AFTER I ‘BECAME’ Hendren in 1921, I noticed one day an advertisement in a paper. It showed a picture of Hendren batting, and underneath said: ‘Why not take Wincarnis like Patsy Hendren of 26 Cairn Avenue, Ealing W5?’ Just think of putting Ian Botham’s private address in a paper for all to see! Anyway, there it was, and I immediately wrote off asking Patsy for his autograph, neglecting to enclose a stamped addressed envelope. After a few days, back came a piece of foolscap paper with three of his autographs. They looked something like this:
E. Palsy Hendren.
Note that the t was not crossed, and the two lines under the n. His kindness made a deep impression on me. My signature today is still:
Brian Johnslon.
My next indirect connection with him was in 1926 after England had won the Ashes at the Oval. There was no commentary point over the radio then, so at the end of the match Patsy was rushed by taxi to Broadcasting House to give a summary of the game. I can still remember the words in which he described the exciting scenes in front of the pavilion: ‘The crowd was real glad and all was merry and bright.’
From then on I followed his career closely until he retired in 1937. Each morning I would find the sports page and see how many he had made. He seldom let me down. Early in his career, before I adopted him, he had had some hiccups in Test matches and was said not to have a Test match temperament. But he finished up with a Test average of 47.63 – just .09 behind Boycott (!) and ninth in the batting averages of all England Test batsmen. In other areas of first-class cricket there is no question as to where he stood. Altogether he scored 57,611 runs, beaten only by Hobbs and Woolley; 170 hundreds, beaten only by Hobbs; and an overall average in his career of 50.80, with only six other batsmen averaging more. So what was so special about him both as a player and as a man?
He had every stroke in the book from the late chop or cut, the square cut and an off-drive between cover and extra cover. He drove fiercely and was the best hooker of his time. He was – as befitted a professional footballer who played on the wing for Brentford – very fast between the wickets and always tried to take a quick single off his first ball. He was small by modern standards, with very strong wrists and forearms, and his twinkling feet and magnificent ‘arm’ made him an outstanding fielder in the deep. In later years he fielded closer to the wicket, either at slip or crouching at short leg with his hands cupped and his bottom sticking out.
As a man he was cricket’s most lovable clown, who never went too far. When batting he seemed to be in permanent conversation with the wicket-keeper, judging by the laughter of all those lucky enough to be fielding near to the wicket. He had an ugly puglike face and made remarks with a deadpan look. His favourite expression when telling a story was, ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ He enjoyed pulling the leg of batsmen and would often chase a ball and stoop to pick it up when still ten yards or so short of it. He would even turn round and pretend to throw the ball. When he saw the batsmen hesitating he would run on and pounce on the ball, throwing it back low and fast over the top of the stumps.
After the war I used to go and sit with Patsy when he was scoring for Middlesex. He told me once of the occasion on Arthur Gilligan’s tour of 1924 when Patsy was fielding out in the deep just under the Hill. A batsman hit a steepling catch to him. Up and up it went and Patsy tried to position himself underneath. As he did so a voice from the Hill shouted: ‘If you drop that catch, Patsy, you can sleep with my sister.’
I asked him what happened. ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ he said. ‘As I hadn’t seen his sister, I decided to make the catch.’
He also told me that he was once sitting in a train when a very pale man with a white silk scarf wound round his neck got into the carriage. He looked so ill and miserable that Patsy took pity on him and asked him what was the matter.
‘Oh,’ croaked the man, ‘it’s terrible. My club side was playing in the final of a competition. The opposition, with one wicket in hand, needed two runs to win off the last ball of the match. The batsman shied it in the air and it came to me at deep mid-on. They had run one by the time the ball came down – it was an absolute sitter – and I dropped it. They then ran another and won the match. My team mates will never forgive me.’
‘Oh,’ said Patsy jocularly, trying to cheer the poor man up, ‘if I’d done that, I’d have cut my throat.’
‘I have done,’ whispered the man hoarsely.
Patsy was a lovable man, who gave pleasure to thousands both with his antics and performances on the field, and with his humour and sense of fun off it. He was my first real hero. I think I made a good choice.
Back now to that July day at Lord’s in 1930 when I saw for the first time the greatest run-making machine cricket has ever known. Early in the afternoon I had seen his brilliant running, picking up and throwing from the deep. Then, when Australia batted, down the pavilion steps he came, in green baggy cap walking ever so slowly with measured strides – using his bat as a walking-stick. Whenever I saw him bat after that he invariably did the same, sometimes looking up at the sky – accustoming his eyes to the light. He failed on this occasion and it was not until 1938 that I saw him bat again – at Lord’s in the second Test when he made 102 not out and in the third Test at Headingley, 103.
Why was he so great? Before I try to answer that, I’ll stagger you with some of his outstanding figures. He only played in 52 Tests, and in 80 innings scored 6,996 runs with 29 hundreds at an average of 99.94! He only needed to score four in his last Test innings at the Oval to give him an average of 100.00 exactly, and his 7,000th run in Test cricket.
Of these 52 Tests, 37 were against England, with five home Tests each against South Africa, the West Indies and India. The only overseas Tests he played were against England. Just imagine what his Test record would have been had he toured the other countries, and had Australia played New Zealand, Pakistan and Sri Lanka as they do today.
His overall figures are even more astonishing: 338 innings for 28.067 runs at an average of 95.14 with 117 hundreds – in other words, he made a hundred every three times he went in. His 117 hundreds include 452 not out, four other scores over 300, and thirty double-centuries. Enough said. I hope you feel duly staggered!
So what had he got that set him on a plane above all other run-getters both past and present?
First, I think his character. He was a perfectionist. Whatever he did, he wanted to achieve as near one hundred per cent perfection as possible. He was not ashamed to learn from others. In fact, he told me he was never coached but used to watch and copy the great Australian and English batsmen he saw as a young man. Then there was his insatiable love of batting and making runs, rivalled only in latter days by Geoff Boycott. People like Jack Hobbs often used to get themselves out after they had made a hundred, but not Bradman. And to help him he had the sort of dedicated concentration which is necessary to achieve the really big scores. Like Hanif, Gavaskar and Boycott, he could shut himself away from what was going on around him.
He had an amazing quickness of eye, which enabled him to see the ball that fraction earlier, and so enable him to get early into position and play the ball that much later than most batsmen. I believe that when he had his eyes tested his eyesight proved to be excellent but not phenomenal. Incidentally, I always regret that the portrait of Bradman in the pavilion at Lord’s has him wearing spectacles – as he does today.
Then there was his general athleticism: he was a fast runner and mover with a boxer’s footwork. The combination of his eye, concentration and his footwork meant that he could play all the strokes. He was strong, with powerful forearms, so was especially good off the back foot with his cutting and hooking. Equally, he would dance down the pitch and drive the ball, but very seldom in the air. He decided early on that by keeping the ball along the ground he would eliminate one way of getting out.
He was a great placer of the ball, a good judge of a run and always ran his first run very fast. He told me once in an interview that he attributed much of his successful placing of the ball to his memory. Before each ball he would glance quickly round the field and note where each fielder was positioned. He would then – before he received the ball – decide where if possible he would hit it – no matter what its length – either on the offside or onside. In other words, he memorised the empty spaces. No wonder he kept the score-board ticking over so fast. In fact – and I’m sticking my neck out – I would say that he must have been the fastest scorer of all the great Test batsmen. The main difference between him and someone like Geoff Boycott was that Bradman’s aim was to dominate the bowlers and to get on top. He wanted to dictate the play. Boycott, on the other hand, was prepared to ‘sit it out’ and concentrate on not getting out.
There was otherwise a certain similarity between the two in that cricket came first in their lives. They were both loners who would be happier in their hotel rooms, conserving energy and resting, rather than being ‘one of the boys’ and enjoying a fun social life.
A justifiable criticism of Bradman was that he was not as good a player on bad wickets as Hobbs, Sutcliffe, Hammond and Hutton had been. To this he used to reply that Walter Lindrum did not make his big breaks on bad billiard tables. He expected and got the best. So it could be fairly said that Bradman was not prepared to get ‘stuck in’ and try to defend against the turning ball on a rain-affected wicket. A perfect example of this was the second Test at Lord’s in 1934 where Hedley Verity took 15 wickets for 104 runs in the match. Bradman proceeded to take the whole thing rather light-heartedly and for once even hit the ball in the air, actually hitting seven fours in his first innings of 36.
His success, and the adulation and extra money that came his way, did not always make Bradman popular with his fellow players (you could say the same about Boycott), but I met Bradman many times, especially in Australia, and found him a cheerful, friendly and outspoken character. He was quick to argue his point and, what’s more, knew all his facts and figures. When I first commentated for the Australian Broadcasting Commission at Sydney we used to have a small box in the Noble Stand and immediately below our open window was a row of seats reserved for the Australian selectors. He could hear every word we said and would often turn round and laugh or gesticulate at any comment with which he did not agree.
In another more recent interview I asked him whether, if he were playing today, he would have worn a helmet, and to my surprise he said yes. I pointed out to him that he had never worn one against Larwood, but he stuck to his point. Personally I think he was merely trying to be kind to the modern batsmen, but he denied this.
He was seldom caught out in conversation, though in his admirable researches Irving Rosenwater worked out that Bradman was caught out on the field in 58 per cent of his dismissals, compared with 26 per cent bowled. Finally, of course, Bradman was a fine leader of men and one of the greatest tacticians ever. He captained Australia twenty-four times, and to my mind there has been no better Test match captain.
To end I must go back to just before 6 pm on 14 August 1948 at the Oval for the fifth Test against Australia. From the pavilion emerged Don Bradman to play his last ever Test innings. In the television commentary box Roy Webber had advised us that the Don only needed to make four runs to bring his Test match average to exactly 100.00. He was given a tremendous and emotional reception by the packed crowd, who stood and cheered him all the way to the wicket. As usual he walked to the wicket ever so slowly. As he approached the square Norman Yardley called for three cheers from his England team, who had all gathered on the pitch. Some shook him by the hand.
Bradman quietly took his guard, apparently unmoved by all the emotional scenes. There was a hush from the crowd as Hollies ran up to bowl from the Vauxhall end. Bradman played the first ball quietly on the offside. The next pitched on a perfect length on or just outside the off-stump. Bradman pushed forward as if to play it as a leg-break, but it was a perfectly disguised googly. It touched the inside of his bat and he played on. Bowled for 0 in his last Test innings. The cheers as he turned and walked slowly back to the pavilion were as loud as when he came in. Not, I like to think, because the crowd were pleased that England had got his wicket, but rather as the best way possible to say goodbye to the greatest run-getter of all time.
Just three final comments on this dismissal:
1. A film was made of the series and showed Bradman being bowled by Hollies with Hollies bowling round the wicket. This he did not do on this occasion. I believe that what happened was that the camera got Bradman being bowled, but had not shot Hollies as he ran up. So they must have gone to the film archives and found an old shot of Hollies who happened – bad luck to them – to be bowling round the wicket. I don’t think many people noticed it. But I had to do the commentary on the film and was very conscious of a fake picture.
2. In interviews in later years I asked the Don whether he had missed the ball because his eyes were full of tears at his tremendous reception. He denied it emphatically, but then he would – he was nothing if not tough. But I still don’t believe that he could have been unaffected.
3. The other question I asked was whether he knew that he only needed four more runs to bring his Test career average to 100.00. He told me with a twinkle in his eyes that he had had no idea, but that if he had done, he might perhaps have taken a wee bit more trouble!
I was lucky enough to see Wally Hammond play. I saw him make his superb 240 against Australia at Lord’s in 1938, and his 76 in the Headingley Test in the same year. As a commentator I was also privileged to describe two of his innings against India eight years later in 1946. Unless you saw Hammond it is difficult to comprehend how great a player he was, though his figures prove a certain amount. In all first-class cricket: 50,551 runs, average 56.10; 167 hundreds; 732 wickets and 819 catches. In Tests: 7,249 runs, average 58.45; 22 hundreds. He also took 83 wickets and made 110 catches.
The simple fact is that he was head and shoulders above his contemporaries in England. He dominated English cricket throughout the late 1920s and the 30s. Even after the war he headed the batting averages in 1946 with an average of 84, for the eighth season in succession – an all-time record.
He was a marvellous athlete and successful in whatever game he played. He had a commanding presence and there was an aura of majesty in the way he walked to the wicket. ‘Like a ship in full sail,’ R. C. Robertson-Glasgow once wrote. He was strong and beautifully built, and like a boxer was light on his feet. His most famous stroke was his square cover drive, and his back strokes, even in defence, were dreaded by fielders at mid-off and mid-on.
He played with a light bat, so was a perfect late-cutter, and also produced an unorthodox stroke down to long leg, more of a paddle than a sweep. They used to say that he was not so strong on the leg-side, but it must be remembered that in his day most bowlers bowled a line on off-stump or just outside, so he didn’t get all that much practice! He was, though, to prove occasionally vulnerable to Bill O’Reilly, who with his bounce concentrated on Wally’s leg-stump.
As a bowler he was not unlike Maurice Tate, with a good action and plenty of pace off the pitch. He took a short run but bowled at a brisk medium pace. At first slip he was in the top class alongside names like Woolley, Gregory, Miller, Simpson, Cowdrey, Sharpe, Chappell (Greg) and Botham. He made it all look so ridiculously easy. I don’t ever remember seeing him fling himself at the ball. He just seemed to stand there and pouch the ball – often putting it in his pocket after he had made the catch.
When he became an amateur in 1938 he captained England twenty times, including two overseas tours to South Africa and Australia. He was an efficient captain on the field without being great. Off the field – especially on tours – he tended to go his own way, and rather left the team to their own devices. As I have said, I was the television commentator for the two London Tests against India. It’s difficult to believe it now, but I never spoke to him nor interviewed him during that time. It just didn’t happen in those days. No interviews on the prospects of a match, at the close of play nor even at the end of the game. Like actors and actresses of that era, cricketers were more remote from their public and not as overexposed as they are today.
For one who had dominated the scene for so long, the twilight of Hammond’s career was rather sad. He had that very successful post-war season in 1946, followed by an unsuccessful tour of Australia both for himself and his team, but he did score 79 in his final Test – against New Zealand in Christchurch. He then, except for two appearances in 1950 and 1951, retired from first-class cricket, and eventually settled in South Africa, where he became coach at the University of Pietermaritzburg.
It was in Durban in 1964 that I spoke to him for the very first time. I was covering Mike Smith’s MCC tour for the BBC and one day went down to the Kingsmead ground in Durban to see them practise. I spotted a lone figure leaning over the back of a stand which was alongside the nets. He was looking down on the players practising below. I recognised him immediately and introduced myself. He couldn’t have been more charming and quite obviously still took a great interest in cricket, especially in the MCC team. I alerted Mike Smith, who immediately asked Wally to come down to the nets, where he remained with the team for the rest of the practice.
That night in the lounge of the hotel I saw the great man surrounded by the MCC team, who were hanging on to his every word as he reminisced about the past. It was a happy ending to what I always felt was rather a sad life after he had given up cricket. The players were thrilled to meet him and it must have given him much pleasure and satisfaction to be the centre of their admiration and obvious hero-worship. That was in December 1964, and he died in July 1965 at the age of only sixty-two. I shall always remember him from a photograph of him playing his famous cover drive, from a yard outside his crease, with his dark-blue handkerchief showing out of his trouser pocket, and Bertie Oldfield crouching down behind the stumps. He was in the perfect position for the stroke as he followed through with his bat. It must have been a four.