A great match

WHILE not exactly representing W. G. Grace at the bottom of the handicap, I am considered—chiefly perhaps by myself— a fair cricketer, and am a demon on loose balls. Only I never seem to get enough of them. Give me a nice slow half volley to leg, and then I’ll show you—when I have got my eye in— how to astonish the gallery. But some balls are so difficult to stop. There is the one, for instance, which comes to you at a great pace, and seems to be on the off side, but, hissing like a serpent and shooting like a rocket, it breaks all across your wicket, and takes the leg stump. Now what conscientious man is going to play a beauty of that sort? I let them severely alone, and accept my fate with cheerfulness. There are some feats which a sensible person verging on middle life may decline to attempt without losing self respect, and while passionately fond of the noble game of cricket I have no intention of making an ass of myself, or striving after unobtainable skill. When I get one of the barking, hissing twisters, which come in very hot indeed, I know it’s all over.

Besides, after all, what luck there is in the game. I have my own theory as to the big scores. There is a particular sort of ball that is fatal to every man—one that he can’t play—some­ times he gets this early in the day, and retires; sometimes he does not get it at all, and plays a brilliant three figure innings.

Thus, even as regards our champions, we see that a crack makes 150 one day without giving a chance, and next day leaves for a duck. It is all luck. If he happens to get the fatal ball, the one that he can’t play, he does not trouble the scorers, but if he is fortunate enough to miss this he does not mind the others and hits away merrily. But, somehow or other, I never seem to get any luck, or else there is, for me, such a large variety of fatal balls. My big scores—but why discuss even sections of a painful subject?

In our small rural community we amuse ourselves a great deal with cricket in the summer, but we do not seem to improve much in the science of the game. We soon get to know all that each other knows, and there is no one to teach us, or from whom wo may learn any fresh moves. Thus while striving hard, we stagnate, and, though energetic, never play any better. Tompkin’s curling slows, for instance, are treated almost with contempt since we have become familiar with them, and Tompkins is incapable of introducing new features for our dis­ comfiture. His limitations, in fact, are painfully monotonous, and his unvarying twister, so deliberate in its motions, almost tells you what it is going to do. Then, Smugs, the slogging butcher, is not a dangerous bat to us, as he chiefly relies on one hit, and of course we know it well. Smugs imports into the game the same vigour and much of the style he displays when slaying oxen, and it is easy to place a man, or preferably several, for we are not too reliable in the field; to catch him out. He considers this mean, and not in accordance with the highest traditions, and sometimes, when his big hit has been thus successfully frustrated, he expresses his feelings in language that is offensive to a refined taste. But we make allowance for the sinister influence of the slaughter house, and are often obliged to soothe Smugs—that is when he is especially rampant—by purchasing for him beverages of an alcoholic nature. Besides, the grand institution of credit is popular amongst us, and while we regard Smuggs as a cricketer with contempt, we warmly approve him as a man who supplies meat on the nod.

Our great match of this season is Married v. Single—truly a gala day, or “a fair beno,” in the words of our local poet, who acts as umpire, and describes annually the Homeric struggle in verse that in some countries would surely get him shot. Mr. Maltun, our boniface, takes a lively interest in getting up the match, though he does not play, being too fat to run, and it has been suggested that he is not quite disinterested in the matter, for we indulge in supper at his hotel and at our expense when the outdoor revelries have been consummated. Hitherto the balance of victory has been quite in favour of the married, and old Jones, a chronic bachelor, who played for the single for about twenty years without scoring a win, became so disgusted that he hurriedly qualified for the other side (he married Betty Twiggs of the Cat and Custard Pot, an ill-favoured but frugal woman who had saved money), and what was the result? Why the first time poor Jones appeared exultingly for the Benedicts— he left Betty at home, not exulting in her presence—we lost our crack bat and bowler, the curate, who had got a better berth, and we were disgracefully beaten. Poor Jones, he had gone through so much to gain so little, and now thinks marriage morg than ever a failure.

Old Colonel Snooker acted as our captain, though people doubted whether he had ever gone through the ordeal necessary to qualify him for the post. He said he had been married in India, and hinted mysteriously about a native princess who had been smitten by his beauty, and had caused him to be abducted for her husband, bestowing upon him vast wealth. We had never seen any signs of the Indian wife, and certainly not of the vast wealth, as the Colonel paid nobody, and was indeed always extremely hard up. But in his youth he had been a good cricketer, and not having quite forgotten all he had known of the game, he assumed the position as skipper, and remarked that he was the right man in the right place. He put himself on to bowl first of course, but about six overs settled him, as he then became afflicted with a pain in his shoulder, and an over-powering thirst. The first required immediate rest, and the second led him at once to the refreshment tent, where he made a prolonged stay, and afterwards walked with difficulty.

Our schoolmaster, however, who played for the Married—he had thirteen children and no one doubted his qualifications— was a tower of strength. He bowled lobs, and pronounced them to be deadly, for he said no one could correctly time the break. He was quite right. There was none to time. His only merit was that he bowled straight with a fair length, and as our opponents were unaccustomed to such a combination, the schoolmaster took many wickets, and was a happy man once a year. He held his own part, too, at the evening banquet, and was alas I invariably conveyed home by artificial means. This slight aberration was regarded as the only annual relief in the poor man’s monotonous hard worked life, and he did not alienate public sympathy, since none of us were in a position to cast the first stone.

Our opponents were a very scratch lot. The big man of the village—“Squire ” Snifton—permitted two of his sons to play, and as they were in constant practice and had received a university polish, they were formidable. The local vet. was also a fair performer with both bat and ball, but the “tail” was dreadfully weak, and we were as usual strong favourites in a very limited market. Old Snooker, however, made his annual endeavour “to get a bit,” and offered 11s. to 8s. on the Benedicts with characteristic enterprise and pluck. But he experienced a difficulty in working the commission. People preferred to bet with Snooker in ready money, which stopped all business at once. For the veteran sportsman never had any ready money, and often complained that his Indian princess was most irregular in her remittances.

The eventful day arrived, we all went gaily to the cricket­ ground arrayed in our best, accompanied numerously by our wives, sisters, cousins, and aunts, also got up regardless of cost or common sense. On such occasions the attendance of the fair sex in a more or less official capacity—most having an actual or potential husband engaged in the arena—was an important feature of the show. To them, indeed, it was a grand and solemn function, and how the proud matrons chuckled when the married men walked triumphant from the field! But when they didn’t, how perfectly chilling was their reception, how contemptuous the gaze which should have been their consolation in the hour of defeat! Julia, the light of my home, never said an unkind word to me until the fatal occasion when our side got beaten, and I was bowled first ball. Could I by sophistical argument explain away the catastrophe? I could not. Useless to point out that it was a fast shooter, that I never really saw it, and that it was the kind of ball always sure to take a wicket —Julia was inexorable, and I was a miserable being for months. You know, kind reader, what it is when your dear wife is cold to you and indifferent to your merits, and makes your grog at night so persistently weak that you achieve no progress towards that state of serene beatitude so pleasant to sleep upon.

Our last match was the most exciting of the series, and we only won by the skin of our teeth. It was a very near squeak indeed. After calmly reviewing the proceedings in a most impartial light, determined to give honour where honour is due, I have no hesitation in asserting that I was the hero of the hour. Every man, at some period or other, has his chance, and the able men make the best of it. When the great crisis in my fate arrived—when, after vainly struggling for thirty-eight years, an opportunity of achieving greatness came to me—I was there— all there—and, as imperishably recorded in local annals, I won the match!

It was in this way. The other side had run up an unusally formidable score, several of their men (or rather boys) having unexpectedly “come off,” and our champion Smugs had as usual failed us. He was trying to slaughter bullocks—that is to hit sixes—and was bowled by a fast yorker. The schoolmaster had done all that man could do, but had bad luck. He was snapped at the wicket after making 46 without a chance. I was put in rather late—a glaring instance of misguided judgment on the part of our Captain which might have had serious results only that I possess an iron nerve. Eight runs were wanted to win the match, and if I did not get them there was not another man left capable of playing a straight ball. Boldly I struck out across the grass to the wickets, with the fire of battle in my eye—I am sure it was there—and certain interior tremors which were not quite normal. The eyes of Europe, so to speak, were upon me, and amongst them those of Julia, which are almost as sharp as her tongue.

I took a steady guard in a half-dazed condition, and when the first ball was delivered—it was straight and fast—I put my bat down quickly and left it there. A happy snick, the ball went through the slips, we ran four for it, and my partner and I were so excited that we should have gone on running doubtless until the period of exhaustion if we had not been restrained by violence at each end. Public agitation more tempestuous than ever! The next ball was another fast one to leg, and immediately it was delivered I swung my bat round frantically in that direction, and again just snicked it—a boundary hit for four, and the match was won! Proudly, though still in a half-dazed frame of mind, I walked back to the pavilion, receiving the plaudits of the populace, but my great reward was to come. Julia, the beloved, the ever-present, wept serenely on my shoulder for a considerable period, and I was informed subsequently that the tableau was most affecting. Indeed, Slocum-cum-Pogus had not been so moved in its finer sensibilities for some years—and insisted on seeing us home—man and wife hand in hand, tearful but happy, and we were obliged to treat the populace before we could get our ten. But, great Grace, what a day!

The evening banquet was also a brilliant success, and—and Julia was not there. How sweet is freedom! Old Snooker was in the chair, and the schoolmaster supported him—especially in the consumption of the choice vintages selected for their delectation. My health was drunk, everybody’s health was drunk, and towards the end of the festivities I expressed a deliberate intention to sing “Hi-tiddly-hi-ti.” Was only restrained by brute force. It is difficult to say now which was eventually the more paralytic, Snooker or the schoolmaster, but the latter went home in the bottom of a cart, and the former, as usual, on his hands and knees. For myself, victorious as ever, I walked home without mechanical assistance, and spent the evening on the mat at the bottom of the-stairs, with Julia snoring sweetly up above. I dared not venture to climb that giddy height.

G.G.

Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News, Saturday 30 July 1892