'The very blades of grass, would bow in obeisance'

Cricket has had a plethora of worthy writers and commentators who have embellished the game like no other sport ever has had. There has been the odd cricketer who himself has enlivened the passage of five relentless days in the sun with a jewel that belongs in crown and there has been Sydney Hill's inimitable Yabba of devastating one liners like "If I send you a grand piano you can't play it" to 'Slasher' Mackay who was dawdling at the crease and "Take a taxi" to Tyson of the long run up.

Cardus not withstanding, Arthur Mailey's description of Victor Trumper's arrival at the wicket must take pride of place as the best of poetic prose: "The very blades of grass would bow in obeisance..." and, once when he got Trumper's wicket, "I felt like a small boy who had killed a dove." Even the brilliant C.B.Fry who authored 'Tiger at the Gate' and several others and nearly captained England at rugger in addition to cricket had there not been a miscarriage of transport, never dwelt on the same plane.

Cricketers themselves have been parsimonious and Len Hutton's ethos was as frugal as Yorkshire pudding which was endorsed by his "I have bought a pint but not often." As against that soul exposing statement is the prodigality of Keith Miller, exemplified in his choice of the three most wonderful sights England offered him - "The Cliffs of Dover, Denis Compton's leg glance and the alluring beauty of Princess Margaret; but not necessarily in that order."

First lease

It has been stated times without number that the captain who wins the toss in a Test match chooses the first lease of the wicket because he has a good hundred runs ahead in the final crunch of the fourth innings.

The Godfather of English cricket, Dr W.G.Grace etched into the monolith of cricket a fundamental concept when he said "If I win the toss and the wicket is tricky, I'll think and I'll bat. If the wicket is a little more tricky, I'll think a little more, and I'll bat. If the wicket is really tricky, I'll think a lot and I'll bat."

Was Hutton, then, guilty of a cardinal sin? The first professional to be chosen to lead England looked glum at most times but when in 1954/55 tour of Australia after the Brisbane test he would say, "It's all right for you, but back home it's snowing, there are gales blowing and millions of people will have a miserable Christmas because I sent Australia in to bat." Yorkshiremen immerse themselves in their sorrows.

Sparkling thoughts

Into this galaxy of sparkling thoughts would I introduce Lucien de Zoysa's "This wicket will take spin" for the captain F.C. de Saram to ask nonchalantly, "Yes, but who will give it?"

When Bradman was out for a duck in his last innings the banner headline of all of London's broadsheets was BRADMAN OUT - 0 and much was written and spoken of the disaster which prevented him notching an average of 100 runs in Test cricket.

Not a word was devoted to Arthur Morris who was at the non-striker's end, a few runs shy of a double century.

The commentator who spoke of Bradman's tentative first fifteen minutes at the crease - "A single here, a single there; like a millionaire practising thrift" was it Ray Robinson, E.W. Swanton, Ian Peebles, E.M. Wellings, R.S. Whittington, Johnny Moyes but I know it was not Neville Cardus.

Miracles have been forged on the anvil of prayer and thus was why the twelve year old Cardus prayed, "Please God, make Trumper score a century tomorrow out of a total of 137 all out."

About prayers and predictions there is an old saying about Manchester that if you can see some hills in the distance it is certain to rain; but if you can't see them, then it is raining.

The whimsical Fred Trueman was not ready to accept David Sheppard's apology when he said "Sorry, Fred, I should have kept my legs together." Fred's response was, "Not you, padre; your mother."

Just as Ray Lindwall's run up and delivery have been described as poetry in motion there has been the poet who wrote "Four to win and the last man in His captain's hand on his shoulder smote 'Play up, play up and play the game'"

Did the poet have Peate in mind? "For there was Peate, the best slow bowler in all England and not a bit more of a cricketer than that and Studd on ten and sure to get the rest when Peate attempts a slog and is clean bowled. Why, man, he was asked did you try to hit? Why couldn't you just stop them? And Peate replied, "I couldn't trust Maister Studd."

Pycroft in 'The Cricket Field' writes of "those sunny hours ... when the valleys laugh and sing." Only on dull days and dull places is cricket dull like at Karachi during the just concluded Test match with the wicket as dead as a cemetery full of graves where not even a Cardus will conjure a line like what he said of Trumper, "A spontaneous spreading of feathers." But Mahela brought in an element of frivolity when he massaged Umpire Steve's fingers and got the index finger to stand up.

Sharm de Alwis