CRICKET
Farewells and Festivals
AFTER records, sweet reason in the game of cricket.
The end of the season is a paradox. It is sad, partly because another summer is over, partly because each year sees the last of one or two stalwart players : gay, for the festival games of Folkestone and Scarborough really are such. The veterans vanish to the crack of a merry bat, to stiff sea breezes, and to the cheers of spectators unconcerned with county rivalry, let alone the results of Tests. In such games even the formidable Mead was known to swing a happy blade.
How differently the great retire ! Kent must have the amplest credit for the splendid farewell they are saying to their greatest player, Woolley. No cricketer has ever had such an acknowledgement, not Hobbs himself; and Woolley has deserved it. He is an immortal. Though it was his last, that 8z he played against Australia at Canterbury was an innings of splendour. Some champions slip away without the flourish due to them : Sandham, for instance, despite his eminence ; J. W. Hearne, Mead and a host more. It is not that respective clubs are unmindful, merely that the element of "curtain " in the fullest sense is absent. As for amateurs, too often they glide into the game and out of it before the public has had time to absorb them. Mr. D. R. Jardine, for instance, would have had a terrific career as a professional, in length and record, had his path lain that way : Messrs. Jupp and White, long though they played, slid altogether too quietly into the pavilion. The English love making a fuss of their favoutites : they like them to dwell in the general eye, and the pleasure they get from seeing the last of a Hobbs, a Hendren or a Woolley is as great as their welcome of a newcomer of distinction.
Of these there are now several, some of whom have already had full recognition. Hutton and Fagg have old heads on young shoulders, particularly Hutton : there is no mistaking that he was born to be a No. ft batsman, not a No. 4 or 5. Compton, an equally natural No. 5, has the crispness of a great stroke player, and he and Edrich will surely, as the years progress, be recognised not only as batsmen but as all-rounders. Compton's left-arm slows hold possibilities ; Edrich's stingers are bowled with a will. Edrich indeed has Test wickets to record against his batting failures.
Whatever the final result, there is only one constant in the championship table, and that is Yorkshire. The biggest county, it should produce the most consistent strength, and it has indeed done so since long before the War. There was once a feeling that Yorkshire cricket was dull : if so, it has changed with the times, and for team work no county is its equal. Even the introduction of occasional brilliant amateurs seems to make little difference to the balance of the side. It is well found in every department.
From time to time, other counties surge upward, and then recede. A few years ago it was Sussex, with K. S. Duleep- singhi and Tate in the side : now it is Middlesex, bursting with bowling. Surrey and Lancashire are building up young teams in the best tradition. Sherwood Forest is temporarily lower than usual : Notts misses Larwood's velocity ; Derby cannot reproduce that form which lately won them the championship. A comprehensive graph of the positions of the counties since the War would be fascinating, and would show one fact plainly, that the side which calls upon a few and tried players for match after match is one that will show fight.
Alas, poor Northants ! Should they not drop into the second-class counties ? Too often they provide easy centuries for opposing batsmen. It is true that somebody must be last, but they are too constant tail-enders to give their players a necessary confidence. Yet the idea might be rash, remem- bering what surprises the table sometimes conceals. Who would have thought, for instance, that Leicester would end so low this year after that brilliant start, with George Geary ascendant ? Stamina in cricket is a queer and unpredictable quality.
Nineteen thirty-eight has been, by and large, an enthralling year. Giants have walked abroad in the persons of Bradman, Hammond and, we must add, Hutton. Australia, drawing the rubber, have retained the Ashes, and the championship has had its thrills. The festival games serve their end in keeping the memory greed until next May, to which good
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