‘How was Warrington out?’
‘Caught in the slips.’
‘By Jove!’ said Mike. ‘This is pretty rocky. Three for sixty-one. We shall get mopped.’
‘Unless you and Joe do something. There’s no earthly need to get out. The wicket’s as good as you want, and the bowling’s nothing special. Well played, Joe!’
A beautiful glide to leg by the greatest of the Jacksons had rolled up against the pavilion rails. The fieldsmen changed across for the next over.
‘If only Peters stops a bit –’ began Mike, and broke off. Peters’ off stump was lying at an angle of forty-five degrees.
‘Well, he hasn’t,’ said Reggie grimly. ‘Silly ass, why did he hit at that one? All he’d got to do was to stay in with Joe. Now it’s up to you. Do try and do something, or we’ll be out under the hundred.’
Mike waited till the outcoming batsman had turned in at the professionals’ gate. Then he walked down the steps and out into the open, feeling more nervous than he had felt since that far-off day when he had first gone in to bat for Wrykyn against the MCC. He found his thoughts flying back to that occasion. Today, as then, everything seemed very distant and unreal. The spectators were miles away. He had often been to Lord’s as a spectator, but the place seemed entirely unfamiliar now. He felt as if he were in a strange land.
He was conscious of Joe leaving the crease to meet him on his way. He smiled feebly. ‘Buck up,’ said Joe in that robust way of his which was so heartening. ‘Nothing in the bowling, and the wicket like a shirt-front. Play just as if you were at the nets. And for goodness’ sake don’t try to score all your runs in the first over. Stick in, and we’ve got them.’
Mike smiled again more feebly than before, and made a weird gurgling noise in his throat.
It had been the Middlesex fast bowler who had destroyed Peters. Mike was not sorry. He did not object to fast bowling. He took guard, and looked round him, taking careful note of the positions of the slips.
As usual, once he was at the wicket the paralysed feeling left him. He became conscious again of his power. Dash it all, what was there to be afraid of? He was a jolly good bat, and he would jolly well show them that he was, too.
The fast bowler, with a preliminary bound, began his run. Mike settled himself into position, his whole soul concentrated on the ball. Everything else was wiped from his mind.
For nearly two hours Mike had been experiencing the keenest pleasure that it had ever fallen to his lot to feel. From the moment he took his first ball till the luncheon interval he had suffered the acutest discomfort. His nervousness had left him to a great extent, but he had never really settled down. Sometimes by luck, and sometimes by skill, he had kept the ball out of his wicket; but he was scratching, and he knew it. Not for a single over had he been comfortable. On several occasions he had edged balls to leg and through the slips in quite an inferior manner, and it was seldom that he managed to hit with the centre of the bat.
Nobody is more alive to the fact that he is not playing up to his true form than the batsman. Even though his score mounted little by little into the twenties, Mike was miserable. If this was the best he could do on a perfect wicket, he felt there was not much hope for him as a professional.
The poorness of his play was accentuated by the brilliance of Joe’s. Joe combined science and vigour to a remarkable degree. He laid on the wood with a graceful robustness which drew much cheering from the crowd. Beside him Mike was oppressed by that leaden sense of moral inferiority which weighs on a man who has turned up to dinner in ordinary clothes when everybody else has dressed. He felt awkward and conspicuously out of place.
Then came lunch – and after lunch a glorious change.
Volumes might be written on the cricket lunch and the influence it has on the run of the game; how it undoes one man, and sends another back to the fray like a giant refreshed; how it turns the brilliant fast bowler into the sluggish medium, and the nervous bat into the masterful smiter.
On Mike its effect was magical. He lunched wisely and well, chewing his food with the concentration of a thirty-three bites a mouthful crank, and drinking dry ginger-ale. As he walked out with Joe after the interval he knew that a change had taken place in him. His nerve had come back, and with it his form.
It sometimes happens at cricket that when one feels particularly fit one gets snapped in the slips in the first over, or clean bowled by a full toss; but neither of these things happened to Mike. He stayed in, and began to score. Now there were no edgings through the slips and snicks to leg. He was meeting the ball in the centre of the bat, and meeting it vigorously. Two boundaries in successive balls off the fast bowler, hard, clean drives past extra-cover, put him at peace with all the world. He was on top. He had found himself.
Joe, at the other end, resumed his brilliant career. His century and Mike’s fifty arrived in the same over. The bowling began to grow loose.
Joe, having reached his century, slowed down somewhat, and Mike took up the running. The score rose rapidly.
A leg-theory bowler kept down the pace of the run-getting for a time, but the bowlers at the other end continued to give away runs. Mike’s score passed from sixty to seventy, from seventy to eighty, from eighty to ninety. When the Smiths, father and son, came on to the ground the total was ninety-eight. Joe had made a hundred and thirty-three.
Mike reached his century just as Psmith and his father took their seats. A square cut off the slow bowler was just too wide for point to get to. By the time third man had sprinted across and returned the ball the batsmen had run two.
Mr Smith was enthusiastic.
‘I tell you,’ he said to Psmith, who was clapping in a gently encouraging manner, ‘the boy’s a wonderful bat. I said so when he was down with us. I remember telling him so myself. “I’ve seen your brothers play,” I said, “and you’re better than any of them.” I remember it distinctly. He’ll be playing for England in another year or two. Fancy putting a cricketer like that into the City! It’s a crime.’
‘I gather,’ said Psmith, ‘that the family coffers had got a bit low. It was necessary for Comrade Jackson to do something by way of saving the Old Home.’
‘He ought to be at the University. Look, he’s got that man away to the boundary again. They’ll never get him out.’
At six o’clock the partnership was broken. Joe running himself out in trying to snatch a single where no single was. He had made a hundred and eighty-nine.
Mike flung himself down on the turf with mixed feelings. He was sorry Joe was out, but he was very glad indeed of the chance of a rest. He was utterly fagged. A half-day match once a week is no training for first-class cricket. Joe, who had been playing all the season, was as tough as india-rubber, and trotted into the pavilion as fresh as if he had been having a brief spell at the nets. Mike, on the other hand, felt that he simply wanted to be dropped into a cold bath and left there indefinitely. There was only another half-hour’s play, but he doubted if he could get through it.
He dragged himself up wearily as Joe’s successor arrived at the wickets. He had crossed Joe before the latter’s downfall, and it was his turn to take the bowling.
Something seemed to have gone out of him. He could not time the ball properly. The last ball of the over looked like a half-volley, and he hit out at it. But it was just short of a half-volley, and his stroke arrived too soon. The bowler, running in the direction of mid-on, brought off an easy c.-and-b.
Mike turned away towards the pavilion. He heard the gradually swelling applause in a sort of dream. It seemed to him hours before he reached the dressing-room.
He was sitting on a chair, wishing that somebody would come along and take off his pads, when Psmith’s card was brought to him. A few moments later the old Etonian appeared in person.
‘Hullo, Smith,’ said Mike, ‘By Jove! I’m done.’
‘“How Little Willie Saved the Match,”’ said Psmith. ‘What you want is one of those gin and ginger-beers we hear so mu
ch about. Remove those pads, and let us flit downstairs in search of a couple. Well, Comrade Jackson, you have fought the good fight this day. My father sends his compliments. He is dining out, or he would have come up. He is going to look in at the flat latish.’
‘How many did I get?’ asked Mike. ‘I was so jolly done I didn’t think of looking.’
‘A hundred and forty-eight of the best,’ said Psmith. ‘What will they say at the old homestead about this? Are you ready? Then let us test this fruity old ginger-beer of theirs.’
The two batsmen who had followed the big stand were apparently having a little stand all of their own. No more wickets fell before the drawing of stumps. Psmith waited for Mike while he changed, and carried him off in a cab to Simpson’s, a restaurant which, as he justly observed, offered two great advantages, namely, that you need not dress, and, secondly, that you paid your half-crown, and were then at liberty to eat till you were helpless, if you felt so disposed, without extra charge.
Bingley Crocker Learns Cricket
POETS HAVE DEALT feelingly with the emotions of practically every variety except one. They have sung of Ruth, of Israel in bondage, of slaves pining for their native Africa, and of the miner’s dream of home. But the sorrows of the baseball enthusiast, compelled by fate to live three thousand miles away from the Polo Grounds, have been neglected in song. Bingley Crocker was such a one, and in summer his agonies were awful. He pined away in a country where they said ‘Well played, sir!’ when they meant ‘At-a-boy!’
‘Bayliss, do you play cricket?’
‘I am a little past the age, sir. In my younger days –’
‘Do you understand it?’
‘Yes, sir. I frequently spend an afternoon at Lord’s or the Oval when there is a good match.’
Many who enjoyed a merely casual acquaintance with the butler would have looked on this as an astonishingly unexpected revelation of humanity in Bayliss, but Mr Crocker was not surprised. To him, from the very beginning, Bayliss had been a man and a brother, who was always willing to suspend his duties in order to answer questions dealing with the thousand and one problems which the social life of England presented. Mr Crocker’s mind had adjusted itself with difficulty to the niceties of class distinction, and though he had cured himself of his early tendency to address the butler as ‘Bill’, he never failed to consult him as man to man in his moments of perplexity. Bayliss was always eager to be of assistance. He liked Mr Crocker. True, his manner might have struck a more sensitive man than his employer as a shade too closely resembling that of an indulgent father toward a son who was not quite right in the head; but it had genuine affection in it.
Mr Crocker picked up his paper and folded it back at the sporting page, pointing with a stubby forefinger.
‘Well, what does all this mean? I’ve kept out of watching cricket since I landed in England, but yesterday they got the poison needle to work and took me off to see Surrey play Kent at that place, Lord’s, where you say you go sometimes.’
‘I was there yesterday, sir. A very exciting game.’
‘Exciting? How do you make that out? I sat in the bleachers all afternoon waiting for something to break loose. Doesn’t anything ever happen at cricket?’
The butler winced a little, but managed to smile a tolerant smile. This man, he reflected, was but an American, and as much more to be pitied than censured. He endeavoured to explain.
‘It was a sticky wicket yesterday, sir, owing to the rain.’
‘Eh?’
‘The wicket was sticky, sir.’
‘Come again.’
‘I mean that the reason why the game yesterday struck you as slow was that the wicket – I should say the turf – was sticky – that is to say, wet. Sticky is the technical term, sir. When the wicket is sticky the batsmen are obliged to exercise a great deal of caution, as the stickiness of the wicket enables the bowlers to make the ball turn more sharply in either direction as it strikes the turf than when the wicket is not sticky.’
‘That’s it, is it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thanks for telling me.’
‘Not at all, sir.’
Mr Crocker pointed to the paper.
‘Well, now, this seems to be the boxscore of the game we saw yesterday. If you can make sense out of that, go to it.’
The passage on which his finger rested was headed Final Score, and ran as follows:
SURREY
FIRST INNINGS
Hayward, c Wooley b Carr
67
Hobbs, run out
0
Hayes, st Huish b Fielder
12
Ducat, b Fielder
33
Harrison, not out
11
Sandham, not out
6
Extras
10
—
Total (for four wickets)
139
Bayliss inspected the cipher gravely.
‘What is it you wish me to explain, sir?’
‘Why, the whole thing. What’s it all about?’
‘It’s perfectly simple, sir. Surrey won the toss and took first knock. Hayward and Hobbs were the opening pair. Hayward called Hobbs for a short run, but the latter was unable to get across and was thrown out by mid-on. Hayes was the next man in. He went out of his ground and was stumped. Ducat and Hayward made a capital stand considering the stickiness of the wicket, until Ducat was bowled by a good length off-break and Hayward caught at second slip off a googly. Then Harrison and Sandham played out time.’
Mr Crocker breathed heavily through his nose.
‘Yes!’ he said. ‘Yes! I had an idea that was it. But I think I’d like to have it once again slowly. Start with these figures. What does that sixty-seven mean, opposite Hayward’s name?’
‘He made sixty-seven runs, sir.’
‘Sixty-seven! In one game?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why, Home-Run Baker couldn’t do it!’
‘I am not familiar with Mr Baker, sir.’
‘I suppose you’ve never seen a ball game?’
‘Ball game, sir?’
‘A baseball game?’
‘Never, sir.’
‘Then, Bill,’ said Mr Crocker, reverting in his emotion to the bad habit of his early London days, ‘you haven’t lived. See here!’
Whatever vestige of respect for class distinctions Mr Crocker had managed to preserve during the opening stages of the interview now definitely disappeared. His eyes shone wildly and he snorted like a warhorse. He clutched the butler by the sleeve and drew him closer to the table, then began to move forks, spoons, cups, and even the contents of his plate, about the cloth with an energy little short of feverish.
‘Bayliss?’
‘Sir?’
‘Watch!’ said Mr Crocker, with the air of an excitable high priest about to initiate a novice into the mysteries.
He removed a roll from the basket.
‘You see this roll? That’s the home plate. This spoon is first base. Where I’m putting this cup is second. This piece of bacon is third. There’s your diamond for you. Very well then. These lumps of sugar are the infielders and the outfielders. Now we’re ready. Batter up! He stands here. Catcher behind him. Umps behind catcher.’
‘Umps, I take it, sir, is what we would call the umpire?’
‘Call him anything you like. It’s part of the game. Now here’s the box, where I’ve put this dab of marmalade, and here’s the pitcher winding up.’
‘The pitcher would be equivalent to our bowler?’
‘I guess so, though why you should call him a bowler gets past me.’
‘The box, then, is the bowler’s wicket?’
‘Have it your own way. Now pay attention. Play ball! Pitcher’s winding up. Put it over, Mike, put it over! Some speed, kid! Here it comes right in the groove. Bing! Batter slams it and streaks for first. Outfielder – this lump of sugar – boots it. Bonehead! Batter touches second. Third?
No! Get back! Can’t be done. Play it safe. Stick round the sack, old pal. Second batter up. Pitcher getting something on the ball now besides the cover. Whiffs him. Back to the bench, Cyril! Third batter up. See him rub his hands in the dirt. Watch this kid. He’s good! Lets two alone, then slams the next right on the nose. Whizzes round to second. First guy, the one we left on second, comes home for one run. That’s a game! Take it from me, Bill, that’s a game!’
Somewhat overcome with the energy with which he had flung himself into his lecture, Mr Crocker sat down and refreshed himself with cold coffee.
‘Quite an interesting game,’ said Bayliss. ‘But I find, now that you have explained it, sir, that it is familiar to me, though I have always known it under another name. It is played a great deal in this country.’
Mr Crocker started to his feet.
‘It is? And I’ve been five years here without finding it out! When’s the next game scheduled?’
‘It is known in England as rounders, sir. Children play it with a soft ball and a racket, and derive considerable enjoyment from it. I have never heard of it before as a pastime for adults.’
Two shocked eyes stared into the butler’s face.
‘Children?’ The word came in a whisper. ‘A racket?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You – you didn’t say a soft ball?’
‘Yes, sir.’
A sort of spasm seemed to convulse Mr Crocker. He had lived five years in England, but not till this moment had he realised to the full how utterly alone he was in an alien land. Fate had placed him, bound and helpless, in a country where they called baseball rounders and played it with a soft ball.
How’s That, Umpire?
THE STORY OF Conky Biddle’s great love begins at about six forty-five on an evening in June in the Marylebone district of London. He had spent the day at Lord’s cricket ground watching a cricket match, and driving away at close of play had been held up in a traffic jam. And held up alongside his taxi was a car with a girl at the wheel. And he had just lit a cigarette and was thinking of this and that, when he heard her say:
Wodehouse at the Wicket: A Cricketing Anthology Page 8