Sporting- Aspects
The Man Who Was Robinson
By J. P. W. MALLAI;IEU 44 0 not be alarmed," said a Ministry of Education pamphlet in as many words or even more, " if your child tells you one morning that he personally built the Albert Hall." The pamphlet was advising parents about children (mental development of). Children, said the pamphlet, have day-dreams. Do not smack them for the liars they are. For the moment they really believe what they say. They will grow out of it. Even without the help of the pamphlet, I was not alarmed when, the other day, my son told me that he had run a mile with Mr. Chattaway and beaten him. Unlike Mr. Chattaway, my son has flat feet and is six years old. But like Mr. Chattaway he has red hair. So the illusion was natural. Red hair wins the mile in the Varsity sports. I have red hair. Therefore I win the mile, even against Mr. Chattaway. I should win the mile, even against Mr. Bannister, who has black hair. So flows the dream through my son's mind, and, with or with- out the prompting of the Ministry of Education, I would never even dream of smacking that dream into reality.
But, last Saturday, I really was worried. I had left home early to watch Chelsea play—if that is the right word— Newcastle United when, just ahead of me, in a quiet street, I saw an old friend. His bowler hat and his umbrella were usual, but the expression on his face was not. It was glow- ingly vacant until suddenly he stopped, shook his head and began to laugh. Then he saw me and blushed. " Don't be alarmed," he said. " I have just hit five successive sixes off Macdonald—or maybe Gregory. It makes the walk home pass quicker." Over half a -pint he told me all. It had begun some time back with my friend imagining that it was 1902 and that he was Wilfrid Rhodes walking from the Pavilion as eleventh man to get those last fifteen runs against Australia. George Herbert Hirst had said to him, " Lad, we'll get 'em in singles," but he had replied nothing to George Herbert. He had just looked straight ahead at the bright green turf and set his jaw. He and George Herbert had got "em in singles somehow.
But then, after a time, he had not been Wilfrid Rhodes any more. He had been himself, Robinson, going out to bat against Australia with only fifteen wanted for victory. Robinson, like Rhodes, was a great bowler, it appears, but during that match he had been pasted all over the field. Further, he had dropped several catches; and now was his chance to redeem himself. Sometimes, said my friend, he, like Rhodes, had helped to get 'em in singles. At other times he had scored 'em straight off with three contemptuous sixes.
Some days, as a variation, he had been Fred Perry winning at Wimbledon—when no one was looking he had actually rehearsed jumping over the tennis-net in his own garden—or he had been Dempsey fighting Tunney at Chicago, or he had been Hobbs and Sutcliffe battling for an hour that evening in 1926 not merely against the Australians but against the Oval pitch as well. But in time he had got tired of this, and so it had beCome not Perry but Robinson who won at Wimbledon. not Dempsey but Robinson who fought Tunney—and won— not Hobbs and Sutcliffe but Hobbs and Robinson. Very soon after that it was Robinson and Hobbs.
Well, said Robinson sipping his bitter, that was all right. After all, few people go to a theatre without coming out as Laurence Olivier. " But it didn't stop there. By and by, I got beyond the stage of projecting myself into real persons taking part in real events. Robinson not merely won •at Wimbledon, like Fred Perry, or batted like Hobbs, or boxed rather better than Gene Tunney and much better than Jack Dempsey. That was not good enough for him. He began to skate like Sonia Henie. Do you knovii--1 was in the local the other day, and some of the chaps were arguing about who was the best all-round athlete in history. One chap said C. B. Fry. Another chap said W. G. Grace; and then, with- out thinking I said : Both of you are forgetting Robinson.' Of course I quickly explained that kobinson was a boy at my school who had got in the eleven at fifteen, got in the fifteen at sixteen, won the hundred yards Tour years running, captained the racquets pair and been killed in the First World War. But that was an awkward moment." - But Robinson had not profited from it. Within a few days he had been at it again, and worse than before. He had, it appeared, retired from cricket with a record number of centuries to his name and entered Parliament where he became Prime Minister in a few weeks. Then the Australians had come over again with this Gregory and Macdonald lot and had massacred everything that came their way. The counties went down by an innings and several hundred and, in the First Test, England went down by an innings, several thousand and abounding disgrace. By a fluke, England won the_Second Test because it rained like anything in the fourth innings and Verity was on form. The Third and Fourth Tests were drawn because England, with one wicket left and 500 runs to get, was saved by rain. So it came to the last Test Match at the Oval in settled sunny weather and the odds one million to one on an Australian victory.
Then it is announced that, with Parliament in recess, Robinson will come back to captain England. He wins the toss. He goes in first with Hobbs. He hits thirty-six off Gregory's first over. With Hobbs neatly snatching a single, Robinson hits thirty off Macdonald's first over. At this moment, in a quiet Middlesex road, on the way from the station, he shakes himself into a laugh, sees me and blushes.
" What on earth," asked Robinson, "am I to do ? That wretched Test Match gets itself over in two days. I and Hobbs put on 556 for the first wicket—just to be sure of breaking the record. I then astound everyone in this timeless Test by declaring, and after I have run out Bardsley from cover point in the first over and caught Macartney at slip in the second, Larwood gets his taii up and runs through the side. Somehow the Australians manage to scrape together a couple of hundred in the second innings, but the end is so obvious that no one bothers to turn up to watch. • What's worse, I'm bored too."
You can imagine that all this alarmed me. The Ministry of Education may tell parents that children will eventually grow out of these day-dreams and become normal. Yet here was Robinson, a middle-aged man, on his way from the City, hitting Gregory—or Macdonald—for five successive sixes. Do you blame me for worrying about my six-year-old son who had just beaten Mr. Chattaway in the-Mile ?
I left my friend Robinson, I left Chelsea, I left Newcastle United to their own devices and hurried home to put my son in touch with reality. I /old him about Hutton who as a schoolboy had watched Bradman make that record-breaking score at Leeds and then, only a few years later,- had made his own record-breaking score at the Oval. I told him about Hobbs and Sutcliffe. More, I told him about Holmes and Sutcliffe and their record-breaking first-wicket stand against Essex which would not have been a record if the scorer had not conveniently found a missing run. I told him about Ronnie Poulton. I told him about C. B. Fry. Above all, I found myself telling him about that wonderful match at Twickenham in 1924 when three minutes from time the unbeaten All Blacks were leading England by 17 points to 13. There was a scrum on the England line, the ball came back to me- and, with a sidestep I had practised all summer on the sands against my baby brother, I went through Porter's lot like a knife through butter, ran the length of the field, scored between the post and watched Tom Voyce, or somebody, convert. My son was quite interested. " But," he said, " you should have seen me beat Mr. Chattaway in the Mile."
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