Cricket 1893

408 CRICKET? A WEEKLY BECORB OF THE GAME. SEPT . 14, 1893 RUSTIC CRICKET. B y G erald F ien n es . Reproduced by permission from Neiv Review for May. Cricket is part of the heritage of the Anglo- Saxon race, and of the Anglo-Saxon race aloac. Wherever the Englishman settles he imports his favourite game, a'? he does his beer, his national oath, aud his Bible. In India, “ Sub curru nim ium prcpi .qui SoJis ; ” on a strip of cocoanut matting at Ascension ; on the decks of a P. and O. or Orient liner; whenever and wherever Englishmen meet together, there is cricket played. It is of our very bone and sinew ; it has followed the laws of evolution and grown up with our national life. When Elizabeth drank beer for break­ fast and thrashed the Armada, the rustic swains relaxed their toil with “ stool ball ” and other protoplasms of our modern science. When Wellington “ On that loud Sabbath shook the ppoiler down,” top-hatted enthusiasts wielded monstrous clubs and defended vast timber yards, which were “ wickets,” in fact, as well as in name. It is the game of the people. From the people themselves, the rough illiterate villagers, it took its origin, and its nursery is the village green, where the sons of the squire and the parson strive for the mistery on equal terms with John Hodge. Polo, lawn tennis, golf—these are the re­ creations of the rioh; cricket alone draws rich and poor, gentle and simple together, and makes them all equal in its frienaly rivalry, c* My “ tenuis avena ” — “ scrannel-pipe of wretched straw ”—leads me not to sing of the deeds of Gentlemen aud Players, of Notts and Surrey on the billiard-sward of Lord’ s or the Oval. Epics might fitly celebrate the fox-like cunning of “ W.G.” the terrific yorkers of “ Sammy ” Woods, and the telescopic arm of Lohraann. These poor Fescennine lines will but describe the game of games in it3 cradle— »s our villagers play it now, and as io was played by the cracks of eighty years ago. Although a Tory of the most pestilent description, I would rather see a village possess a cricket club than a Conservative Association ; if there be a village without one there is something rotten in the state of that place. Farmer and parsoD, pquire and labourer pass one another with sour looks and scanty greeting— “ The poor man beards the high, The rich mau grinds the low.” There is bad feeling between Farmer Giles and his men, and the farmer will not lend a field; or the men are of the ultra-clever rights-of-man stamp, who prefer swilling in the public-house, talking crude politics and futile rebellion, to good healthy exercise. Lord Salisbury is (falsely) alleged to have recommended a circus as a substitute for a Parish Council. In all sincerity and with a sincere desire for the welfare of the “ ’orny ’ anded” I recommend a village green—a no- rnan’s-land where it is every man’ s right to 1 **, and where all comers must take their scot and lot together. Here were fostered the grand old race of Kentish heroes who were good enough to meet and to beat all England, and here even now — although, alas! these favoured spots are becoming rarer every year — must our national game be fostered if it is to escape the destruction with which it is threatened beneath the upas shade of rich county clubs and gate-money matches. I have a lively recollection of watching ex­ cellent cricket between rival villagors, ea'ih nide being “ stiffened ” by the support of an emeritus from the ’Varsities and Ziugari, on one of the old English commons; aud I re- membsr, too, the pride whioh filled my nine- year-old breast when, owing to the defection of one of the players, I was permitted to take part in a matoh, aud scored a couple of runs from a “ lob ’ ently pitched up to me by a good-natured letrmer. In this match a tall peer of the realm, an excellent cricketer, came to sorry grief. He was running backwards, judging a skier,” when his noble heels caught in a gorse bush, and he incontinently sat down thereon with violence. Ihe ball dropped on to him and he held it. It was a pretty picture in the ruddy glow of the evening, while the black shadows crept across the ground—the golden gorse-covered comm 3 n, backed by dark pine woods, the quaint old inn before which the “ gaffers” sat with their pipes and mugs of ale, and the great strong horses tossed their ribbon- bedecked manes to the music of their jingling bells. The village cricketer is not particular about the wicket; where there is n o village green he will pitch stumps on tbe top of a ‘ * land,” which gives the same sort o f protection to the batsman as the “ turtle-back deck ” d o e 3 to the modern cruiser, since every bill which does not pitch in a direct line with the oppo­ site wicket shoots off at a tangent into the furrow. This is trying to tbe up -to-date over­ hand bowler, with his curl which “ follows the hand *’ or his scientific break-back; but the great charm of rustic cricket is the lingering tradition of the good old “ underhand ” style —the “ daisy-cutter ” which jumps up just put of the batsman’s reach and snicks his bails, if it does not hit him in the face ; the “ short ’ un,” which never rises an inoh, but wriggles itself like a serpent past his guard and into h i 3 “ timber-yard ” ; the “ full-pitch,” which comes like a cannon ball at his head in the gathering gloom of the evening and taxes all his agility to avoid it. If the batsman avoids it, w ell ) if it hits him, better; there is nothing sharpens rustic wit like the agony of a friend. It chanced on a day that a tall,lank lad, aptly known as “ Needle,” received such a full pitch plump in the eye. As he writhed and groaned with Ihe smart, the bowler sen- tentiously remarked, “ Your eye warn’t made for such cotton as that, Needle !” The scien­ tific bowler is as much out of place in rustic cricket as a magazine r ifle Mark II. would have been at the siege of Troy. After the hay is carried the village cricke­ ters will desert the old turf at the top of the “ land ” for a wicket among the wiry stubble. This introduces a charming element of chance. You may deliver your best half-volley and flush a covey of partridges ; you may run six for a hit which stops short of “ mid-on,” and, if “ lost ball” is not cried, be run out in attempting a seventh run. After a time, how­ ever, the heavy boots act as a natural roller— bruise and lay tufts of hay-stubble, and stamp down the inequalities of the ground. It is not considered advisable in rustic cricket to shift your wicket: the stumps are re-inserted day after day into the old holes, until the bo wler’s track is as deep as a railway cutting, and the block suggests that it has been used as a dust bath by a tactless hen. Evening after evening, when “ old Caspar’s work is done ” —and young Caspar’s too,which is more to the point—untirea by his hard day’s labour, will the said young Caspar and his mates disport themselves at the t-ameof their choice. They “ feel the thews of Ana- kim,” and play on until bats (of auother genus) circle around their heads, aud tbe gloaming warns them to relegate their cricket to its poetical habitat—the hearth. For this even­ ing’s relaxation “ tip and run ” is the prince ofg im es; any number can play; everybody is sure of an innings; and as a training for quickness in the field and accurato judgment of a run it is unequalled. Iu these two points village cricketers are essentially weak. Of course one learns more of the runs which are not possible—learns by sad and bitter experi­ ence—than of those which are; but this has its reflex action, and it is worth learning, for the side whicn fields the closest and runs with the best judgment will almost invariably win a village match.€? The captain should always be on the grourd and permit no fool­ ing—no bowling til lthe batsman is ready. The habit of allowing the bowler to deliver the ball directly be ha3 it in his hand may cause a good deal of amusement, but it acts perni­ ciously both on the bowling and the batting. After some weeks of this practice a challenge is sent our,and a day fixed for the great match of “ Claydoq v. Mudford.” The match will begin at half-past one, and this necessitates giving up half a day’ s work I f it is a slack time on the land, Farmer Giles, good honest man, will make no difficulty about letting his men go ; he will play himself; or if increasing years and extending waistcoat prevent that, he will ride up during the afternoon on his sober, short-backed cob, and great jars of beer or cider will attest his anxiety for the success of his village. But if it is a “ catchy ” time and some of the farmer’s hay is still unsaved, he must retain his “ Salvation Army,” and Mudford’s captain will have difficulty in com­ pleting his team. “ I don’ t mind playing if it is wet ” is the discouraging response he will receive to his importunities. “ Labor omnia vincit Improbus.” The team is at last made up, and the rival cham­ pions of Claydon and Mudford meet on the tented field—the tent consisting of an erec­ tion composed of a dozen hurdles. Here will sit two arithmeticians, the one sworn to add two and two and make five—the other to per­ form the same feat and arrive at three. With them will sit the ancient quidnuncs, those laudcitores temporis acti, who remember how everything was so much better done when they were boys. The teams are resplendent; most of them have donned their Sunday trousers and black tail-coat, with handkerchiefs gay with blue and red round their throats, and on their heads their best “ billycock ” hats, decorated with a peacock’s feather or a flower—if the flower is not in their mouths. The more knowing are in white flannel trousers made very tight in the lpg, with wondrous caps divided into “ pigs” like an orange—each alternate “ pig ” being blue and yellow or orange and green, according to the tasteful fancy of the wearer. When their coats are off it will be seen that their upper man is arraved in a grey flannel shirt, made without a collar, and scarlet braces—or, perchance, a belt of worked flowers with a crioketer in fantastic attitude for fastening. Mudford has lost the toss and the eleven take the field. The captain is a knowing hand, and so places most of his men on the “ on side.” On the off he is content with a long-off and long-slip, and a “ silly ” point, forward and almost within range of the bit. A long-stop he will have, an’ he be wise. Byes are always a formidable item in a villuge match. If there is a decent wicket-keeper in the team he should stand close up fora chance of stumping; if not, give the man the gloves and let him stand two yards back just to take the returns—he will not need pads, for he is not expected to save byes. Of course if there be a scientific bat or two on the other side, these dispositions must be altered; but, above all, let the field be arranged so that they have to cross over as little as possible, and if a man must be changed let him take the correspond­ ing place on the other side. This will save a great deal of confusion, for there is nothing so hard to instil into the mind of the rustic cricketer as his proper whereabouts in the field. The Mudford bowling is shared by a slow left-hand bowler of the orthodox type, and a real fast underhand “ metropolitan,’* The Claydon bats approach : the parson’ s son and a young farmer. Now look out, Mudford, for the farmer hits “ like a horse kicking,” while the parson,” though a poor bat, is the deftest hand at stealing a run in all the country round. Ah ! he’s at it already. His partner swings his bat at the first ball—misses it, and it slips past the wicket-keeper. “ Come on,” shouts the ounning runner, and is at home ere the long-stop has handled it. He is never in hi? ground; he pats a ball gently to mid-on, and dances about outside the crease; mid on throws hard at the wicket, and the ball goes for a two overthrow ; the wicket-keeper—the Rector of Mudford-has a stealthy shot at his wicket while he is in­ cautiously standing a yard out of his ground, but the bat it dropped like lightning a thought before the bails fly, and a “ bijj. bi^ D ” escapes the barrier of his reverence's teeth ; half the field gets in a rage, the oih* r half sulky. And the farmer is not idle. Ho swings his bat manfully ; he hits at everv- thing; despatches long-hops on the off stump tj sqnareleg, half volleys on the middle into