Poor Tommy’s chances of a Blue seemed small. Somehow, perhaps on account of the excitement of the day or the electricity with which the thunder-clouds filled the air, I felt disinclined for bed. The church clock struck half-past eleven. I sat down by the side of the pitch and lit my pipe. It was pleasant, if a little eerie, out there in the middle of the Park. I sat on where I was long after my pipe had gone out, listening dreamily to the thousand and one faint noises of a summer night.
I think I must have been falling asleep, when suddenly a new sound came to my ears, and I was broad awake in a moment. It was none of those thousand and one noises which are all unaccountable yet not startling. It was the soft tread of a human foot on the turf, and a heavy breathing, as of one working hard. I could just see a dim figure coming slowly towards me. A few yards away it halted, and I heard a thud, as it set down its burden on the ground.
It was the noise that followed the thud that made me dart forward so rapidly. It was the unmistakable sloppy splash of water forced out of the spout of a can. I realised the situation at once. Somebody had come to water the wicket.
I am glad to say that I abandoned the notion that it was Tommy a clear three seconds before I became aware of the criminal’s real identity. I felt instinctively that it would take a deal more than the thought of his bet to make him sink to such depths.
‘Oh!’ gasped a frightened voice. ‘Who’s that?’
I recognised the voice. The intruder was the youngest of the four Heaths; Tommy’s sister Ella.
‘Ella!’ I cried. ‘What on earth – ?’
I heard her draw a long breath of relief.
‘Oh, is that you, Peter? How you frightened me!’
‘What are you doing out here at this time of night?’
‘It was so hot, I couldn’t sleep. I –’
‘And what is that can for?’ I inquired coolly.
‘I don’t care!’ she said defiantly. ‘I meant to do it, and I would have done it if you hadn’t caught me. Don’t glare at me like that, Peter. I don’t care a bit. I heard every word you and poor old Tommy were saying. You didn’t know my bedroom window was over that seat. I heard you say that you wished you could water the pitch. It’s no use looking shocked, Peter, because I’m not sorry. Not a bit.’
The main points of the affair had found their way to my understanding by now. I was conscious of a curious, dazed feeling. It was like a vivid dream.
‘But, Ella,’ I said at last, ‘it’s impossible. You can’t have understood. Don’t you see what a frightful thing – It isn’t as if you knew nothing about cricket. You know as well as I do what it means to doctor the pitch between the innings.’
‘I don’t care!’ she repeated. ‘I would do anything to save Tommy from that beast, Mr Flood.’
‘As if Tommy wouldn’t rather lose his Blue a hundred times sooner than be saved like that.’
There was a pause.
‘Peter.’
‘Well?’
‘You know – you know you said you’d do anything for me?’
I may state here – briefly – that, like the great majority of the youth of the neighbourhood, I was head over ears in love with Tommy’s sister Ella. The occasion to which she referred had been a painful one for me. We had been sitting out the eighth waltz in the conservatory on the night of the Hunt Ball. To put the thing in a nutshell, I had proposed with all the clumsy energy of an enthusiastic novice, and had been rejected.
‘You know you did.’
I said nothing.
There was a very long pause.
‘Peter!’ said a still small voice.
‘Yes?’ I said.
‘Don’t you think – just one canful?’
I am ashamed to say that for a single moment I wavered. I verily believe that Mr Apted of the Oval would have thought seriously about ruining one of his masterpieces if the request had come to him in such a form. But I rallied myself.
‘Let me just sketch for you,’ I said, in the calm, dispassionate voice of a professor lecturing on osteology or some kindred subject, ‘what would be the result of that canful. We should probably win the match. Tommy would win his bet, and go to Oxford. Every single man in the Incogniti team would see that the wicket had been tampered with, and every single man would be too polite to say a word about it. But, little by little the story would get about, and after that I should imagine that the teams which come here during the Hall week would have previous engagements for a few years. When Tommy went away to play in matches, people would ask one another if he was one of the Heaths of that place where they water the wicket when it suits their fancy. And then –’
‘Peter, stop!’
I stopped.
‘Would you mind carrying that can to the stable-yard, please?’
I took up the can.
‘Good-night!’ I said.
‘Come back. Listen! I – I’m very grateful to you, Peter. You’ve saved me from disgracing the family. I’m very, very grateful to you!’
I murmured inarticulately. Then I started, for something wet had fallen upon my hand. From every side came a faint patter, growing in volume with each succeeding second. A warm rivulet trickled between my collar and my neck.
‘By George! I cried, ‘here’s the rain!’
And, indeed, the downpour had begun in earnest. We were standing in a vast shower-bath.
‘You must go in at once!’ I said. ‘You’ll be catching cold.’
‘Peter!’
I stopped.
‘You will bowl your best tomorrow, won’t you?’
‘That is my present intention,’ I said.
There was a pause, broken by the swishing of the rain on to the turf.
‘Peter, I – you know – sometimes – I don’t always say what – what I mean.’
Another pause.
‘If you save Tommy tomorrow, I’ll –’
‘Will you?’ I said eagerly.
‘I’ll see,’ said Ella, and vanished into the darkness in the direction of the Hall.
At three-fifty on the following afternoon Mr Wentworth Flood lost five pounds, which annoyed him. At precisely the same moment I won something of a greater value, which pleased me very much.
On Fast Bowling – by ‘N.A. Knox’
(ghosted by Wodehouse and reproduced in the Daily Mail 17 May 1907)
IT IS A very difficult thing to give advice on how to become a fast bowler. Pace is to a great extent a gift, like red hair, or collecting postage-stamps.
No man by thought can add a cubit to his stature, and that is just the difficulty, for it is height as much as anything that makes a man a fast bowler. Batting can be acquired (personally, I have never done it, and am never likely to), but a fast bowler, like Topsy, ‘just grows’. Lack of height is no drawback in a batsman, witness Abel and Tyldesley. But in a bowler who wishes to cultivate speed, it is a very serious drawback. I can imagine Little Tich, if he gave his massive mind to the business, becoming a stylish and effective batsman; but I do not see the wicketkeeper retreating a dozen yards, or the batsman leaping nimbly away to square leg if he began to bowl.
Height is not everything, of course. Fielder and Cotter seem to get on very well without it. But it is half the battle. I might have headed this article, ‘For tall men only’. We will assume, therefore that the wouldbe fast bowler is a man of inches. One of the worst pitfalls which will lie in his path is the temptation to over-bowl himself when he is a boy. It is a strong temptation. At school, pace is such a very valuable asset. Sheer speed is enough to account for the average school batsman who is not in the first eleven. Wickets in minor matches at a public school are normally of a bumpy and corrugated nature, and a reputation for being able to ‘plug them down’ is worth six wickets an innings to a boy.
In these circumstances, he is scarcely to be expected to refrain from sacrificing everything to pace. But if he is wise, he will not do it. The momentary pleasure is great, but it is not a good preparation. One knows of scores of cases where promisin
g fast bowlers have bowled themselves out at school. This is particularly so when they play in important cricket at an early age. The average school captain is not likely to spare a bowler who can get wickets against another school, however bad it may be for his future to toil away while his strength is undeveloped. The first year I was in the Dulwich team, I only bowled thirty-three overs. I did not like it then, but I am glad of it now.
Another danger is that the fast bowler when at school will devote himself to pace at the expense of spin and break. This is fatal. On modern first-class wickets, one must get some spin and break if the ball is to beat the bat. At school fast, straight bowling will always get wickets. Unless the habit of breaking has been acquired gradually and thoroughly, a bowler cannot succeed in first class cricket. I would advise the man with aspirations towards pace to bowl fast medium, except in actual matches, and to concentrate his whole attention on length and spin. Accuracy is just as important for a fast bowler as for a slow. A poor batsman will frequently be ‘outed’ by a half-volley, if it is speedy enough, but it is not often that one catches a county cricketer off his guard. A fast bowler who loses his length is a gift to any good batsman.
Height makes for pace in a bowler, but still more so does looseness of limb. To keep his shoulder loose is the first duty of the man of pace. Mere strength is often a drawback. It is an excellent trait in a man to be able to lift big dumb-bells with his right hand, but if he means to go through a first-class season, he would do well to choose some other form of amusement for his spare time. Personally, I never use dumb-bells or anything of the kind. In the winter, I play golf whenever I can. I play for pleasure and not with any idea of training for the cricket season, but I play left-handed, and my right shoulder consequently comes in for a good deal of exercise. I should imagine that boxing was a very fine form of exercise for a bowler, but I have never tried it.
Lastly, to my mind the chief quality necessary for the man who wishes to succeed as a fast bowler is a certain mental energy. Fast bowling may be scientific, or it may be merely brutal – to judge from some of the letters I saw in the papers last summer, I should think a good many people took the latter view – but, whatever it is, it is not a restful occupation. If the doctor ordered me a complete rest, I should not go out in a hot sun and bowl my fastest on a true wicket to Tom Hayward or Hirst. It is real work all the time. I am particularly unfortunate in finding it necessary to take such a long run. (Even this, however, has its consolations. On some grounds, I inevitably cause the crowd to roar with laughter by this simple method; and it is good to feel that one is amusing people.)
It is a very severe strain to keep up one’s pace, even on a cool day. But a hot day is the real test. Last summer was anything but a treat for fast bowlers. There are days when The Oval turf seems like concrete, and when it is is like bowling in an oven. The last day of Surrey and Middlesex at The Oval was one of them. It was the sort of day one would have liked to spend in a hammock or on the river. At the end of half a dozen overs I felt that I would like to sacrifice everything in the world for an iced drink. At such a time it is only by the exercise of much willpower that one can force oneself to bowl really fast. To drop into fast-medium would be such a relief. It is a struggle to fight down the temptation. But unless you can do it, you cannot be a really good fast bowler.
The word ‘trier’ has been overdone by writers on cricket, but really it is the only word which adequately describes the good player. Walter Lees, to my mind, is the model trier. He puts his heart into every ball, and lets himself go as cheerfully when catches are being dropped off him, as he does when everything comes off right for him.
I began my remarks on the determination and keenness which go to make the good fast bowler with the word ‘Lastly’; but I shall have to imitate the curate and follow my ‘Lastly’ with ‘But one word more’. Too much stress cannot be laid on the value to any bowler, and to a fast bowler more than all, of an equable temper. To lose one’s temper under strain of adverse circumstances is bad at any game, but worst at cricket. A bowler who does so when his catches are not being held has every possible excuse. But he does not want excuses. He wants wickets. And the way to get them is to keep an unruffled mind. It is maddening when you have been tempting a batsman to ‘touch’ one in the slips at the expense of several boundaries, to see that catch laid gently on the floor by one of the slips. It is also annoying when an obviously beaten batsman snicks your best off his wicket to the boundary, or when an appeal for an obvious lbw is given against you, though, in the last case, you have the small satisfaction of feeling that the batsman is not altogether happy either.
But all these things must be borne with fortitude. A fast bowler must be a machine. His run, if it is not to wear him out in a few overs, must be as regular and mechanical as possible, always the same number of strides, and his mind must work like a machine does. He must be above disappointment at any bad luck he may have. If county bowlers did not train themselves into this frame of mind, they would become grey-headed in a couple of seasons. ‘Aequam memento rebus in arduis’ should be the motto of every fast bowler, or, to translate freely, ‘Buck up, and never mind what happens’.
As to lunch, in conclusion. A dangerous meal, lunch. I have known men bowl like angels before it, and roll on to the field like gorged pythons afterwards. One wants enough to keep up one’s strength, but not too much. Avoid whisky. For half an hour after it, one feels like working miracles. After that half-hour, what one wants is a miracle to enable one to feel like working. Dry ginger ale is the best lunch-drink in my opinion. It quenches the thirst and has no bad effects. I might advertise a certain brand which I always drink during matches, but I will refrain.
(Ten weeks later Knox made his debut for England at Headingley. He was called on to bowl only three overs, taking one wicket; South Africa were dismissed for 110 and 75 with Colin Blythe taking 15/99, England winning by 53 runs. And ironically given Knox’s complaints about bowling on hot days, this match was badly affected by rain).
Missed!
THE SUN IN the heavens was beaming;
The breeze bore an odour of hay,
My flannels were spotless and gleaming,
My heart was unclouded and gay;
The ladies, all gaily apparelled,
Sat round looking on at the match,
In the tree-tops the dicky-birds carolled,
All was peace till I bungled that catch.
My attention the magic of summer
Had lured from the game – which was wrong;
The bee (that inveterate hummer)
Was droning its favourite song.
I was tenderly dreaming of Clara
(On her not a girl is a patch);
When, ah horror! there soared through the air a
Decidedly possible catch.
I heard in a stupor the bowler
Emit a self-satisfied ‘Ah!’
The small boys who sat on the roller
Set up an expectant ‘Hurrah!’
The batsman with grief from the wicket
Himself had begun to detach –
And I uttered a groan and turned sick – It
Was over. I’d buttered the catch.
Oh ne’er, if I live to a million,
Shall I feel such a terrible pang.
From the seats in the far-off pavilion
A loud yell of ecstasy rang.
By the handful my hair (which is auburn)
I tore with a wrench from my thatch,
And my heart was seared deep with a raw burn
At the thought that I’d foozled that catch.
Ah, the bowler’s low querulous mutter,
Point’s loud, unforgettable scoff!
Oh, give me my driver and putter!
Henceforward my game shall be golf.
If I’m asked to play cricket hereafter,
I am wholly determined to scratch.
Life’s void of all pleasure and laughter;
I bungl
ed the easiest catch.
The Cricketer in Winter
THE DAYS ARE growing short and cold;
Approaches Autumn, ay and chill Yule:
The latest bowler now has bowled
His latest devastating pillule.
Gone are the creases, gone the ‘pegs’;
The bungling fieldsman now no more errs
By letting balls go through his legs
And giving batsmen needless fourers.
Things of the past are drive and cut,
With which erstwhile we would astound men;
The gay pavilion’s doors are shut;
The turf is given up to groundmen;
Gone is the beautiful length-ball,
Gone, too, the batsman who would snick it;
Silent his partner’s cheery call.
Football usurps the place of cricket.
Now, as incessantly it pours,
And each succeeding day seems bleaker,
The cricketer remains indoors,
And quaffs mayhap the warming beaker.
Without, the scrummage heaves and slips;
Not his to play the muddied oaf. A
Well-seasoned pipe between his lips,
He reads his Wisden on the sofa.
Or, if in vein for gentle toil,
Before he seeks a well-earned pillow,
He takes a flask of linseed oil
And tends his much-enduring willow,
Feeling the while, what time he drops
The luscious fluid by degrees on,
Given half-volleys and long-hops,
How nobly it will drive next season!
Then to his couch, to dream till day
Of fifties when the pitch was sticky,
Of bowling crisply ‘put away,’
Though it was manifestly tricky,
Of umpires, confident appeals,
Hot shots at point, mid-off, and cover,
Of cricket-lunches (perfect meals!):-
Such dreams attend the cricket-lover.
And, though the streets be deep in snow,
Though slippery pavements make him stumble,
Though rain descends, though blizzards blow,
Wodehouse at the Wicket: A Cricketing Anthology Page 14