Eventually the radio dial presented only an uninterrupted cat’s hiss of static but for one clear spot near the end of the dial. At first thought that’s all it was-just an empty clear spot-but then I realized I could hear the faint shiftings and stirrings of seated people, and after quite a pause a voice calm and reflective said:
“Pilchard begins his long run in from short stump. He bowls and ..oh, he is out. Yes, he got him. Longwilley is caught leg before in middle slops by Grattan. Well, now what do you make of that Neville?”
“That’s definitely one for the books, Bruce. I don’t think I’ve seen offside medium-slow fast-pace bowling to match it since baden-powell took RangaChangaBanga for maiden ovary at Bangalore in 1948”
I had stumbled into surreal and rewarding world of cricket on radio.
After years of patient study (and with cricket there can be no other kind) I have decided that there is nothing wrong with the game that the introduction of golf carts wouldn’t fix in a hurry. It is not true that the English invented cricket as a way of making all other human endeavors look interesting and lively; that was merely an unintended side-effect. I don’t wish to denigrate a sport that is enjoyed by millions, some of them awake and facing the right way, but it is an odd game. It is the only sport that incorporates meal breaks. It is the only sport that shares its name with an insect. It is the only sport in which spectators burn as many calories as players- more if they are moderately restless. It the only competitive activity of any type other than perhaps baking, in which you can dress in white from head to toe and be as clean at the end of the day as the beginning.
Imagine a form a of baseball in which the pitcher, after each delivery, collects the ball from the catcher and walks slowly with it out to center field; and that there, after a minute’s pause to collect himself, he turns and runs full tilt toward the pitcher’s mound before hurling the ball at the ankles of a man who stands before him wearing a riding hat , heavy gloves of the sort used to handle radioactive isotopes, and a mattress strapped to each leg. Imagine moreover that if this batsman fails to hit the ball that heartens him sufficiently to try to waddle forty feet with mattress tied to his legs, he is under no formal compunction to run; he may stand there all day, and, as a rule, does. If by some miracle he is coaxed into making a misstroke that leads to his being put out, all the fielders throw up their arms in triumph and have a hug. Then tea is called and everyone retires happily to a distant pavilion to fortify for the next siege. Now imagine all this is going on for so long that by the time the match concludes autumn has crept in and all your library books are overdue. There you have cricket.
But it must be said there is something incomparably soothing about cricket on the radio. It has the same virtues as baseball on the radio- an unhurried pace, a comforting devotion to abstruse statistics and thoughtful rumination, exhilarating micro-moments of real action- but stretched across many more hours and with lushness of terminology and restful elegance of expression that even baseball can’t match. Listening to cricket on the radio is like listening to two men sitting on a rowboat on a large, placid lake on a day when the fish aren’t biting; it is like having a nap without losing consciousness. It actually helps not to know quite what is going on. In such a rarefied world of contentment and inactivity, comprehension would be a distraction.
“So here comes Stovepipe to bowl on this glorious summer’s afternoon at the Melbourne cricket Ground,” one of the commentators was saying now. “I wonder if he will chance an offside drop scone here or go for the quick legover. Stovepipe has an unusual delivery in that he actually leaves the grounds and starts his run just outside the Carlton and United brewery at Kooyong”.
“That’s right, Clive. I haven’t known anyone start his delivery that far back since Stopcock caught his sleeve on the reversing mirror of a number 11 bus during the third test at Brisbane in 1957 and ended up at Goondiwindi four days later owing to some frightful confusion over a changed timetable at the Toowoomba junction”
After a long silence while they were absorbed in thought, and possibly stepped out to transact some small errands, they resumed with leisurely discussion of English fielding. Neasden, it appeared, was turning in a solid performance at square bowel, while Packet has been stalwart in the dribbles, though even these exemplary performances paled when set aside the outstanding play of young Hugo Twain-Buttocks at middle nipple. The commentators were in calm agreement that they had not seen anyone caught behind with such panache since Tandoori took Rogan Josh for a stiffy at Vindaloo in ’61. At last Stovepipe, having found his way over the railway line at Flinders street-the footbridge was evidently closed for painting-returned to the stadium and bowled to Hasty, who deftly turned the ball away for a corner. This was repeated four times more over the next two hours and then one of the commentators pronounced:” So as we break for second luncheon, and with 11,200 balls remaining, Australia are 962 for two not half and England are four for a duck and hoping for rain”
I may not have all the terminology exactly right, but I believe I have caught the flavor of it. The upshot was that Australia was giving England a good thumping, but them Australia pretty much does.
The mystery of cricket is not that Australians play well, but that they play at all. It has always seemed to me a game much too restrained for the rough and tumble Australian temperament. Australians much prefer games in which brawny men in scanty clothing bloody each other’s noses. I am quite certain that if the rest of the world vanished overnight and the development of cricket was left in Australian hands, with a generation players would be wearing shorts and using the bats to hit each other.
And the thing is, it would be a much better game for it.
