‘Cricket as a passion is distinctly contagious,’ wrote David Frith. At times of the contestation of the Ashes, in fact, cricket fever can be every bit as incurable as the common cold. It was a member of the sporting public who initiated the original obituary for English cricket, and female fans who burned the bail for sealing in the urn as a response. Since then, fans have ensured the Ashes’ continued relevance, even when the cognoscenti have been inclined to dismiss them.
This chapter collects stories of public ardour sometimes as heartfelt as that among the participants. More recent developments are not so benign. Cricket is no longer a passion for many spectators; it is victory. Hostility is less bridled. Generosity is rarer. Cricket, it is often said, reflects the society that plays it. Sometimes this is not entirely a good thing.
The first Test series followed with equal fanaticism on both sides of the globe was England’s trip to Australia in 1894–95 under the captaincy of Drewy Stoddart.
At peak times during the Test series business stood still – even at the Ballarat Stock Exchange where victory and defeat sent a London-born sharebroker soaring off into ‘Rule Britannia’ in a ‘tenor voice of high register’, soon to be challenged by some Australian brokers who raised the Southern Cross to flap alongside the British flag and lustily sang ‘The Men of Australia’. Then a Cornish-man leapt onto a chair and hollered, ‘Look here, you! It’s all very well you talking about Hingland and Horstralia, but where would you be without Cornwall, eh?’ And they all burst into ‘God Save the Queen’. Communications between the Melbourne Exchange and Ballarat were limited one afternoon to a wire which read, ‘Nothing doing; cricket mad; Stoddart out.’
To be there was everything for there was no TV substitute, or even action close-ups in the newspapers. A Captain Lee, in command of Arawatta, even delayed her sailing from the Port of Melbourne during the Second Test match so that he could witness more of the cricket in person. Hunger for news of the Tests even spread to the maritime species. When the mail steamer Arcadia berthed at Adelaide, passengers raced to The Oval to watch the stirring Third Test, with many of the crew making do with updates as various launches came to and fro. When Arcadia sailed on the Saturday evening with Australia well-placed, she passed sister ship Himalaya out of Melbourne and flying the signal, ‘How’s The Cricket?’ The score was flown in reply.
Stoddy’s Mission: The first great Test series 1894–1895, Frith
After the First World War the whole of Australia seemed to be hanging on the 1920–21 Ashes series, as Jack Hobbs reported home.
In a country centre a wedding ceremony was being performed. Just as the question ‘Will you?’ etc. was about to be put, a telegraph messenger came in and handed a telegram to the bridegroom. He read it and handed it to the bride, who read it and handed it to the best man, and it went round the whole immediate group. ‘Something’s happened, the wedding’s off,’ whispered one of the onlookers. Nervously clutching the paper, the officiating minister said, ‘Armstrong 100, Kellaway 80, total 3 for 300-odd!’
‘Too much public attention is given to the Test match!’ exclaimed a severe-looking gentleman on a tram car. ‘It disorganises everything. We should keep our balance and not allow sport to sway us so much.’ Presently a man jumped on the car and remarked, ‘Armstrong has got his century.’ ‘Ah, I thought he would!’ said the severe-looking gentleman.
The Big Ship, Haigh
Australian crowds were known for a mercurial temper, as Dick Lilley found when he caught Bert Hopkins at Sydney in 1902.
I caught the ball and also knocked the bails off, and when they saw Mr Hopkins leaving the wickets they immediately commenced to hurl uncomplimentary epithets at my offending head. They are very keen, and it was obvious that he was not stumped; but they failed to observe that he was given out by Argill and were under the impression that the decision had been given by Crockett for stumping. J.J. Kelly the Australian wicketkeeper thereupon went to the crowd and explained to them that Mr Hopkins had been caught at the wicket and that the decision was a perfectly correct one. They at once altered their demeanour and commenced shouting: ‘Good old Lilley!’
Twenty-four Years of Cricket, Lilley
Sydney Barnes, too, as he bowled his heart out at Melbourne in 1912, here recalled by H.V. Hordern.
Australia won the toss, went in on a perfect wicket and promptly lost six of the best batsmen for 36 runs. Barnes at one period had four wickets for 4, and that after bowling for nearly an hour; his bowling on this occasion is generally conceded to be the finest ever done on a plumb wicket in Australia. The crowd gave him wonderful recognition, round after round of applause coming from all parts of the ground.
I happened to be the advanced guard of the tail end, and was batting with our wicketkeeper ‘Sep’ Carter – a very fine bat he was, too. Australia was in a desperate plight and we were doing our little best to pull the match round. Carter had a fine repertoire of strokes and in particular cut beautifully, whereas my shots were decidedly limited.
The late J.W.H.T. Douglas captaining the English side very naturally had a man deep on the boundary for Carter’s cut, and brought him close up for me. There is not much in that surely to start a riot, but it did. Sending the man out and bringing him back took up a certain amount of time and during one of these periods a few hoodlums called out: ‘Get on with the game!’
Barnes, evidently strung up to concert pitch, suddenly lost his temper, foolishly threw the ball on the ground, facing the crowd and, folding his arms, stood glaring at them. Then he got what he was looking for: they howled at him just as heartily as they had previously cheered, and I am sorry to say hooting came from every part of the ground.
As Barnes ran in to bowl, pandemonium broke loose. I stepped away from the wicket and sat on my bat, plainly asking the crowd to ‘shut up’ and behave. This happened three times and I sat so long the last time that the hooting abated and the game proceeded. These are absolute facts; and wasn’t it all so very wrong and so very silly?
Googlies, Hordern
Crowd size and noise could be intimidating, as Cec Parkin found in 1920.
A crowd of fifty thousand sits in the terrific sunshine. To see a Test match Australians have been known to travel a thousand miles. Work is suspended in the afternoons and a contrast with the packed ground is the quietness of everywhere just outside. Sometimes when the heat is unbearable you will see thousands of spectators sitting in shirtsleeves, even without their waistcoats. Boys go round the field all day long selling ices and iced drinks and there is a great demand for ‘tonsil varnish’. If you make a mistake, you have to go through it. I remember during the First Test match I somehow got fielding in the long-field. The crowd just behind me kept shouting, ‘What’s your name, cocky? Who said you could play cricket? It’s a rumour.’
Parkin on Cricket, Parkin
But they were redeemed by shafts of wit . . .
Each time that Tate just missed bowling Ponsford he put his hand to his head and looked up into the sky. While he was doing this one wag in the crowd shouted, ‘It’s no good, Tate, He won’t help you.’
Twenty-five Years Behind the Stumps,
Strudwick
After watching Sutcliffe fossicking around the wicket at intervals for a few hours, a Melbourne barracker bawled, ‘Take it easy! Leave something for the footballers to play on next winter.’
Between Wickets, Robinson
After one ultra-short ball had whizzed over a batsman’s head, a Sydney barracker called, ‘Eh, Harold! That would have been a yorker if you’d bowled it from the other end.’
Between Wickets, Robinson
. . . and generosity, remembered Herbert Sutcliffe.
We played two matches at Brisbane, one against an Australian XI and the other immediately afterwards with Queensland. The fielding position was close to the scoring board and there, of course, I was in range of the famous scoreboard squad which used to control the barracking. For four days they hammered me unmercifully, but when the second game came along I was in favour with the barrackers having, evidently, passed through their fire with honours, chiefly, I believe, because I took and countered the comments of the squad. The final day’s play ended and then, to my great surprise, the barrackers swarmed on to the ground to present me with a case of pipes – a gift which carried with it a tribute of which I am exceedingly proud.
For England and Yorkshire, Sutcliffe
They even took their fanaticism abroad, as Charlie Macartney learned on a visit to Europe with his wife in 1928.
One day while we were traversing the miles of art in the Vatican Museum intently gazing at the wonderful sculpture, tapestries, paintings and other works of art, I was touched on the shoulder by a man who introduced himself as from north Queensland and promptly asked me what I thought about the coming Test matches in Australia. I was speechless for a moment, as I cannot think of a place in the world where the mind is so devoid of any thoughts of cricket as the Vatican Museum. However, satisfying him that I had no idea which side would win, I heard him question the guide with the next breath as to why so many cats were kept in the Trajan Forum.
My Cricketing Days, Macartney
English supporters in Australia were few and far between in those days, but some emerged in Melbourne that 1928 summer when the tourists triumphed there.
Among the welcoming crowd was one jubilant Yorkshireman. He had tied a handkerchief to his walking stick and waved it like a flag. He said, ‘I’ve come 200 miles to see this match and I don’t care if I have to live on bread and water for the next three months.’
Herbert Sutcliffe: Cricket maestro, Hill
And they were also in Sydney, recalled Harold Larwood.
I can recall that at Sydney in 1928 one lone fellow sat there constantly calling out, ‘I’m a Pommie and I’m proud of it.’ The crowd around him shouted back, ‘Shut your bloody mouth and watch the cricket.’
The Larwood Story, Larwood and Perkins
Sydney, however, was generally regarded as the preserve of Stephen Harold Gascoigne, the Balmain rabbitoh who became an SCG legend for his wit on the Hill as ‘Yabba’. Among his mots were:
‘Put Arthur on and don’t waste time – poor Johnny is wanted on the telephone.’ (Encouraging the use of Arthur Mailey to Johnny Douglas.)
‘Stand up on yer legs. Here’s the Governor-General!’ (When Charlie Macartney came in to bat.)
‘Thank goodness he’s not a flaming centipede.’ (When Maurice Tate, who took size thirteen boots, took a long time to adjust them.)
‘You can take the body away, Hanson.’ (To Hanson Carter, wicketkeeper and undertaker, after he had caught Hobbs.)
‘What about a clap for Captain Bligh?’ (To Jardine in 1932–33.)
‘Mind your stays, old man.’ (To Jardine in a mock public-school accent.)
‘Go Back to Africa, Pat O’Dea.’ (To the Nawab of Pataudi, who represented England in 1932–33.)
‘Put a penny in his meter, George, he’s stopped registering.’ (To umpire George Borwick, a gas-meter inspector, in response to a slow innings by the Nawab.)
‘It’s no use, George, you’ll have to wait until playtime.’ (In a schoolboy falsetto to umpire Borwick as he held his arm aloft for some time waiting for a sightscreen to be moved.)
The Cricketer, April 1984
Yabba had his imitators; age, as Wally Hammond’s Englishmen found on the first post-war Ashes tour, was no bar.
While we were playing at the nets getting the shipboard stiffness out of our wrists and clearing our eyes for the Australian sunlight, there were plenty of comments for us gratis and not a little free advice. It is deflating to listen to Australian youth sizing you up!
‘That Hammond’s not half the size they said he was!’ growled one disgusted youth watching me bat. ‘I’m going home – I’ve had enough of this!’ I was sorry to disappoint him, but I couldn’t look any bigger.
‘This Edrich don’t look much – pretty weak off the back foot I’d guess,’ declared another child of about four feet nothing. ‘Get yer nose over the ball there – you won’t never do nothing like that.’
And another, ‘I don’t like the look of this Yardley’s wrists, look weak to me. Lindwall will cut his bat out of his hands, won’t he!’
Best of all was the eight-year-old with the huge cap who critically watched Wright bowling, clicked his tongue in despair, and said, ‘I’d rap the pickets with that myself, Pommy; you’ll never move Bradman with that stuff!’ That is the hallmark of Australia – free speech.
Cricket My World, Hammond
The occasional fan put their money where their mouth was, as Colin McCool found in making his maiden Test century in Melbourne that 1946 summer.
Jack Wren, one of the wealthiest businessmen in Australia, watched that innings. He liked his cricket and he suffered fiercely when things went against Australia. Certainly things weren’t too good that day, because when I went in we were 6–192 and in his anguish he turned to a friend and said, ‘I’ll give this fellow a pound for every run he makes.’ Next day a cheque for £104 arrived at the dressing-room.
Cricket is a Game, McCool
Sometimes visitors were singled out for special treatment, like young Cambridge fast bowler John Warr in 1950.
When the boat carrying the English team berthed at the Sydney dock a wharfie yelled out as J.J. came down the gang-plank, ‘Hey, Warr, you’ve got as much chance of taking a Test wicket on this tour as I have of pushing a pound of butter up a parrot’s arse with a hot needle.’
Long Hops and Larrikins,
Chappell and Rigby
The wharfie might have been vindicated had a countryman not taken a hand.
Ian Johnson gave an exhibition of sportsmanship that could not have occurred during the bitterness of pre-war battles. Given not out in the Fourth Test at Adelaide after a unanimous appeal for a catch behind off John Warr, Johnson nodded his head to the umpire and walked out. Johnson said Warr had not obtained a wicket throughout the Test series and thought he thoroughly deserved his wicket. Warr finished the tour with a bowling average of 1 for 261. Johnson’s remark as he walked in was typical of the new way of thinking. He said, ‘Warr worked hard enough to take 50 wickets and when he gets one it’s taken away from him. Fancy walking out in a Test match when an umpire gives you not out. I must be crazy!’ But, like his mates, Johnson was playing the game as a game.
Straight Hit, Miller and Whitington
Mind you, some Englishmen could stand up for themselves.
I well remember Eric Hollies after some rather rough treatment at the hands of the batsmen being asked, ‘Don’t they bury their dead in Birmingham?’ Eric’s reply, swift and to the point, went down very well. He said, ‘No, we stuff them and mark them “Export Only”.’
Playing to Win, Bailey
A regular question was, ‘What do you think of our beer?’ And, once we got to Sydney, as sure as night follows day the question was, ‘What do you think of our bridge?’ Naturally enough we started off by giving careful, polite answers – and indeed the beer wasn’t bad. Some of us, however, found the constant repetition wearing, not least Fred Trueman. He decided to do a little research on the subject of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. One night when the regular question was popped Freddie had his answer ready. ‘What do I think of your bridge? It was built in Yorkshire by a firm called Dorman Long – and it isn’t paid for yet!’
Over to Me, Laker
And encouragement was not unknown. Colin Cowdrey, making twin centuries against South Australia in 1954–55, enjoyed one urger’s efforts.
I received an unusual cable on leaving my hotel for the ground when I was 38 not out on my way to the second century. It was unsigned and said, ‘SEE TWO KINGS THREE FOURTEEN.’ A crank, I thought, and stuffed the paper away into a hip pocket. When sending my clothes to the dry cleaners a few days later I found the scrap of paper and opened it again. Suddenly it came to me, it was a quotation from the Old Testament, and further research found the prophetic words: ‘And the Lord said to Elijah, do it the second time!’ What a lovely message, but I never could reply to the kind sender.
Cricket Today, Cowdrey
And Alan Knott enjoyed others.
The Australians are very honest and forthright people and when a player is having a lean time they are not slow to inform him. Once when a catch flew past Colin Cowdrey at Melbourne there came the comment, ‘Shake your head, Cowdrey, your eyeballs are stuck!’ Then, when I was going through my loosening-up routine, a wag shouted, ‘I’ll buy you a pogo stick for Christmas!’
Stumper’s View, Knott
In England crowds could be boisterous too, like that at Sheffield’s Bramall Lane in June 1882.
Every dress was sombre and funereal, but the spectators were far from funereal in their manner. They were indeed the gayest, jolliest crowd I have ever seen. We had not been out in the field five minutes when each of us had a nickname, and by it we were known right through. Bonnor’s tall form attracted special notice and he was called ‘Jumbo’, or ‘Joombo’, as the Yorkshiremen sound it. Everywhere Bonnor went in the field the cry ‘Joombo’ would ring in his ears. Alick Bannerman was nicknamed ‘Little Joombo’ and ‘Quicklime’, Horan ‘Features’, Palmer ‘Ribs’, Blackham ‘Darkie’, Spofforth ‘Spider’ and so on.
The Australasian, 5 August 1882
And they were also witty, as at Old Trafford in 1921 when Australia’s Herbie Collins spent five hours over 40 runs.
Lionel Tennyson, a grandson of the poet, had replaced Johnny Douglas as England’s captain. A.A. Thomson recalls, ‘It was during Collins’ Methuselah-like effort that a spectator in his agony called out to England’s skipper, “Hey Tennyson, read him some of thy grandad’s poems.” And Parkin called back, “He has done. The beggar’s been asleep for hours!”’
Great Characters from Cricket’s Golden Age, Mailes
English grounds had features that could be learned from, like the public address system at Swansea when Australia played Glamorgan in 1930.
I was leading the Australian side and the announcer came across to me at the fall of each wicket to discover the identity of the next batsman. When our eighth wicket fell I said, ‘Wall is next, but you may as well announce Wall and Walker together. They won’t take long out there.’ As Wall walked onto the field the fellow announced, ‘The next batsman is Mr Wall of South Australia, but Mr Richardson has asked me to announce Mr Wall and Mr Walker together as they won’t take long.’ Like true South Australians, Tim and Charlie did not let me down. Three balls were enough to dispose of the pair of them.
The Vic Richardson Story,
Richardson and Whitington
As Ernie McCormick found after bowling seven-teen no-balls in his first two overs in England in 1938, English fans are generally more considerate of feelings . . .
The matter gave rise to a standing joke in the Australian team. If a member of the public greeted McCormick in the street he would walk straight on without a turn of the head. A colleague would explain to the bemused cricket lover that the shouts of no-ball had affected his hearing.
Cricket’s Dawn that Died: The Australians in England, 1938, Valentine
. . . than Australian ones.
He had a letter from his sister after that. The McCormicks all have a rich sense of humour. ‘Come home,’ she said, ‘you are making a fool of yourself – and moreover the tradesmen won’t call on us now.’
The Ashes Crown the Year, Fingleton
They could be surprisingly tolerant . . .
‘I was bowling pretty quick and one got up a bit and hit a fellow called Berry in the head,’ says Ernie. ‘He wasn’t too good and had to be carted to hospital for observation. The following day off most of the Aussies went to an air pageant held nearby. While we were there I was introduced to Berry’s charming wife. I felt terrible about what had happened and apologised profusely, but I wasn’t ready for the reply. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve been wanting to do that for years.”’
The Wit of Cricket, Brayshaw
. . . and deferential.
Norman Yardley said that he had received a letter from an old lady who had heard on the radio that Lindwall had two long-legs, one short leg and a square leg. ‘Tell me, Mr Yardley,’ she had asked him, ‘what kind of creatures are these Australian cricketers? No wonder England can’t win.’
Flying Stumps, Lindwall
They also understood their priorities, as Robert
Menzies explained of his 1953 visit to England.
When Sir Anthony Eden cabled us about a conference in January I replied, ‘No. What about June? Isn’t there anybody on your staff who reads cricket fixtures?’ Eden’s reply was, ‘Point taken. Conference confirmed for day after Lord’s Test.’
The Cricketer, October 1980
English crowds, too, can lay claim to winning a Test for their country, at The Oval in 1968. Derek Underwood explains that he was only able to take his match-winning 7–50 thanks to the crowd’s hard work.
Somebody has since told me that the first drops of rain fell at exactly 1.27 p.m. Within ten minutes the rain was torrential. After half an hour most of the grass had disappeared under an inch of water. Another thirty minutes and the sun was shining brilliantly, but there seemed no chance of the match starting again. I remember gazing down at the scene and thinking, ‘That’s it. We’ll never get out there again.’ I can still picture the sight of Colin [Cowdrey] going out to the middle, his trousers pulled high over his boots, urging ground staff in their work. Soon the outfield was dotted with volunteers mopping up the water. Gradually the water drained away, the patches of green began to grow larger and link up again. The large hand on the Vauxhall Lane stand clock showed just past twenty to five when Snow went off his run once more.
Beating the Bat, Underwood
As Ian Chappell recalls of The Oval Test of 1972, not everyone in an English crowd supports the home side.
With only four runs required to win, a group of West Indian supporters who had yelled loyally for Australia the whole six days moved down to the boundary, and I will never forget the biggest of the group picking up the boundary flag, waving it round his head and calling out, ‘We are the greatest.’ Such are the liaisons of international cricket!
Tigers Among the Lions, Chappell
Nor was every Australian solidly behind the weak national team that was thumped 5–1 in 1978–79, deprived of Chappell’s great team by Kerry Packer.
In the course of the over a voice boomed out from The Hill, ‘Put on the other channel!’ With its obvious reference to World Series Cricket it was a not-too-subtle complaint about the slow scoring, and one with which most of the spectators would have been in sympathy.
From the Outer, Meyer
These days the public isn’t so well informed, as Philippe and Frances Edmonds found in Australia.
‘Mr DeFreitas!’ shouted one precocious, if polite, ten-year-old with a spiky, lavatory-brush crew cut. ‘Mr DeFreitas, please sign this for my autistic sister!’ ‘I’ll set my wife on you,’ threatened Philippe-Henri, suddenly tired of his quota of requests.
‘You’re Emburey, aren’t you?’ asked one real afficionado, incomprehensibly offering Phil a copy of Allan Border’s book for signature. ‘Edmonds,’ corrected Phil. ‘Yes,’ nodded the fan knowledgeably, ‘John Edmonds.’ In deference to the fellow’s patently encyclopaedic knowledge of the game and its exponents, Phil signed the book ‘Don Bradman’.
Cricket XXXX Cricket, Edmonds
Or, as Phil Tufnell learned, as polite.
The academy had been fun when it started, and among the thousands of words of abuse I’d received my personal favourite was, ‘Tufnell, lend me your brain. I’m building an idiot.’ By now, though, much of the humour had long since gone out of it.
What Now? Tufnell
Mind you, English fans aren’t exemplars either, as Ian Healy discovered.
From there we headed back to our hotel where I soon found myself involved in an argument with an Englishman who annoyed me when he muttered, ‘You guys think you’re pretty good but you’ve only beaten England.’ ‘You’re right,’ I responded. ‘They are soft and don’t care enough for their country. You’re probably the same.’ I learned soon after that this bloke’s wife had immediately rushed off and complained to the concierge desk, who contacted team manager Ian McDonald and, we were soon to discover, the police. ‘Macca’ insisted I go back and apologise, which I did. Back downstairs we saw a policeman, and Helen jokingly said to him, ‘Here he is, officer, take him away.’ Which was very funny, except that he was there to see me!
Hands and Heals, Healy
Sometimes there remains a glimmer of humour, recalled Mark Taylor . . .
Right from our arrival at Heathrow I had been reminded of the unrelenting pressure I was under. At the immigration I handed over my passport. ‘Oh, Mark Taylor, eh?’ said the bloke behind the desk. ‘The Australian captain?’ I agreed. ‘Ahhh . . . but for how long?’ he asked.
Time to Declare, Taylor
. . . but more often not, recalled Steve Waugh.
I decided to wander into the happening part of town, Leicester Square, to check out the buskers on the streets and catch a movie. While waiting in the queue to see The Fifth Element I was confronted by six drunken louts. They of course reminded me of the current situation in the Test series and the Texaco Trophy scoreline. Not content with that they began to angle for some kind of confrontation. The cretin who headed this ‘brain-dead cast’ eventually said, ‘Hey, you know what you Aussies are going to win this summer?’ To which I replied with great expectation, ‘What?’ The answer was in keeping with his intellect, ‘$%^&*? all, you Aussie bastard.’
1997 Ashes Diary, Waugh