Young Bradman

137 often: ‘I have never deliberately got out when it was in the interests of my team that I should continue batting.’ Critics could always twist this; who was deciding the interests of his team – Bradman, or anyone else? And if cricket was at its best about the ‘duel’ (Bradman’s word in The Art of Cricket ) between batsman and bowler, who was Bradman, Hobbs or anyone to decide when to make a present of their wicket? The critic could always query whether Bradman were lying (although why would he?), or whether his idea of giving away his wicket was the same as other people’s, or whether he did one thing and spectators took it to be another. The fact is that at least some – such as the Daily Mail reporter at Worcester in 1930 – thought Bradman did get himself out, and gave others time to bat – not as much as those higher in the batting order had, which was enough to annoy them; except that has always been the deal, as it was in Bradman’s first matches for New South Wales. Seniors go in before juniors, and juniors have to either take their chances and in time become seniors, or make way for the next lot of juniors. Even if Bradman did bat on and on, at least he was scoring faster than, say, his captain Woodfull. Bradman gave Australia’s bowlers more time to take 20 wickets to win; and the bowling was Australia’s flaw in the 1930s. As CLR James pointed out, Bradman played within the rules (and can every cricketer since say the same?!). If Bradman were self-indulgent, it was for a purpose, that most of us can only dream of; and one more reason for teammates to be jealous. Bradman was one of the few – maybe he was lucky, after all – to fulfil himself so fully. Perhaps the remarkable dutiful answering of fan mail and the run-making went together; Bradman had to be authentically himself, all day, and lifetime. It was as Shelby Foote wrote towards the start of his great history of the American Civil War, about the men and women on either side. ‘It was their good fortune, or else their misery, to belong to a generation in which every individual would be given a chance to discover and expose his worth, down to the final ounce of strength and nerve.’ Most of us, in peacetime, find too much in our way: routine work, demanding children, our own excuses. Ironically, the great test of his adult life, like the epic one Foote described, Bradman flunked, either on purpose or not. Bradman volunteered for the air force, then swapped for the army – only a veteran of the 1939-45 war can say how extraordinary that was – and left altogether, an invalid. Only Bradman could say if his back trouble was truly bad enough for him to dodge the war. It looked suspicious and convenient that he could, before and after the war, field and bat all day in an Australian summer that can exhaust lesser men, just being out of doors. Charlie Walker, six months younger than Bradman, a wicket-keeper on the 1930 tour, stayed in the air force, and died in a Lancaster bomber over Germany in December 1942. His name is one of 39,652 on the roll of honour, on panel after panel at the Australian War Memorial in Canberra. They were good team men. How did he do it?