I SUPPOSE MOST of us from time to time sit back and reflect on our lives. I know I do, and every time I feel a little ashamed that the game of cricket has played such a large part in mine. First of all following the scores in the papers, then reading some of the many books. Playing it, of course, and merely watching it as a spectator, and finally for well over half of my life earning some of my living by commentating on it. All that time spent on just a game! Or is it something more than that? Many of us believe that it is. More than anything else in my life it taught me to try to work and play with others, and to be a member of a team. I was taught the importance of improving my own performance by practice, dedication and discipline; and to accept the umpire’s decision, to win or lose gracefully and to take the inevitable disappointments with a smile. These are the ideals and I am not boasting or pretending that I have ever lived up to them, but they do explain the phrase ‘it’s not cricket’.
Far more indelible than memories of games played or watched are the happy recollections of countless friendships resulting entirely from a mutual love of cricket. I was lucky to collect a growing band of friends as I progressed through life. School, university, business, the war and club cricket provided many of them. And then, beyond my wildest dreams, when I joined the BBC in 1946 and became a commentator, Test and county cricketers gave me their friendship. I shall always treasure this. Here was I, a humble (?!) club cricketer accepted by the greats in the game. It has made my time in the commentary box a supremely happy one, and I shall always be grateful to them, and to all my colleagues in the commentary box.
One great bonus which cricket has given to the world is its humour and its literature. More stories are told about its characters, and more books have been and are being written about it, than of all other games put together. It is something which makes it unique in sport and enables those of us past our playing days to relive matches and to meet and learn about all the players which cricket has produced.
I have commentated on more than 250 Test matches either on television or on radio. So I feel the time is right for me to try to portray, and to pay tribute to, some of the players and characters, and to try to recapture the tremendous pleasure which their skills and performances have given to me. With two exceptions I will only write about those on whom I have personally commentated. They are my own personal choice, and inevitably other people’s favourites will be left out. I don’t suppose they will mind, but if they do I am sorry. There is a limit to the size even of a cricket book, however.
I have chosen fifty. I am very conscious of the fact that I have left out many fine players, especially from overseas – such as Michael Holding and Malcolm Marshall. I have also had to leave out some of my good companions on tours, who provided so much fun and laughter as we travelled round the world together – people like David Brown, Robin Hobbs, Ramon Subba Row, ‘J. T.’ Murray, Peter Parfitt and Peter Richardson.
Finally, the title of the book. It is not meant to sound conceited, as if I am boasting that my commentator’s job has been easy. It merely refers to the somewhat bizarre association that I have had with chocolate cakes. It all started some ten years ago when a kind lady sent me a chocolate cake on my birthday, during a Test match at Lord’s. I perhaps unwisely thanked her over the air. Since then gifts of all sorts have flooded into the box: bottles, sweets, biscuits and of course cakes galore – usually chocolate. On some occasions they are works of art. For instance, last year I was given by some friends in Cardiff a colour reproduction in icing of the famous picture of Lord’s in the early 1900s, which hangs in the Memorial Gallery at Lord’s! It depicts a rather rotund fielder stopping a ball in front of the small stand which used to be on the left of the pavilion, where the Warner Stand now is. Walking on the edge of the boundary is King Edward VII with Queen Alexandra on his arm, and sitting in the stand is the easily recognisable figure of Lily Langtry!
So what do we do with all the cakes? Some we eat, or share with our television colleagues, our engineers and our many casual visitors to the box. The one I have mentioned above was too good to eat, and it is still in my freezer in St John’s Wood. I am also glad to say that we often send those we cannot eat to local children’s hospitals. With my thanks to the many hundreds of people who have sent in cakes, I hope they – and you too – will now appreciate the title!
The first I can remember of anything to do with cricket was when I was aged about six, and an old Oxford blue called H. G. Tylecote lived in the village of Offley where we had our home. He used to come and coach my eldest brother Michael on our tennis court, and I was allowed to do a spot of fielding. Two years later I went to boarding school at Eastbourne, and it was there that I ‘became’ Patsy Hendren. My brother was J. W. Hearne (young ‘Jack’), and we used to play needle matches in the nets. So I think it makes sense to give my hero pride of place in the batting order of my favourites, and he is one of the two exceptions of the fifty on whom I never commentated.
I have always regretted that I never commentated on a Hendren innings. This also applies to other great cricketers whom I watched before the war – not that I did much watching in the years from 1921 to 1939. Whenever I could, I preferred to play instead, but I was lucky to be at school in Eastbourne from 1921 to 1925, and we used to go to the Saffrons to see H. D. G. Leveson-Gower’s eleven against both Oxford and Cambridge. I remember famous names like A. P. F. Chapman, the three Ashtons (G., H., C. T.), Rev. F. H. Gillingham, R. H. Bettington, G. E. B. Abell, the two Gilligans (A. E. R., A. H.), T. C. Lowry, M. D. Lyon, G. T. S. Stevens, K. S. Duleepsinhji and F. B. R. Browne.
The latter had the nickname of ‘Tishy’, because just before he delivered the ball he crossed his legs. The ‘Tishy’ came from a mare of that name who used to cross her legs when jumping and, not surprisingly, fell a number of times. There was a rather rude joke at the time which said that she had crossed her legs and fallen at Becher’s in the Grand National because she had spotted the Rector of Stiffkey in the crowd on the other side of the fence. Stiffkey was a village in Norfolk and there was a cause célèbre involving the Rector and a number of London prostitutes. F. B. R. was a master at St Andrew’s school, which could also boast of J. L. Bryan on its staff. Naturally they were always a good side and normally beat us except when D. R. S. Bader (the famous Douglas) was in our eleven. He could be relied on to make a hundred more often than not. This great airman-to-be was a popular figure at my school, Temple Grove, because whenever he did make a hundred we were excused evening prep. Writing down all these names reminds me of a fairly useless skill which I have always had. I am very bad at remembering names but I’m a wizard at initials and would gladly choose ‘Initials of First-class Cricketers’ as my specialist subject on Mastermind.
But I digress. Back to the Saffrons, where I seem to remember a number of fancy caps, including the Harlequins. I must have seen Yorkshire play there once, because I distinctly remember Herbert Sutcliffe with his sleek black hair hooking a six over long leg.
From 1923 we lived in Dorset for a couple of years, before moving to Herefordshire. In July 1924 our tutor took me and my brother in the sidecar of his motorbike to watch Hampshire play Notts at Bournemouth. We sat by the sightscreen and watched a bald, red-faced Arthur Carr, in a cream silk shirt with a knotted handkerchief round his neck, driving with great power. Alec Kennedy, the fast-medium bowler, had a beautifully smooth run up to the wicket, and standing at mid-off was the considerable figure of Lionel Tennyson. I was especially interested in the wicket-keeper Livsey, who in addition to keeping wicket was also Tennyson’s butler. Personally, after six hours crouching behind the stumps, I wouldn’t have felt like waiting at table! On this occasion I didn’t see Philip Mead bat. I only saw him walking from slip to slip at the end of each over with his shambling farmer’s gait. I was lucky enough to see him bat a few years later and can confirm this classical description of him by a very dear friend – the late ‘Crusoe’, R. C. Robertson-Glasgow:
Having settled his whereabouts with the umpire, he wiggled the toe of his left boot for some fifteen seconds inside the crease, pulled the peak of a cap that seemed all peak, wiggled again, pulled again, then gave a comprehensive stare round him as if to satisfy himself that no fielder, aware of the task ahead, had brought a stick of dynamite. Then he leaned forward and looked down at the pitch, quite still. His bat looked almost laughably broad.
Great stuff. Can you wonder that Crusoe was my favourite cricket writer? I met him first at a dinner at the Club in Trinity, Oxford, in 1933, when he gave his famous rendering of ‘Eskimo Nell’. No one has ever done it better!
I once played with Lord Tennyson when, through Alec Douglas-Home (later Lord Home), I was asked to play for the Lords and Commons against Westminster at Vincent Square. Tennyson came into the dressing room with an enormous portmanteau. He opened it up and revealed a batch of bottles – whisky, gin, wine and so on. ‘Help yourselves, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘and if you care to give me an order afterwards I shall be only too pleased that it is delivered to your house.’ The only other person I know who used to sell his wares in the dressing room was Godfrey Evans, who would bring a small case full of attractive marcasite jewellery in which he was financially interested.
And whilst on the subject of jewellery, there was a splendid character who used to haunt the Yorkshire grounds. He carried in his pocket a small soft leather bag full of the most priceless jewels. Goodness knows what they were worth, but he used to come up to our commentary box and display the dazzling rings and bracelets. Why he was never mugged I don’t know. Perhaps he was – I haven’t seen him for over twenty years. He always used to have a good story, and once told me: ‘I’m very worried about the three Ms.’ ‘The three Ms?’ I asked. ‘What on earth are they?’ ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘the Missus, the maid and the mortgage. They’re all three overdue!’
Whilst still in Dorset I had a tremendous thrill – I actually saw the great Jack Hobbs play, alas the only time that I did. It was in a charity match at Bridport in 1924, and so far as I can remember he made 17. I can still picture one magnificent square cut which he played, though my vision was somewhat clouded by the smoke of a foul-smelling pipe smoked by either J. T. Brown or J. Tunnicliffe, the great Yorkshire opening pair. They were sitting in front of me and I don’t know which one was the offender. But they were first-class cricketers and I forgave them anything.
After the war I was lucky to meet Jack, and no nicer nor more modest man can ever have played cricket; he had a delightful sense of humour and a twinkle in his eye. I used to visit him when he retired to Hove.
In 1925 we moved to Herefordshire, so were in easy reach of Cheltenham and Worcester. In 1926 I saw my first ever touring team, and got my first sight of those baggy green Australian caps. They were playing Gloucestershire at Cheltenham. I had read a lot about the fast bowling of Jack Gregory and was duly impressed with his speed and long run up to the wicket. A chap called Ellis was keeping wicket in place of Oldfield, and one ball from Gregory was so fast that he could only get his left hand to it and his glove came off. The crowd were cheered by a lively second innings of 32 by their burly captain, Lt.-Col. D. C. Robinson. Brig.-Gen. Poore of Hampshire (1898–1906) was once asked in the 1930s how he would have dealt with Harold Larwood. ‘I’d have charged him,’ he replied. Well, Lt.-Col. Robinson obviously had the same idea as he advanced down the pitch to meet Gregory’s expresses. He missed some, snicked some and hit some, but it was highly entertaining while it lasted. I have fleeting memories of Dipper, Sinfield, Parker and Goddard, but none of Hammond because he didn’t play for Gloucestershire that year. He had picked up a virus in the West Indies and was in a nursing home throughout the summer.
We were lucky to see the Australians batting, and it was the small figure of C. G. Macartney – green floppy cap pulled low over his eyes – who caught my attention with his late cutting. And I realise now how lucky I was not only to see Gregory, but also the gnomelike Clarrie Grimmett with his round-arm action spinning out the Gloucestershire batsmen. (He took 11 wickets in the match.) I met him and interviewed him in the 1960s at Adelaide. He was obviously very bitter that he had not been selected to tour England with Don Bradman’s team in 1938. On figures alone he had reason to be. In the winter of 1935–6 he had toured South Africa and in five Tests took 44 wickets for 14.59 apiece, which still remains the highest for Australia in any Test series. The following winter Gubby Allen’s team visited Australia and, surprisingly, Grimmett did not play in a single Test, his place being taken by another leg-spinner, F. A. Ward, and later by the left-arm chinaman bowler L. O’B. Fleetwood-Smith. Both these were selected to tour England in 1938 with very limited success, Ward taking 0 for 142 in the one Test in which he played, and Fleetwood-Smith 14 wickets – but at a cost of over 50 runs per wicket. So it rather looks as if there was a clash of personalities somewhere.
We paid quite a few visits to the lovely Worcester ground nestling in the shadow of the Cathedral. It was the time of Major M. F. S. Jewell and M. K. Foster, one of the seven Foster brothers who all played for Worcestershire. My special favourite was Tarbox (C. V.) because of his unusual name. And of course there was Fred Root with his new leg theory bowling – giant in-swingers with a posse of fielders in the leg trap. He was no more than fast-medium so was never as dangerous as Larwood. My stepfather decided to copy him, and you should have seen the looks on the Much Marcle village side when he directed six of them to crowd round the bat on the leg-side. They were not only in danger from the usual village sloggers but also from my stepfather’s ‘deliveries’, which tended to stray wide of the leg-stump and head straight for the cluster of short legs. He was soon persuaded to give it up!
I also paid two visits to Taunton: the first time in 1925 to see Yorkshire play Somerset. I can remember nothing of the game except that during the lunch interval I saw Abe Waddington and Maurice Leyland walking across the ground to the lunch tent. I rushed after them to get their autographs and to my great disappointment they refused. I inwardly cursed them at the time but I now realise why they did so – and it’s a tip I would pass on to all young autograph-hunters. Never ask a cricketer for his autograph when he’s on the way to lunch. He only has forty minutes and his mind is concentrated on only one thing – his stomach!
My second visit was far luckier. It was in 1932 and I saw K. S. Duleepsinhji make 90 in what was I think his last first-class innings. I can picture him now – dark, slim, rather frail but with exquisite timing. J. C. (Farmer) White was wheeling away over after over at one end with his accurate slow left arm, but time and time again Duleep danced down the pitch and hit him over or past mid-on. A sight to treasure.
Tuesday, 1 July 1930 will always be a red-letter day in my cricket life. It was the day I saw my first Test match. It was the fourth and last day of the second Test match against Australia at Lord’s. Some of the ‘twenty-two’ (second eleven) at Eton were entertained in one of the old Tavern boxes by an old blue called ‘Sonny’ Mugliston. He was a remarkable and rather unique sportsman. He got a cricket blue at Cambridge in 1907 and 1908 and also played seven matches for Lancashire during that period. But here comes the unusual part. At soccer he played left back for Oxford and the Corinthians and also represented Oxford at golf. How he divided his time between Cambridge and Oxford is not revealed.
Anyway, he was a friendly and generous host and we arrived in time for an excellent lunch. We then saw the second half of Percy Chapman’s great innings of 121. At lunch England were 262 for 5, still needing 42 to make Australia bat again, and with a slight chance of saving the game. Gubby Allen was batting with Chapman but was lbw to Grimmett for a hard-hit 57. Chapman, who might have been out before he had scored (a skier dropped between V. Richardson and Ponsford), proceeded to hit out at everything and hit three sixes off Grimmett bowling from the Nursery End. I can still see them – towering on-drives into the far corner of the Mound Stand. There was tremendous excitement when he reached his first – and only – Test hundred. And then a short time afterwards he was facing Fairfax from the Pavilion End when he snicked a ball to Oldfield behind the stumps.
Believe it or not, he told our cricket master, Nick Roe, whom he saw later in the pavilion, that he had swallowed a bluebottle! Enough to get anyone out! Otherwise he might have gone on and saved the match, but as it was Australia only needed 72 to win, and after a short panic when they lost three wickets for only 22 runs they won by seven wickets. Walter Robins put on early and took two quick wickets, but the one I can remember is D. Bradman caught Chapman bowled Tate 1. It was really a hat trick for me as it was the first time I saw Bradman bat, the first time I saw Tate bowl, and it was the best catch I had ever seen up to then. Bradman had made a brilliant 254 in the first innings and we were all longing to see him bat. He tried to cut a ball from Tate, however, and although he hit it right in the middle only inches off the ground, Chapman scooped the ball up in the gully. Naturally we were disappointed at not seeing more of Bradman, but it really was a tremendous catch.
Chapman at the time was at the peak of his career – as captain of England he had regained the Ashes at the Oval in 1926, followed by his successful 4–1 tour of Australia in 1928–9. He was the ideal schoolboy’s hero – tall, with curly hair and a chubby smiling face, and a brilliant hitter and fielder with enormous hands. I had seen him playing at the Saffrons for Cambridge against Leveson-Gower’s eleven, and he was usually in the covers, swooping in on the ball.
From that day at Lord’s, although he made 45 in the next Test, things began to go wrong for Chapman. To general surprise he was dropped from the fifth Test at the Oval, Bob Wyatt taking over as captain. No one was more surprised or disappointed than Chapman himself. The Daily Mail published an article by him which hit the headlines: ‘Why have I been dropped?’ by Percy Chapman. He had a point because he had averaged over 40 in the series and Wyatt had never played against Australia. One phrase in Chapman’s article sticks in my mind: ‘My friends are good enough to say that my batting is still as good as ever.’ But typically he sent a telegram wishing Wyatt good luck.
That winter he captained England on an unsuccessful tour of South Africa, both for England and for himself. He had been selected for the tour before he was dropped at the Oval and this must have made things very awkward for him. He continued to play his type of attractive cricket throughout the early 1930s, proving a popular captain of Kent until he gave up at the end of 1936. He was becoming more and more involved in his job of selling whisky, and it gradually dragged him down. The debonair smiling personality, the born leader, the striker of sixes and the outstanding fielder of his generation became a sad figure. I used to see him after the war at Lord’s. I would pass the time of day but I never got to know him well. Quite one of the saddest days of my life was when I saw him being carried to a taxi outside the back door of the pavilion. I try to shut out that memory and just remember that July day in 1930 when he scored his only Test hundred at Lord’s and gave immense pleasure to a schoolboy who looked on him as a godlike figure.
But cricket in general has only happy memories for me, so let’s start on the tributes to my chosen fifty players who have given me so much pleasure during my commentaries in Test matches.