Tracing the pattern of cricket’s mosaic

By Sharm DE ALWIS

CRICKET: It is with exquisite pleasure that I pick every pattern that is of the fine mosaic of A. C. de Silva’s weekly recall of the deeds of cricketers of yore. In truth theirs, certainly, was the stuff of legends and how they performed with bat or ball would only be confined to the receptacles of memories, never to be repeated on turf.

Our peers had told us glowingly of George Headly, the Black Bradman, of Eddic Paynter, of Ranji who preferred to play for England rather than for his own country because he felt by virtue of godles of wealth he was primus interpares with the Brits, of Jack Hobbs and of Clem Hill and Trumper, of Maurice Leyland and the versatile C. B. Fry who not content with captaining England at cricket, turned his attention to rugger which also he would have captained if not for a delayed arrival from a cricket tour, athletics at the Olympics, football, diplomat, poet ad playwright who wrote the delectable TIGER AT THE GATES, of Stan McCabe of whose certain innings Bradman said he would have been happy to lay claim, Jack Fingleton of whom it has been said that “the very blades of grass bowed in obeisance as he arrived at the crease.

And on the other side of the 22 yard divide where immortal men hurled the red cherry were Hedley Verity, Wilfred Rhodes, Syd Barnes, Maurice Tait, Kenneth Farnes, prematurely killed in an air crash - they never belonged to an age but to eternity.

As we came of age and came to grips with this noble game our heroes were no lesser mortals - Lala Amaranath, Vijay Merchant, Vijay Hazare, Vinoo Mankad, Majid Kham, Richard Hadlee, Basil D’Oliveira, Dennis Lillee, Weekes, Worrell and Walcott the three names to be spoken of in the same breath, of Rohan Kanhai of the pulsating strokes of beauty, of Peter May, Ted Dexter and Colin Cowdrey of bulky frame but mighty deeds. Alright, they may have been slightly lesser gods but we deified them and in every corner of our collective soul we had altars erected for fervent worship.

Who will not make me perish if I were to forget Cyril Washbrooke or David Shepherd returning to the crease in answer to a desperate prayer of the selectors to bring dignity back to England’s batting and they both spread honour and valour as they scored near centuries, each of them.

Denis Compton - golden boy

The Golden Boy of cricket in the period was Denis Compton who at 17 years of age dared and ousted yet another Middlesex immortal in Patsy Hendren. If Keith Miller was the Byron in flannels, of Compton it has been said that “his genius was romantic and individual,” Miller and Compton were peripheral twins but oceans apart.

There was for us Ales Bedser who got better like fine wine as he trundled along from 1950 to share a massive haul of wickets. What about the wily spin and fluent batsmanship of Richie Benaud and his astute captaincy? Are we then to forget Frank Tyson who struck the fear of Moses into the hearts of Australian batsmen and who was shrieked at by Gabba “take a taxi!” because of his extra-ordinary run up to the crease?

The mercurial Neil Harvey stormed the bastion as an 18 year old prodigy and rubbed shoulders with the giants in the team, Bradman, Miller, Barnes and Morris. And he kept his promises for many years. There was another child prodigy in Brian Close, stout-hearted like a modern day King Arthur.

There was the checky bravura of Sid Barnes who faced the first ball of England’s tear-away with a miniature bat which he had carried in his hip pocket. He would shield from Bedser his bunny. Arthur Morris until Morris found his rhythm on his way to yet another century.

There was Stonewall Trevor Bailey of whom Miller complained that when he died and his heart was opened, TREVOR BAILEY would be etched firmly on it. Sotdgy Mackay was termed in a twist of Slasher Mackay.

Sobers 4-in-1 cricket

Garfield Sobers had a feline stride even as he crossed between wickets at the end of an over as though there were springs in his heels. Sobers began his stupendous career as a 17 year old in 1957 against England and I saw him score 17 and 66 in the Lords’ Test and 39 and 42 in the Oval Test both of which England won by innings. He has been considered the 4-in-1 cricketer for his medium pace, spin, batting and electric fielding.

The elegance of Tom Gravency was not for Hutton whose batsmanship, it has been said, was like him, Yorkshire born and bred and he would score a ‘walking hundred’ which were of essence only to the purists. The thrift followed him from the crease to the bar-room whereof he once admitted.

I have bought a drink but not too often.” It has also been said that his batsmanship was solitary and inspired admiration rather than love which was the divine right of Compton and Edrich, of Graveney and D’Oliveria who often batted ‘just for fun’. But then Hutton had the marauding, Lindwall and Miller to contend with and so remained a goose who never became the swan. He was, like Scrooge, an accumulator.

These were men with the gift of skill and they oozed charisma and spectators thronged. Neville Cardus, Alan Rose, Johnny Moyes and John Arlott wrote in italics when they described the scenes of glory. Invariably 360 runs were scored within a day’s play.

There is none to fill the boots left in the dressing rooms by these gallant warriors and that is precisely the reason for the lack of interest in Test cricket. No one fires the imagination like a Brian Lara or a Viy Richards.

Inversely, Limited Overs cricket is having a field day. It commenced internationally in January of 1971 and at the close of the first thirty years 1,739 ODIs were played as against 1,551 Tests since 1877.