Postscript
Near pavilion
P- J. Kavanagh
Sir Leonard Hutton reveals that he played several matches at Lord's before he was invited into the pavilion. The profes- sionals changed in a room at the side of it, where there is now a new stand, and it had windows so high from the ground they could only find out what was going on by standing on tiptoe. It is difficult to digest this. Anyway, that is all over now, and it is possible to wish there was still some ama- teur spirit to dilute drear 'professionalism'. Compton, D.C.S., was an amateur in that sense, as is Ian Botham, which is why they are both heroes. (G. Boycott is hors de categoric. He is quite possibly mad.)
But I want to get back to the pavilion. As a boy I longed to go inside it, almost as much as Len Hutton must have. People on its balcony surely had the most wonderful view. We were stuck at the sides, which is no way to watch a cricket match, or at the far end which seemed (I have no idea whether it is) much further away than the pavilion.
Soon after my first book was published I was taken out to lunch by my publisher (those were the days!) who was a member of the MCC. (Those were the days publishers were Gentlemen and writers were Players, we knew our place.) After hopelessly asking for a larger royalty (one I could see out of the window if I stood on tiptoe) — 'My dear boy, if only we could 'I see they are modernising afford it! Waiter, more kiimmel — I resign- ed myself to the status of a schoolboy being given a treat by a schoolmaster, and con- fessed my boyhood desire to see inside the pavilion. A few weeks later I was startled to find that he had put me up for MCC membership, but was content to wait another 30 years. I could see myself, Sir C. Aubrey Smith, chin on handle of stick in aquiline brooding over the goings-on below. Then I was astounded to discover I had become one, and been sent a large bill to prove it. (There was a brief period when the MCC let anyone in, which they must now regret.) Anyway, I couldn't resist the view, I paid up, and entered the pavilion 30 years early, a slightly shifty, inappropriate member of the MCC. (I think I spotted Mick Jagger in the pavilion last year which made me feel slightly better, in a way.) But you do have the most marvellous view.
There is the Long Room, where there are special tall chairs so that you can follow the trajectory of the ball. You are allowed to talk, but not much, and move about, but quietly and not too often. In fact the atmosphere is that of a Spanish cathedral during Mass. As in a cathedral you are not allowed to drink. On my first visit I wandered into the Long Room with a glass and had my sleeve plucked by an official too scandalised to speak. But had I not seen that everyone around me was drinking? I looked again and saw that lean men with grizzled moustaches had deftly placed their drinks behind their ties or, arms casually folded, in their armpits. I loped out defeated, it was like being back at school without having learned the tricks.
Living far away I cannot go there often and when I do I bring rain. I should be paid not to go. It is possible to spend all day waiting for the umpires to inspect the pitch, watching the rain dribbling off the cor- rugated plastic pitch-covers and then down pipes to puddles in the outfield. When there is play I watch with devoted attention because I have worked out that every over costs me about 60 pence.
I have been watching the rain bounce off the corrugated covers today. I had planned to be this week's Spectator cricket cor- respondent, self-appointed. I settled in my place, looked up from my scorecard and there they were, coming off because of rain. At first I was surprised to see that the Mid- dlesex team was entirely black, then I real- ised that mingling with them was the West Indian touring party, just arrived, their first practice rained-off. I had watched them in the nets as I came in. It had been some time before I understood, with a thrill, that the man batting a yard away was Viv Richards. It is the only permissible hero-worship. I was standing next to Robin Marlar, the cricket journalist, but did not dare speak to him, because had he not, actually, spin- bowled for Kent?
I sat in the pavilion with my old friend the actor Christopher Benjamin, looking at the rain, eating damp sandwiches, as we have so often in the past. We finished up going for a walk on Hampstead Heath.
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