on a true pitch in Adelaide in 1937), and yet every now and then you would get a loose ball from ‘Chuck’.

  Our batsmen were in fine shape, we had Oldfield behind the stilts, and our fielding was said to be up to our highest standards. This, I suppose, was because we had more than a fair sprinkling of young chaps and because, too, we would regularly spend some two hours at fielding when net practice was over. We had the zest of young fellows who knew that to get the best out of a game you must put all you have into it. We loved the exhilaration of living and being on a cricket tour. And we were happily led by a chivalrous warrior, Vic Richardson.

  Well, then, to Johannesburg on this late December morning of 1935. Though we had been walking over the provincial sides, the South African enthusiasts were sure there was something better around the corner. Many families from Durban, Cape Town and the outlying veldts breakfasted outside the Wanderers’ Ground that day, waiting for the gates to open.

  Herby Wade won the toss, gave a happy signal to his dressing room, and a hearty cheer ran around the ground. First blood to South Africa.

  Elation, however, soon turned to dejection. Ernie McCormick (one of the richest wits in the game and the most delightful of teammates) was in his best fast-bowling form that morning. He did not share the feeling of those athletes who are distressed by the high altitude of Johannesburg, 5,700 feet above sea level. The ball behaves differently compared with sea-level grounds, and many a fieldsman, shaping for a catch in the outfield, will find the ball carrying further in the rarefied air, only to finish over the fence.

  McCormick, this day, was as fast as any bowler I have known. He had two other similar spells – one at Brisbane and one at Lord’s, both later – and he revelled in the conditions of this fast pitch. At lunch, South Africa were 6 for 78, their backs and hearts broken. McCormick, at one stage, had these figures: 9–4–26–3. And then came Grimmett to rub it in, as usual.

  I can well recall the anguished ‘Oh!’ that circled the ground when McCormick sent spinning the leg stump of Dudley Nourse, certainly South Africa’s greatest batsman of modern times. Nourse was then in his middle twenties, of average height, splendidly built, and the son of Dave, who, himself, had hit his Test centuries for the Union and was to make a half-century against us in Cape Town towards the end of the tour.

  ‘Dudley will get us out of this mess,’ the crowd had hopefully murmured as he swung through the gate, a picture of fitness and confidence. But Nourse could not put his bat on McCormick, who, apart from his great burst of speed, was swinging the ball late from the leg. So to lunch, with the locals in a state of dejection – but we enjoyed ours!

  The Springboks doubled their score after lunch but were all out for 157. O’Reilly had thundered into the breach and, bowling his leg breaks and bosies to an impeccable length from his height of 6 ft 3 in, he tied the batsmen into many an awkward knot.

  We came to bat just after tea and by stumps that night were ahead with seven wickets in hand. Brown and I were having a happy tour and put on a century opening partnership at better than a run a minute. McCabe was forcing it home in his own brilliant manner when he was dismissed right on time.

  The South African newspapers, I remember, told a doleful tale next day. It was in this innings that I remarked to Richardson, who had taken my customary New South Wales position of silly short leg to O’Reilly, that I would like more fielding work to do. ‘Come and join me,’ said the bright Victor, and along I went to make a double leg trap. The two of us, up so close, had many a narrow escape from decapitation, but we pegged the batsmen down for O’Reilly. It was strange, therefore, knowing what risks we were taking, to read next morning that we ‘were being unsporting in fielding so close to the batsman’. The batsman had the solving of that little problem all in his own hands!

  It was a docile, glum crowd next morning – but not for long. Chud Langton, one of the best medium bowlers I have known, soon got to work on a perfect pitch and under a cloudless sky. He knocked back Richardson’s stumps; he baited Chipperfield in the fine-leg trap; and, with us having last use of a pitch not long laid, we began
to have some apprehensive thoughts of what this bowler would do to us on a wearing pitch in the fourth innings.

  Darling, a spectacular left-hander who never gave the grass much chance to grow under his feet or in the direction of his drives or pulls, was in great form. So, too, was Oldfield, as neat with the bat as the gloves. From 5 for 174 we shot up to 5 for 209. ‘Getting out of the woods,’ we told ourselves as we watched from the pavilion. But then came one of the most brilliant pieces of fielding I have ever seen. Oldfield hit a ball hard and wide of mid-off and called. Darling came on. Langton threw out his right hand at top speed, gathered the ball, wheeled, and threw the stumps over. Darling was out by a foot to as thrilling a piece of fielding as one could ever hope to see.

  The crowd began to chortle again. In the next five minutes – through the medium of Bruce Mitchell – they went crazy with excitement and joy. Mitchell was a grand opening batsman and a very safe slip field, though in the Brisbane Test of 1931 he gave himself the most awesome nightmare for the future by dropping Bradman three times off Neville Quinn before he was 20 – and the Don made 226! Mitchell was also a very fair bowler of leg breaks, walking just two steps to the bowling line, and in one over on this hectic day he took 3 wickets for 3 runs. No wonder the spectators became almost hysterical with excitement.

  The stands were crammed when play recommenced after lunch. This Wanderers’ Ground, since taken over for extension of the railway yards, was in the heart of the city and spectators flocked there during the lunch hour.

  Mitchell’s bowling again made us reflect. If he could turn like this on the second day, what could we expect on the last? No doubt the Springboks were thinking: ‘If Bruce can turn like this, what will O’Reilly and Grimmett do?’

  There must have been some feverish planning in the Springboks’ dressing room, and it was soon obvious what the policy would be. They had decided that this was their day. The portents were clear and they would continue to attack.

  As a true captain should, Herby Wade came first to practise what he preached. No leader from behind was Wade.

  Spurred on by his first-innings success, McCormick bowled again as fast as human could, but this time he lacked accuracy. Twice in his first over wide balls went for boundaries. There was a yell when, in the second over, point misfielded and Siedle went for a run. Wade shouted ‘No’, Siedle jammed on his brakes, turned – and narrowly beat the throw home. Exciting stuff!

  In his second over, Wade beautifully hooked McCormick twice for four. Then came another thrilling pull for four. Siedle also got two fours in the one over from O’Reilly, one a powerful pull, the other a scorching straight drive. Forty came up in 30 minutes. Richardson made quick bowling changes. It was tense, dramatic cricket. Grimmett came on. Wade thought there was turn where there wasn’t, the ball came straight and fast with topspin, and out he went, lbw. Grimmett, the fox of cricket, smiled broadly. He loved to see batsmen play where the ball wasn’t.

  Grimmett and Fleetwood-Smith bowled four successive maiden overs. And now a hush fell over the crowd, only the crack of bat against ball breaking the expectant silence.

  Rowan had come to the crease. Siedle, remembering Wade, played for a straight one which broke – and ‘tinkle, tinkle’ went his bails. Grimmett, as he was wont to do, clasped his arms and smiled again – expansively. ‘You old fox, Clarrie,’ we said, as we thumped him on the back. His grin of delight, when such things happened, was one of the sights of the cricket field. He loved to diddle a batsman out.

  Rowan, the ‘Talkative’ (so called because he kept up a running conversation with bowler, fieldsman and keeper all the time he batted), was kept defending as hard as he talked.

  ‘Wasting your time there, Vic,’ Rowan would say as he played a dead bat to O’Reilly. ‘I hope you see home again, Fingo,’ he said to me as he crashed into a no-ball from O’Reilly and Richardson and I dropped to the ground as if in an air raid.

  Richardson had the decisive, if not the final, word. ‘There’s your passage ticket, Eric,’ said Vic as Rowan feverishly played where the ball wasn’t against Grimmett and up went the umpire’s finger as Grimmett spun round, index finger aloft, and put the question.

  ‘I’ll get you next Test,’ hissed the irrepressible Rowan as off he went.

  So we had fought back again, thanks to Grimmett, whose figures at this stage read: 10–4–20–3. Wonderful bowling.

  Mitchell came at No. 4 this time and Nourse No. 5. Nourse was not himself. Even so early in the tour we had considered that his weakness, if he had one, was against pacy bowling. Richardson must have thought hard as Nourse came to bat. McCormick should have come on immediately for Nourse, but Grimmett couldn’t be taken off and Fleetwood-Smith was also on the spot. It was a difficult decision. Richardson went on with spin.

  Nourse batted as if in a nightmare. He stabbed feverishly, his footwork indecisive. Mitchell thumped two fours off Fleetwood-Smith and another in the next over, but Nourse just couldn’t get the ball away. He was, of course, facing a ‘pair’ and he had the large crowd as uncomfortable as himself – as one feels uncomfortable when watching somebody in distress.

  Grimmett was teasing Nourse unmercifully, but eventually, after playing four maidens, Nourse got him past cover for four. He had been 25 minutes getting off his ‘pair’; but now was to come one of the greatest innings in Test cricket, and perhaps the greatest ever played by a Springbok on his home soil.

  Nourse found himself immediately. He stroked now with precision and confidence, and there was a great yell from the crowd when, at the end of Fleetwood-Smith’s next over, Richardson tossed the ball to McCormick. This purgatory of spin bowling, said the crowd, was over at last. Thrilling and admirable as it was, it was too uncomfortable to watch. Here, now, was McCormick!

  The crowd hadn’t heard Richardson say, as he tossed the ball to McCormick, ‘Grum, Drong.’ A team on tour – a good team, that is – works like a machine and two contractions of nicknames were enough to suggest that there was no spell yet for Grimmett. McCormick, ever the wag, swung his bowling arm several times – and then threw the ball to Grimmett. Mitchell, who could hit when in the mood, tucked Clarrie away for three fours in that over. The crowd loved it.

  So to tea, with South Africa 3 for 132 – Mitchell 28, Nourse 14.

  ‘Stoke yourself up, Drong,’ said Richardson to McCormick at tea. ‘You look like having a long lease of that top end.’

  ‘And about time, too,’ chipped in Grimmett. ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself, leaving all the hard work to young chaps like me!’

  ‘Who said you were coming off, Grum?’ said Richardson, bantering Grimmett, as he always did. ‘You’ve just started to bowl. And no more experiments with Bruce Mitchell, either. Get stuck into him.’

  McCormick paced out his long run after tea. In that very first over Nourse snicked one that flew high to the clutching hands of the jumping Chipperfield and Richardson in the slips. Luck was with the batsman, and the ball went through, untouched, to the fence. The crowd gasped in relief.

  Then came a three and a two through the slips, upon which Richardson gave McCormick more slips, until he had five in all. Nourse accepted the challenge and once, twice, thrice he cut McCormick through the massed slips to the fence. The crowd roared with glee and then shouted approbation in the next over as Nourse calmly ignored every ball from McCormick, all teasingly outside the off stump with the slipsmen crouched, their tense fingers expectant for the catch.

  Nourse overtook Mitchell in the thirties, forced Grimmett superlatively off his toes for four, picked McCormick square for four, and then on-drove him for four. Fast, anticipatory fielding by Darling saved another four. Then came O’Reilly, to curb Nourse with four successive maidens. Nourse broke the sequence by drawing back to his stumps, standing tiptoe, and crashing O’Reilly with a short-arm backswing between Richardson and myself. To the fence, again – and we withdrew a yard.

  Up came Nourse’s fifty in 90 minutes, with eight fours. Take out his a
bortive first 25 minutes and his fifty came in 65 minutes. Not even Cyril Walters had treated Grimmett and O’Reilly like this in the preceding year in England.

  Nourse surged on, his feet twinkling, his bat scourging. Out and back, out and back, his body never still, never retaining its initial position of the stance. Mitchell, like the sensible man he was, withdrew into passive obscurity.

  Nourse almost went at 65, Fleetwood-Smith getting one hand to a hefty pull off Grimmett. Next ball, Nourse savagely hooked Grimmett for four, where there was no fieldsman.

  The new ball came at 210. McCormick had four slips but Nourse got him through immediately for four. Oldfield snapped Mitchell up off McCabe (134 minutes for 45) and Nourse had made 76 of the 129 partnership – a partnership which redeemed the reputation of South African cricket because it quelled, for the first time, the great Australian spin attack.

  Still Nourse sailed on. Off four successive balls from McCormick, he took 11 with two successive fours out through the alert off-side field – drives in the classic manner, timed to perfection, the bat swinging against a stiff left leg and the ball sounding off the bat like a sweet chime.

  Nourse stood at 98 as the last over came. ‘Dudley, Dudley, Dudley!’ chanted the wildly excited natives in their special stand on the far side of the ground. I went down near them, to field on the fence, and there saw a mass of dark faces, with white teeth gleaming in anticipation of Nourse’s hundred that night. On the opposite side of the ground, no noise came from the whites. They sat like monks in contemplation.

  The garish day finished at last, with Nourse still 98 and still not out. The Springboks were 161 ahead – with six wickets in hand. We could, we told ourselves in the pavilion that night, lose this game. But what an innings from Nourse!