Trent Bridge, August 1928
WE have this afternoon been given compensation for the long dreary hours on Wednesday, when wet clouds hid the sun and the cricketers’ brief butterfly season seemed over already. Today the warm light of summer has made us all happy and young again, and splendid cricket has happened on this most ancient and historic cricket field. The pitch was protected from Wednesday’s rain, but when the covers were moved away this morning it is likely that some moisture remained secreted in the turf. The ball frequently kept low and seemed to skid from the earth with that acceleration of speed which means all the difference between a stroke in time and a stroke too late. In no sense, however, was the wicket difficult—W. G. Grace would have pressed his thumb into the grass and murmured, ‘A hundred for me.’
Larwood gave the game a breath-snatching prelude: galloping over the earth like a young horse, he bowled down four Kent wickets in less than half an hour. Kent were six when Hardinge sought to stop a very fast ball which possibly nipped back an inch: Hardinge played on, and his cross bat, the consequence of a discreetly retiring right foot, was not worthy of a cricketer of Hardinge’s scientific upbringing. With Kent’s total nine Ashdown’s off stump was sent round and round. Ashdown’s stroke was done by reflex action: he flicked his bat just as a man flicks his head as he hears a wasp buzzing about him. Kent were fifteen when, in three balls, Larwood crashed through the bats of Ames and Deed. A ball that rose no higher after pitching than the middle of the stumps utterly baffled Ames, and the next ball but one nipped back and knocked the centre wicket of Deed out of the ground. Larwood’s analysis hereabout was:
Overs | Maidens | Run | Wickets |
3.3 | 2 | 1 | 4 |
The collapse was a clear case of feeble batting against bowling very fast from the pitch, hurled down with youth’s own temper and vitality. The Kent batsmen contributed to their own misfortunes by letting their bats move away and aslant from the line of the ball. For, though Larwood occasionally bowled a break-back directed by his body swing, the line of his flight was straight in to the bat. Never did he exploit an out-swinger, and his length was not short. Clearly, then, the Kent batsmen who allowed their right feet to stray from the line of the ball, and by doing so let their bats play across—these batsmen were not acting according to the gospel of Lord Harris. You need the full width of the blade to stop Larwood at his fastest.
The moment Bryan came in we were able to see Larwood’s bowling in a new and cultivated light. Bryan played forward beautifully, his bat moving with its full front down the ball’s line. His forward shoulder was over the ball when his bat met it, and Larwood immediately began to look a very fine but not unplayable fast bowler. The ease and confidence of Bryan’s batting demonstrated the essential straightforwardness of Larwood’s attack. Bryan, being a left-hander, would have suffered a painful experience if Larwood really had been bowling a break-back with anything like an acute angle. Bryan made only seven, but he helped Woolley to add thirty for the fifth wicket in just over half an hour. Bryan’s little innings was full of cricket sense. He is one of the very best left-handed batsmen of our day, and if I were a member of the Selection Committee I would argue for his place in the England eleven—as batsman and possibly as captain of the side.
Woolley came in at the fall of Kent’s first wicket, was unbeaten at the end, and scored 66 out of 109 in two hours. With his innings worth only 18 he was missed from a graceful leg hit: at 22 he gave another chance, a hit to mid-off. This chance was low to the earth, Woolley probably mistiming his drive because the ball lifted a little after pitching. These two mistakes did not for a moment give us a suggestion that Woolley was playing anything but great and beautiful cricket. His strokes were of the utmost ease, and calm even in the face of Larwood’s hurricane. He turned the ball to leg with an incline of the body and a sweep of the bat which were courtly. A high drive over mid-off’s head saw his body upright yet in effortless poise; a leg hit from Barratt was musical in its rhythmical energy. He rose tall as a Grenadier and flicked a rising ball over the slips, his bat describing a quite negligent movement. Larwood beat him and missed his wickets by inches when Woolley’s innings had lasted but a few minutes; had he failed, Kent must surely have been all out for a ridiculous amount, and our memories of the season when the days of winter come would not be able to dwell—as now they will dwell—on a flower of batsmanship, one that grew proudly out of the barren earth of a Kent innings of 118. Here is the sequence in which Kent’s wickets were tumbled down:
Wright and Woolley made Kent’s eighth wicket put on 39; the difference between Wright and Woolley as batsmen is the difference between nature and art, instinct and culture. Barratt bowled well, keeping that very nasty length which is just too short for a forward stroke. Moreover, he frequently caused the ball to run away from the bat. One of his in-swingers to Bryan’s left-handed bat rose awkwardly, and Lilley, the wicket-keeper, stopped it well on the leg-side. Woolley’s cricket was highly appreciated by a crowd that could afford to be affable and generous. He is still the world’s greatest left-handed batsman. To leave so glorious a cricketer out of the England eleven is rather like leaving Keats out of an anthology of English poetry. In every innings of Woolley sweetness cometh out of
Notts batted at a quarter to three in torrents of sunshine. It was an afternoon that quickened one’s love not only of cricket but also of summer and England. The watcher of the game sat at ease feeling the sunlight on his face. This is the game that suffers a chill in its very heart whenever the day is gloomy. It is the summer game, and as we watch it under a blue sky we can feel it is part of summer’s passing show of rich nature and loveliness. In the silences that come over a cricket match from time to time on an August afternoon the lazy air breeds reverie, and we think of all the country’s quiet and gracious places—the Cotswolds, Old Cockington Forge and the Wiltshire Downs. For cricket somehow holds the English secret; it belongs to summer in this land not less than our great trees and our beneficent countryside.
George Gunn and Whysall scored 34 for the first wicket, while Ashdown and Wright exploited the new ball and its supposed swerving properties. Then the spin bowlers came on, and with the total still 34 Marriott beautifully yorked Gunn, and Ames stumped Whysall off Freeman with great speed and a commendable lack of bodily fuss or tenor vocalism. Walker and Payton then added 38 by good cricket. The Kent score was passed when three wickets were down, whereupon Notts tried to force the game with all the spirit and lust for conquest which must be expected from a team led by A. W. Carr. He himself set an invigorating example, and though his innings was not long it was lion-hearted, despite a few vicissitudes in the face of Freeman’s break. Fine catching was substantially the cause of Notts losing eight wickets for 163.
Now followed some magnificent hitting by Larwood and Staples which made the Trent Bridge welkin to ring. In some thirty minutes 68 runs were hit—nay, let us use honest English and say clouted—right and left. Larwood smote two sixes, Staples five boundaries. Here were the animal spirits of cricket running loose.
Notts are going for a victory outright in two days. Nothing is wrong with the game, played as it was this afternoon by both sides, men of Kent and Notts alike. Walker for more than two hours displayed a neat and scrupulous technique. Freeman’s spin was clever without being waspish, and to the student of the game Marriott’s variation of pace and spin were a constant joy to watch, whether he was getting wickets or getting hit.
The cricket at Trent Bridge today has been played in the finest spirit by both teams. Nothing is wrong with the game, given cricketers of heart and imagination as well as skill. On an afternoon of delicious sunshine we have seen Notts all out for victory, and we have seen Kent take up the challenge of Carr like the cavalier county we have always known Kent to be. Carr, although leading by not more than 111, closed his innings straightway and sent Kent to the wicket in the fresh of the morning. This was a declaration of the right temper. Let us hope to see other county captains emulating Carr’s gusto.
Kent lost Bryan’s wicket with only 27 scored, and though they now were needing 84 to save defeat by an innings, Woolley and Ashdown proceeded to try to turn the wheel of the match round at the rate of 100 runs an hour. Ashdown began with three fours in the morning’s first two overs—two cuts and a glorious cover-drive. Bryan was caught at the wicket from a capital ball of Barratt which whipped away from the bat at the last fraction of time after pitching on the blind length. Woolley hit his first ball as though Kent’s score were 650 for two, and Carr fielded it brilliantly and saved the four. Ashdown went his dashing way, cutting and off-driving with all of Jim Seymour’s skill and daring. Now and again fortune smiled on his hazards through the slips, but he gave no actual chance. In half an hour Kent were 50 and nine boundaries had been hit. In swift succession Ashdown made a cover drive and two slashing cuts from A. Staples—brilliant and impudent strokes. Woolley, as negligent and inscrutable as ever, toyed with the vehement Notts attack: in little more than a quarter of an hour he made 30, letting us see four ravishing hits to the rails. In the morning’s first hour Kent flashed 94 runs over the field: the batting challenged the sun’s splendour.
Ashdown reached his 50 in an hour, then danced ahead of Woolley, his bat crackling like a jolly fire. Ashdown and Woolley in an hour scored 109. The lead of Notts was cancelled in 75 minutes, and at one o’clock Carr began to wear a thoughtful look; another hour of Woolley and Ashdown would give Kent a chance of going for a win. Watching this beautiful cricket I got the impression that Ashdown and Woolley had both forgotten that there were three stumps behind their bats needing an occasional thought. Woolley and Ashdown played defensively only as a last resort and with obvious reluctance. Defensive strokes were invariably singles. When Kent’s total was 90 we had revelled in the sight of fourteen boundaries. I doubt whether Old Trafford will see fourteen boundaries in the next three days. This gallant stand by Woolley and Ashdown was ended tragically; Woolley drove a ball hard to Carr at cover, and Ashdown ran eagerly and too impetuously down the pitch. Carr fielded magnificently, and Ashdown’s wicket was broken before he could turn on his heels and get home again. The score was now 148 for two. Woolley and Ashdown had added 121 in 70 minutes. Ashdown’s innings did honour to cricket; there is no higher praise for him than that.
Woolley went on playing a match-winning game, and just before lunch he fell to a deep-field catch most judiciously performed by Whysall in front of the pavilion. From one point of view Woolley was indiscreet in making this hit so soon after Ashdown’s dismissal, and so close to the lunch interval. But Woolley’s genius is above the criticism of the ca’ canny: others abide the championship question; he is free. Woolley made his 66 in 80 minutes. After lunch Hardinge was bowled by a fine ball which swung in with Voce’s arm. Ames batted stoutly for 70 minutes, for Kent had by this time realized that the job of saving a match must not any longer be mixed up with the job of winning one. A grand slip catch by Staples got rid of Ames, and another swift slip catch by the same fine fieldsman dismissed Deed. A half-hour of stern resistance by Legge and Longfield threatened to frustrate Carr after all, for the time of day hereabout was half-past three, and Kent, with four wickets in hand, were more than 100 ahead. The obstinacy of Legge was scotched by Carr himself: he caught the Kent captain at short leg with a thrilling speed and opportunism. Whereupon young Voce began to bowl straight instead of swinging the ball to the batsman’s body, and the Kent tail end crumpled up. At a quarter to four the side were all out, and Notts wanted 157 runs, and there were two hours and a quarter left for cricket. Clearly the running-out of Ashdown was the turning-point. Kent’s efforts to play defensively after lunch were not impressive, but there is likely always to be more rejoicing in the cricketer’s heaven over a Kent defeat in today’s spirit than over all the dismal championship points ever won.
Again the D’Artagnan spirit was shown when Notts batted a second time. Gunn and Whysall played with bats that parried and thrust like the quick steel of swordsmen, and Notts actually hit 158 runs in 95 minutes. A ten wickets’ victory seemed certain, but Whysall was out with nine runs still to get. He batted with a stimulating blend of power and precision.
The match, one of the best I have ever seen, was appropriately crowned or garlanded by a hundred from George Gunn—sheer wit of batsmanship, flicked over the brilliant grass in ninety minutes. He drove to the off with a blade that seemed less to strike the ball than to perform magical sweeps and ‘passes’—‘fluence’, as they say in the crowd. His cuts to third man were done in his own charmingly coxcomb manner. He achieved strokes entirely belonging to himself, connived at the wrist’s ends, and so rapid were they that the eye could not follow the technique of it all. At one moment Gunn is as classical in poise as the great William Gunn himself; then he will show you a capricious inverting of the old ways of doing things; he will cut from the middle stump—and a yorker at that! Gunn got his second fifty this afternoon in just over half an hour: what a game this cricket is when great and not small batsmen take it in hand!
The match was indeed a constant joy for the lover of real cricket. In a couple of days we had on a splendid wicket a finish to a contest between two strong counties. In these two days wickets were always falling, yet nearly 800 runs were scored. Today we saw the making of 425. Cricketers of Lancashire and Yorkshire on Saturday morning will do well to study these facts. The Notts attack, when Ashdown and Woolley tried to turn the game for Kent, was not less deadly than it was on Saturday last against Lancashire. Good bowling can be hit, but the batsmen need mind and energy for the job. This is no plea for elemental slogging. Woolley and Ashdown, of course, played finished cricket—as pretty to the sight as it was thrilling to the blood. Nothing is the matter with the game—excepting the mental and physical indolence of some of its modern exponents. It may be argued by dour men of the north that as Ashdown and Woolley were unable to save Kent from disaster, the dashing play they exploited stands condemned. But it was the running-out of Ashdown that caused the downfall of Kent, not anything in the actual batsmanship displayed by Ashdown and Woolley. Another hour of this partnership would have seen Notts fighting against Freeman with little but a draw to play for.
Carr’s captaincy today was an inspiration to every man in the Notts team. He visualized victory the moment he reached the ground. If it is a fair question—would Lancashire or Yorkshire have closed an innings on the morning of the last day when in possession of an advantage of merely 111? Carr’s management of his attack was as thoughtful as MacLaren’s. He invariably had on the very bowler most likely to search out a given batsman’s weak spot. A fast bowler was in action whenever a Kent cricketer reached the wicket. Woolley, who likes the ball to come through straight, usually found himself confronted by Sam Staples, who bowled spin and flighted the ball cleverly. Staples thoroughly deserved Woolley’s wicket, for he angled after it perseveringly. Carr dominated his side all the time, he could see he was holding the reins, now pulling this one, now pulling that. The Australians would hail either Carr or Fender as a captain by more or less divine right.
KENT | |||
First Innings | Second Innings | ||
Hardinge, b Larwood | 4 | b Voce | 12 |
Ashdown, b Larwood | 1 | run out | 84 |
Woolley, not out | 66 | c Whysall, b Staples (S.) | 66 |
Ames, b Larwood | 1 | c Staples (S.) b Barratt | 24 |
J. A. Deed, b Larwood | 0 | c Steples (S.) b Larwood | 6 |
J. L. Bryan, lbw, b Staples (S.) | 7 | c Lilley, b Barratt | 10 |
G. B. Legge, b Barratt | 3 | c Carr, b Voce | 11 |
T. C. Longfield, c Lilley, b Barratt | 4 | not out | 29 |
Freeman, b Steples (S.) | 8 | b Voce | 2 |
Wright, b Barratt | 15 | c Voce | 0 |
C. S. Marriott, b Barratt | 0 | c Larwood | 3 |
B 4, lb 5 | 9 | B 8, lb 8, w 4 | 20 |
— | — | ||
Total | 118 | Total | 267 |
NOTTS | |||
First Innings | Second Innings | ||
Gunn, b Marriott | 16 | not out | 100 |
Whysall, st Ames, b Freeman | 15 | c Bryan, b Woolley | 46 |
Walker, c and b Freeman | 56 | ||
A. W. Carr, c Woolley, b Freeman | 19 | not out | 9 |
Payton, c Legge, b Wright | 30 | ||
Lilley, lbw, b Freeman | 1 | ||
Staples (A.), c Legge, b Freeman | 16 | ||
Barratt, c Legge, b Marriott | 5 | ||
Larwood, not out | 36 | ||
Steples (S.), not out | 30 | ||
B 2, lb 1, nb 2 | 5 | B 2, lb 1 | 3 |
— | — | ||
Total (for eight wickets) | *229 | Total (for one wicket) | 158 |
* Innings declared |
BOWLING ANALYSIS KENT—First Innings |
|||||||||
O. | M. | R. | W. | O. | M. | R. | W. | ||
Larwood | 12 | 2 | 28 | 4 | Staples (S.) | 11 | 0 | 28 | 2 |
Barratt | 18 | 2 | 47 | 4 | Voce | 1 | 0 | 6 | 0 |
Second Innings | |||||||||
Larwood | 16.2 | 2 | 62 | 2 | Staples (S.) | 19 | 4 | 47 | 1 |
Barratt | 13 | 2 | 58 | 2 | Staples (A.) | 7 | 0 | 35 | 0 |
Voce | 14 | 3 | 45 | 4 |
Voce bowled four wides NOTTS—First Innings |
|||||||||
Wright | 15 | 3 | 31 | 1 | Freeman | 33 | 9 | 98 | 5 |
Ashdown | 6 | 0 | 20 | 0 | Marriott | 24 | 5 | 75 | 2 |
Marriott bowled two no-balls |
Second Innings | |||||||||
Ashdown | 4 | 0 | 10 | 0 | Longfield | 2 | 0 | 15 | 0 |
Freeman | 14 | 2 | 51 | 0 | Woolley | 2.4 | 0 | 28 | 1 |
Marriott | 8 | 2 | 31 | 0 | Wright | 7 | 1 | 20 | 0 |
It was a memorable match throughout; I shall think gratefully of its spirit, its endeavour and its achievements—during those ‘dour’ periods which are certain to happen at Old Trafford within the next few days. Trent Bridge in August’s mellow light, fearless play, the gauntlet thrown down and picked up with chivalry; cleverness and spirit, craft and imagination; English sun and air and lovely poise of men in white flannels—the game at its bravest and most beautiful! This is the end of every cricketer’s desire.