Sporting Aspects
Fifth Test Lucky
The Oval, Tuesday. By J. P. W. MALLALIEU FEW minutes after six o'clock this evening, the Ashes were assuredly ours. Laker and Lock on a dusty wicket had spun the Australians into the nearly cloudless sky and England were left with 132 for victory in matclhand rubber. Hutton and Edrich came out to get them.
Off his first ball, from Lindwall, Hutton scored two by that easy, turning leg-stroke of his. He scored another two that way in the same over, then a single. The score continued to mount when Edrich hit a lovely four to leg off Miller, but it was Hutton we were watching. He commanded the Australian bowlers, even the spinning Johnston, and he com- manded himself. The world's best crumbling wicket batsman looked serene and when he stroked one effortlessly, but at the speed of light, through the packed covers for four, the Oval crowd frothed and bubbled like ginger beer newly opened in the heat.
Then suddenly we went flat. Hutton, at 16, once again turned the ball beautifully to leg and ran one with ease. But he tried for a second and agony struck the Oval like an eagle's beak. For a second or two we tried to tell ourselves that it was Edrich who had been run out. Indeed even a Middlesex man, whose elbow had been in my ribs all afternoon, prayed that it was Edrich. But no, it was Hutton, Hutton wearing his 1938 cap, the steady, unfailing Hutton,-who had suffered the penalty for one abandoned fling.
Do not blame the Oval crowd for giving way. We had been through so much.• On that first Saturday, now seemingly long ago, we had seen Trueman and Bedser put out five Australians for 118 on a good, pitch and then watched dropped catches let the last five wickets raise the score to 275. On the Monday we had seen Hutton and May take our score to 137 for 1 and then watched Compton, Graveney and Co. drop it to 225 for 7. True, next morning Bailey once again had exasperated the Australian bowlers by showing England bats- men how to play in Tests and, with the help of bowlers Bedser and Trueman, had given England a lead of 31. But now, with Hutton unnecessarily out before our eyes, we felt that we could trust no one, except possibly Bailey, to get even the 108 runs still needed for final victory.
But there was more to it than that. On Saturday I sat all day long on the grass. On Monday and today I have stood all day long, partly on my flat feet and partly on tiptoe; and my neck is stiff. Mind you, I judged Compton's catch beautifully. For three long exciting days I have been able to see the bowler. Alternatively for three long, exciting days I have been able to see the batsman, provided always that the chap with the long hair did not move his head at what writers of thrillers call the crucial moment. When Laker ran up to bowl, it was my turn to watch the bowler. But the chap with the king hair had mercifully bent down to drink—" Pepsi-Cola, right off the ice, don't miss your chance "—so I also saw Lindwall swing. Then by that sort of inspiration which comes once in a lifetime to real cricketers, I trampled one child under foot, knocked over a woman, got into an argument with a man and thereby managed to see Compton take the catch in front of the pavilion rails. (I was able to settle the argument with the man because Compton caught the catch. The woman and child did not seem to be on our side.) But for the most part, although I was there, I had to be told. I shifted from one side to the other—while 1 was sitting on the grass. I eased my calves—while I was standing on the tarmac. (From time to time, by way of relaxation, I watched girls ease their feet out of shoes.) Girls or men, between the overs we eased our necks, we of the twenty thousand who had no proper seats and growled that stiffneckedness was 'not just a Biblical term but a real occupational cbsease of cricket lovers who persist in going to the Oval. Yes, there was more to our suffering than just watching England appear to throw the game away.
For a day at the Oval to be bearable, the cricket must be entertaining and your own side must come out on top. As to the first, the cricket was entertaining from the very second over. That second over was bowled by Trueman. Some cricketers bore me. H. W. Taylor bored me, so did Makepeace, so did C. P. Mead, for they were batsmen who made large, slow scores again4 England or even Yorkshire. Some cricketers fascinate me, as did Hobbs, as does Hutton. I watch them as, sitting in his studio, I would watch an artist painting a portrait. But some cricketers wholly absorb me. Such are Trueman and Miller.
Take Trueman first. A test match crowd needs time to settle down. They are still, intense, expectant for the first ball and then they look around. But for Trueman this Oval crowd leapt into full life at once. As he took off his sweater, Trueman was not clapped but cheered. His first ball, which came slowly, was greeted with the long drawn out " 0o-Oo " with which a football crowd greets a shot which skims the upright. His second ball was greeted with the football crowd's ecstatic " Ah,"—it was a bumper. His third ball got a cheer for nothing in particular, except that it nearly set Morris's bat on tire. His fourth ball got an " 0o-Oo " followed by a groan —was it a possible chance at the wicket ?—and his sixth ball got an " 0o-Oo " followed by howls of condemnation—for this was undoubtedly a chance, not taken, in the slips. When- ever Trueman was in action, whether he was batting, fielding or making his ten runs, something had the chance of happen- ing. Like Macaulay of old, who once ran a man out on his own bowling, he followed up so that the wretched batsman had to play not only a ball but also a black, scowling face at almost the same split second. Once Hassett drew away to square leg, saying that he had been put off by a sparrow. That was no sparrow. Those were Trueman's bushy eyebrows brushing Hassett's bat. Trueman does not merely fling a ball into the game. He flings himself.
So does Keith Miller. Miller in this game made one (off a no-ball) and nought. He took few wickets. He let a ball go for four, to give England a first innings lead, which perhaps he should have stopped. But batting, bowling or fielding, we knew he was there. Did the crowd object to his bumpers ? He waved his hand at us and bowled another. Did we jeer when he failed to run the ball off his foot into his hand ? He tried again next time, succeeded, and again waved his hand. Was all this playing to the gallery ? Not at all. It was playing with it. Trueman and Miller are like boys standing at the front gate, bawling to us to come out for a game in the street.
Yes, the cricket was always entertaining. But our side was not always on top; and then it was that the Oval crowd revealed its suffering. Then it was that we shouted to the chaps in front, " Sit down, braces ! " or " You in the striped trousers, sit down ! " When Bailey was getting Miller or Evans was getting de Courcy, we didn't mind not seeing. But when Archer and Davidson, in the second Australian innings, looked like pulling Australian chestnuts out of the fire it was. " You there, with the dirty neck, kindly sit down—and have a bath ! "
So when tonight Hutton, the majestic, ran himself out, stiffness, soreness and experience overwhelmed hope. We felt that England could never get even those 94 runs. But- *
• *
The Oval, Wednesday—how wrong, thank goodness, we were !
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