Cricket 1887

APRIL 14, 1887. CRICKET: A WEEKLY RECOED OF THE GAME. 51 MY FIRST AND LAST CRICKET MATCH . By D avid H epburn . Reprinted by Mudpermissionfrom “ Cassell's Saturday Journal ” o f May 15, 1886. I m ust explain my ignorance of the national game. It arose partly from a natural antipathy to any form of violent exertion, which prevented me from seeking it in places where it appeared only as an occasional effort, but chiefly from the fact that at the tender age of two I was removed from the athletic atmosphere of my own country, and was buried in a distant part of the Continent, where I was reared and educated. I will not bore you with details of my early and cricketlesa career, but hasten on to that memorable period of my life, when, for a few short hours, I became a devotee at the shrine of the King of Games. This is how it was brought about. In one of my summer trips in the Black Forest I made the acquaintance of a young English­ man whom I will call Jack Littleton. When we parted he gave me a pressing invitation to visit him in his English country home. In course of time the long-delayed return to my native land took place, and I had not been in London many weeks before my faith­ ful, but impulsive, friend came to town and transported me bodily to a large country house, near a village which I will oall Plum- ford, in one of the Home Counties. We had finished dinner, and were chatting over a glass of wine, when the butler came in, and with butler-like stolidity—I don’t think a butler would show any signs of emotion even if he lost his mother-in-law—announced that “ ‘ The ’Ampstead Hyaenas ’ had come down, and ’ad heaten up neverything in tha village.” I was horrified to witness the careless way with which Jack received this most startling intelligence. He laughed outright. I noticed also that one of the butler’s waistcoat buttons moved, so I concluded he also saw something funny in it, but the movement of that waist­ coat button was the only outward sign of the chuckle that was going on within. My vision of the peaceful English home melted fast. I had seen the hyaenas in the Zoological Gardens, but had no idea that they still flourished in the bleaker regions of Hampstead Heath, and made occasional predatory inroads into the neighbouring counties. I mildly asked if there were likely to be many. “ Oh, just the usual number—eleven, I suppose.” Then they were in the habit of coming! “ The curate has got up a team, and we are to fight them to-morrow.” What had this warlike curate to do with hyaenas, I wondered. I had heard of St. Francis preaching to the beasts, but the Plumford priest was evidently not imbued with the same kindly feelings towards the brute creation. “ You’ll be in it, of course, old man ? ” said Jack. Now I was little of a sportsman, and fight­ ing hyaenas was distinctly out of my line. I was beginning to excuse myself when Jack, to my relief, suddenly asked me how I was up in fielding. I told him I had read “ Tom Jones,” at which remark he burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. “ Cricket fielding, I mean.” “ No, ‘ Harry Fielding,’ I think,” “ No, cricket, cricket, cricket , my b oy!” Suddenly it flashed upon me what he was driving at. I didn’t like to confess my ignorance of the game of which I had only vaguely heard, so I tried to look comical, and asked him if he hadn’t seen the joke. I don’t think he had, but he laughed all the same, and then went on to tell me*that“ they all played cricket down here.” I thought I would try a real joke this time, so I said, “ I suppose the hyaenas play cricket too ? ” Instead of the ingenuous burst of laughter which I thought this remark would elicit, Jack looked more stolid than his own butler, and said— “ I shouldjust think the Hampstead Hyaenas could play! Why they licked the M.C.C. last week.” While I was wondering what sort of an animal the M.C.C. might be, and how it liked being licked by the tongues of eleven hyaenas, a sudden revelation came to me. What if the hyaenas were not “ the scavengers of the desert,” as described in natural-history books, but something else! The mystery was cleared up by Jack going on to tell me that they were one of the smartest, but queerest, cricket clubs in London, and had christened themselves “ The Hampstead Hyaenas: ” firstly, because theymostly nailed from Hampstead ; secondly, because they were chiefly to be met with at night; thirdly, because they generally dined off their friends. I was thankful for that joke, although it fell flat. It had cleared up an awful mystery. But it left me sad and meditative. Evidently there was to be a match to-morrow, and I was to take part in the contest. Horrible thought! I was as ignorant of this manly sport as an owl. However, I set to work to draw Jack out, and he soon launched forth into a most instructive disquisition. “ Don’t go in for ‘ slogging,’ old man.” I promised him on my word of honour as a gentleman that I would not “ go in for slogging,” but I hadn’t the remotest idea what “ slogging ” was. “ And remember, it’s a ‘ fiver’ if you go over the hedge.” I hadn’t the most distant intention of going over the hedge. Evidently it was an expen­ sive amusement. “ Fivers” were not so plentiful, and “ going over the hedge” was objectionable, particularly if it happened to be a thorny one. By degrees I got a fund of information, and when Jack showed me his prize bat, won at Cambridge, I grew positively enthusiastic. Jack then excused himself; he and the curate had to meet the Hyaena chief to per- feot arrangements. When he was gone, I was left to myself. Going into the library I found a book on cricket, and commenced improving my mind. It spoke of “ pitching the wickets.” That puzzled me. I had always been under the impression that you “ pitched” the ball. However, I dipped more deeply into the literature of the subject and found that— “ The bowler’s object is to direct the ball towards the opposite wickets at which one of the batsmen stands, while the object of the batsmen, on the other hand, is to protect his wickets from the bowler’s attack.” That sounded lively. It seemed as if the fnn were all on one side, and I immediately determined to let the wickets take care of one another, and confine my attention to protect­ ing myself. But I longed for the real thing, and taking Jack’s bat I strolled out into the grounds, there to seek some sequestered spot and have a little practice. I was wondering how to begin, when I caught sight of a round iron nob finishing off a bit of railing; and thinking it would be well to begin on some fixed object, I had several good “ drives” at it. I felt I was getting on, for I found I repeatedly struck in the same S lace with wonderful precision. This I could istinctly prove by the deep impression made in the be*t, Thus encouraged, I sought the services of the stable-boy, and got him to bowl at me. I felt a little nervous, but by first standing on one leg, then on the other, and occasionally planting the handle of the bat in the pit of my stomach, and momentarily raising both feet from the ground, and, when the ball didn’t come nearer than a yard or two, bravely keeping both feet on the ground, I gradually accustomed myself to faco this novel kind of cannonade. Once or twice I ventured to “ hit out,” but never did more than plough up the gravel path or strike the back of the bat with considerable force against a rough brick w all, in front of which I had taken my stand, But I had not done yet; I was already an enthusiast in the art, but I did not consider myself perfect. I carried my bat (or wliat remained of it) indoors, returned it to its place, and determined on a full-dress rehearsal in my bedroom when I was alone ; but there was a chuckle on that stable-boy’s mouth which I did not understand at the time, though the memory of it lingers still. Jack had returned, and his conversation fed the fire of enthusiasm which was burning within me. That evening I lived in an atmosphere of cricket. I breathed cricket, I ate cricket, I drank cricket; there was cricket all around me and within me. I saw cricket in the sky, cricket on the hearth—I mean the earth—cricket was everywhere; in fact, the crioket fever was on. Every now and again a perplexing thought arose as some fresh term came to hand, but I wasn’t going to burden myself with minor details; the main fact was there—that was enough. I quieted down when I got to my room and longed for solitude. How I welcomed that “ Good-night, old man.” I was just preparing for business when the head of my irrepressible friend was thrust into the room. “ Of course, you’ll appear in flannels; ta, ta.” The door banged to. “ Flannels , ta, ta !' What the mischief could that be? There were the blankets. Too cumbersome. There was a piece of flannel on the washstand, but too small to appear in in public. “ Flannels, ta, ta ! ” “ Flannels tattoo” seemed more to the point. Open went that door again. “ How about spikes, old man?” I feigned sleep, and the door closed once more; but who Spikes was, to this moment I have never discovered. Alone at last! I rose, taking the poker by way of a bat, while an imaginary bowler fed me with an endless supply of imaginary sneaks, long-hops, and twisters (I have learned these terms since). I flourished away in fine style. I struck out boldly. I swept the horizon with that poker, and eventually, I regret to say, swept the mantlepiece clear of its clocks and a variety of candlesticks and vases, and finished up by landing a hole through the looking-glass. I felt I had done enough, and lay down to rest. When I awoke, the morning sun streamed in through the window and the hole in the looking-glass, and fell gently on the wreckage of the chimney ornaments. The sight inspired me. I longed to be up and doing. At that moment Jack appeared at the door and tossed in a bundle, which unfolded itself on the floor. He was too excited to notice the effect of my last night’s innings. At the sight of the bundle, the mystery of the flannels melted like an icicle in the sunlight. It was my “ rig out,” as he called it. They say that the difference between a Frenchman and an Eng­ lishman is that, whereas a Frenchman looks as if he were made for his clothes, the Eng­ lishman looks as if his clothes were made for him. I did not know what nationality I could tack on to myself when I was fitted out in that costume. Certainly the clothes did not look as if they were made for me; and, on the other hand, no one could have imagined in his wildest moment that I was made for them. The shirt yielded to a little persuasion, and expanded in a kindly manner as I wriggled into it. But not so the dual gar?