Parky and the Jockstraps
Michael Henderson
THE postman brought a book last week, unsolicited but none the worse for that. Called simply Michael Parkinson on Cricket, it is just that, a book on the noblest of games by the most versatile of journalists. It comprises 52 essays on the game and the players, and is worth £15 (all right, £14.99) of anybody's money. It is worth three fivers just to read the piece on Keith Miller, As the author has already published collections on football and golf, it could be said that he is completing the set, though that would not be quite true. His writings on sport have appeared between hard covers many times before, in different forms. Well do I recall Cricket Mad. published — I'm tak ing an educated guess in 1977, which includes one of the finest three or four essays I have read about the game. Good Lord! Was it really a quarter of a century ago?
In his latest collection Parkinson writes mainly about the players, from Wilfred Rhodes. who was born in 1878, to Darren Gough, who is still bowling (or not bowling, as the case may be). In particular he writes about his own kind. One chapter is devoted to Yorkshire, another to Yorkshiremen, which is only fair; and no writer has ever been so objective about Yorkshire, because he is not a one-eyed romantic. That sloppy phrase 'professional Yorkshireman' usually carries little weight. In the case of this man of the world it means nothing at all.
If you were seeking a model of good journalism, and not merely good sports journalism, Parkinson provides it in every sentence. He tells the tale clearly, concisely, with plenty of humour, yes, but the taint of self-indulgence belongs to others less gifted. He may have found fame as a television 'personality', and he has mastered the art of radio too, but he remains at heart a reporter, and the skills he developed in the first decade of his working life continue to serve him well, as readers of the Daily Telegraph need no reminding.
It is a point worth making, because in these celebrity-obsessed days everybody thinks they can write, and, worse, newspapers do little to discourage them. Models, relatives of the Prime Minister's wife, daughters of peers or of plain workaday politicians — they're all at it, and that's before you turn to the sports pages.
Then there are those columnists who never attend events but who feel their opinions must be heard. London's evening paper has a raft of them, a veritable cargo of Sam and Sally Jockstraps who ramble on about the football teams they support. Newspapers don't allow these interlopers anywhere near the news or City pages, yet, when it comes to sport they give them the keys to the house.
So Parkinson deserves three cheers for showing these bores up for the amateurs they are. He has a comprehensive first-hand knowledge of what moves him, be it films, the American popular song (about which he knows as much as Mark Steyn, possibly more), or cricket, which he would probably admit is his deepest love.
The game has altered so greatly in the last 50 years that some observers of his vintage no longer recognise it. Parkinson has never fallen into that trap, and happens to believe that the current Australian side is the best he has seen. He continues to celebrate the game, and its players, and that is why we should celebrate his writing. As I said, 15 quid is not a lot.
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