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The last two weeks have been depressing. The spot-fixing has hit me like a death in the family. I am sure there are millions of cricket lovers out there that feel the same. I decided that it is time we changed the topic to more salutary and happier deeds. Not that we want to bury our head in the sand, more that we need succor in this difficult time.
I have the fondest memories of the Ashes and would like to share some of these with the Roarer community.
The ASHES! Seemingly trivial. Exceedingly precious. The only abiding cricket rivalry.
This may disappoint Indian fans, but the Indo-Australian rivalry is nouveau riche and has its genesis in 2001 when VVS thrillingly stopped the Steve Waugh juggernaut. Appropriately in the city of joy and sorrow.
The Ashes have been a munificent gift to cricket and the cricketers who have been a part of this rich tapestry should be celebrated.
For those Indians born post Independence, their cricketing heroes came mostly from Australia and, to a lesser extent, England. Bradman was part of the local cricket dialect and his struggles against Larwood brought cheer to a country. A nation free from subjugation but still shackled by discrimination and smug with its privileged hypocrisy.
Hobbs and Rhodes were winning a triangular Test series against Australia at the Oval in 1912, the same year that Rabindranath Tagore was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Calcutta had long been the fertile ground of the Bengali Renaissance.
An unparalleled time in India’s development. Literature, philosophy and social emancipation were the strong suits of Tagore, Ram Mohan Roy and Swami Vivekananda. More is the pity that they are not widely read by Indian politicians and the BCCI
My Aladdin’s magic lamp was, by today’s standards, a cumbersome and pre-digital Murphy radio. As big as a Victorian chest of drawers. Three short wave and four long wave channels. It was capable of picking up even smoke signals. The broken-glass sonority of John Arlott and the honey-menthol strine of Alan McGilvray.
The Murphy TA160 was a handsome walnut encased piece of furniture. The “T” denoting tropicality and presumably manufactured in Hertfordshire for export. The sound was usually crystal clear and you could hear the rustle of paper in the broadcasting booth.
Johnny Moyes and McGilvray were in my living room for the best part of a decade. It may have been Rex Alston, all the way from Melbourne as Jimmy Burke played his last innings for Australia. Frank Tyson extended that long front leg one last time for England. “Barnacle” Bailey got a golden caught Davidson bowled Lindwall and England never recovered, losing wickets at regular intervals.
Tyson claimed Burke in both innings for his only two wickets in the match. Cricket has this habit of throwing up oddities like these.
England lost despite having, arguably one of the best middle orders in the history of the game. May, Cowdrey, Graveney and Dexter would rival the three “W’s” and the fab four of Dravid, Tendulkar, Laxman and Ganguly.
The Chappell’s, Redpath and Walters’s era and the more recent Ponting, Waughs and Gilchrist.
Has there ever been a more glittering array of bowlers than on that February afternoon at the MCG? Davidson, Lindwall, Meckiff, Rorke and Benaud for Australia. Trueman, Tyson, Bailey and Laker for England.
Between them they took 1425 wickets in their career. The averages of the fast bowlers highlight their greatness. Tyson with 18.56 leads this illustrious group with all the other quicks between 20 and 23. Benaud for a legspinner had the very good average of 27 and Laker with his 21.24 rivals Murali.
Alan McGilvray was my shepherd when everyone slept and the cawing of the crows had not yet shattered the dawn with their cries of “Howzat” It was winter in Calcutta and the sun like everyone else usually slept in.
With the volume on low I had my ears pressed against the warm cackle and static of my Murphy.
McGilvray was a purist and technically proficient in the nuances of swing and cut.
He was rigid in his adherence to the details. He gave you the score. You knew the state of play. He rarely embellished his commentary and was concise and precise. The ball was played either backward off point or forward. Not just to point. A pull was not a hook and a ball was only well struck if it hit the middle of the bat. None of this modern “tracer bullet” and “Citibank maximum.
Instead sample this: “Davidson off his sixteen paces bowls to Graveney and the ball cuts back in and hits the top of the bat. They scramble a single as the ball squirts fine of the shortleg, positioned for just such an edge. The score is now 2 for 175 and we are approaching tea on this the second day. The ball is due to be changed …”
If it had been John Arlott it would have been more lyrical than literal: Benaud has decided to come around the wicket. The footmarks are churned and the earthworms have come out to play. Is the sun setting somewhere on the Empire? What on earth is the Umpire doing?
To give you an idea of his prose, the following is from the BBC archives: “Old Trafford has redeemed itself with a last hour of flawless sunshine … Laker has taken all 10 wickets. All 10 wickets for 53 … the first man to congratulate him is Ian Johnson… Here’s the avenue for Laker, as May pushes him forward.”
One could imagine John Arlott commentating on a rained out day: “God is out in his gumboots and it is time for me to sample some Chateau Lafite.”
Brian Johnston, personable and chummy and prone to the odd gaffe. “There’s Neil Harvey standing at leg slip with his legs wide apart, waiting for a tickle.”
Again, courtesy of the BBC archives, the following just after Richie Benaud had bowled Australia to a victory at Old Trafford: “You must be feeling chuffed, Richie” “Yes, as a matter of fact I am. I bowled unchanged most of the afternoon.”
BJ (not Brendon Julian of Fox) asked Richie: “Was the last wicket batting of Davidson and McKenzie the turning point?”
Benaud replied: “It was never about individual innings. Lawry got a hundred but Harvey’s 35 was just as crucial. It was all about the team”
I was impressionable then and am still easily swayed by bravado and guts on the cricket field. Alan McGilvray satisfied the purist in me and Arlott reinforced the romantic.
Not Keats not Milton.
But two passionate men behind a mike. On John Arlott’s gravestone is the following engraving: “So clear you see those timeless things, That, like a bird, the vision sings.”
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