Fun at Fenner's

I first set foot in Fenner’s in the summer of 1982, a short stop on a day trip to Cambridge that was a sop to a teenager who was appreciably more interested in cricket than architecture. As we walked in, Huw Davies, then England’s fly half, was walking out and in the middle Derek Pringle, then being touted as an England prospect, was playing for the University. I was hooked: I loved the informality of being able to wander freely round the boundary and come so close to the players and the possibility of being able to field the ball as it came across the boundary. This was far removed from my experiences of first class cricket to that point, which had been in the rather more rigid environs of Lord’s and the Oval. I was also taken with the flats at the far end of the ground where the pavilion had once stood, little imagining that twenty years later my father would move into one of them.

I went up to Cambridge in 1987 and stayed in the city for much longer, so I was a regular at the ground for twenty years, my office for much of that time being conveniently located for a lunchtime pint and an hour’s play. Although by the time I arrived the glory days of university cricket were firmly in the past, in the summer of 1988 there were seven home fixtures against first class counties, as well as games against the likes of the Free Foresters and the Quidnuncs, and in the times when I wasn’t playing myself I would walk the three-quarters of a mile or so from college and spend long afternoons on the grass watching the big names of Mike Atherton and Rob Turner and the lesser known figures such as Richard Bate, who later became my club captain.

This was a big part of the charm for a cricketing student, for you could watch friends and recent opponents taking on the pros. One year a group of us sat watching in agony as a college friend took what felt like an eternity to get off the mark on his first class debut: to the bemusement of the opposition his first single was greeted by a standing ovation which he acknowledged with a cheery wave of the bat. On another occasion my house mate got hit on the helmet but went on to a composed half century. The days that I spent cadging free pints from the travel pub may not have done my exam results much good, but I wouldn’t have missed them for the world.

The informality of the setting also created the kind of circumstances that you don’t get at most normal grounds. One afternoon I was roped in as a Derbyshire net bowler in spite of the fact that I was wearing jeans and Doc Martens, when Sachin Tendulkar played at the ground for Lashings he had mislaid his trousers and I spent several frantic minutes trying to track down a new pair and one cold April morning Andy Afford, who was wearing enough sweaters to look like a left arm orthodox Michelin man, shouted from the field to ask if he could borrow my coat. I should imagine that if you hang around any cricket ground for long enough then you have some stories to tell, but Fenner’s always had a whiff of eccentricity about it.

Although I’m now a Life Member, I seldom get to the ground these days. I no longer work just round the corner, my son is not yet interested enough to want to spend a few hours there and, unsurprisingly, the connection isn’t there anymore. I did manage to catch a few hours of the MCCU’s’ remarkable victory over Surrey last summer, including Paul Best’s blistering 150 not out, and was there long enough to retrieve a shot from Kevin Pietersen from under a bench (my thirteen year old self would have been beside himself), but I didn’t brave the Arctic conditions for any of the game against Essex last week and I’m not sure when I will get there this summer. In spite of that, Fenner’s will always be one of my favourite places to watch cricket – it may not have the pastoral charm of the Parks and the pavilion may not have the romance of the old building, but there aren’t many places where you can get in free to watch professionals play cricket and have a drink with them afterwards. Long may it continue.

A Time Machine for Hedley Verity

Browsing through the insanity of the cricinfo comments section the other day (I needed a laugh) I came across an unusually balanced post that raised an interesting question: if you had a time machine and could go back to witness one event in cricketing history then what would it be? The first tied test, perhaps, with Joe Solomon’s spectacular direct hit, or maybe  Bradman’s three hundred and nine in a day at Headingley. Archie Jackson’s sublime debut century might be another contender or, of course, Headingley 1981. As I sat and thought about this, having rejected the excruciating day I once spent at Lord’s watching Graeme Smith and Gary Kirsten bat, it came to me: the Lord’s test of 1934, Verity’s match.

Hedley Verity had a career unlike just about any other cricketer in history. In spite of his obvious ability he didn’t make his first class debut until the age of twenty-five, held back by a combination of the seemingly eternal Wilfred Rhodes and the innate conservatism of the cricket administrators of the day. When his time came, however, he made an impact almost like no other: bowling left arm orthodox at a pace usually described as slow medium, so more Derek Underwood than Bishen Bedi, he played for less than a decade, yet by the time the second world war ended his career and, later, his life, he had taken 1,956 first class wickets at the paltry average of 14.87. In his forty tests, which included the Bodyline series, he took 144 wickets at 24.37 and averaged 20.9 with the bat, which is a bit like finding out that Rudolf Nureyev could sing a bit too.

His astonishing performances almost seem the stuff of fiction. In 1931 he took 10-36 against Warwickshire at Headingley and the following year, on the same ground against Notts, he recorded the most outrageous bowling figures in first class history: 19.4-16-10-10, and he chucked in a hat trick for good measure. The year after that he took seventeen wickets in a day against Essex at Leyton, something that has only been achieved three times in history. It is fitting that he marked his final afternoon on a first class field by taking 7-9 in just six overs as Yorkshire rushed to victory over Sussex at Hove before war was declared. Such was his accuracy that even on good pitches, of which there were a great many in the 1930s, he was rarely clobbered, although an exception was at Scarborough in 1935 where the South African Jock Cameron hit him for thirty in an over, prompting wicket keeper Arthur Wood to comment ‘You’ve got him in two minds Hedley, he doesn’t know whether to hit you for four or six’. 

Unsurprisingly, he was less devastating in test cricket, although his record was still impressive, but the 1934 Lord’s test stands out as a truly remarkable piece of bowling. It’s true that the conditions were in his favour, for he was deadly on a wet wicket, but even so this was a magnificent Australian batting line-up and they had no answers. As an aside, it was also England’s only win in a Lord’s Ashes test in the twentieth century. 

The two teams came to Lord’s off the back of a comfortable win for Australia at Trent Bridge. Bradman, who was to suffer from serious ill health that summer, made a negligible combination but Clarrie Grimmett and, especially Bill O’Reilly were too good for England’s batsmen. On a pitch on which the Australian wrist spinners made hay, Verity was tidy but unpenetrative, taking just two wickets. To give an idea of how different Ashes tours were in the 1930s, Australia played ten first class matches before the first test, including fixtures with both Oxford and Cambridge Universities, and they played twice more before the second test, against Northamptonshire and then against the Gentlemen of England at Lord’s. Northants just about hung on for a draw with nine wickets down but the Gentlemen were well beaten, Stan McCabe making a rapid hundred and Hans Ebeling, who would later be the brains behind the Centenary Test, opening both the bowling and the batting. 

As with all the tests in the series, play started on the Friday with a rest day scheduled for the Sunday. Bob Wyatt, captaining England, won the toss and chose to bat in good conditions, but after a solid start from Sutcliffe and Walters there was a minor collapse and it looked as though the innings may be slipping away. At 99-3, 130-4 and 182-5 Australia must have fancied their chances, but Les Ames, the only wicket-keeper in history to make a hundred first class hundreds, and Maurice Leyland had carried the score to 293-5 by stumps, Leyland finishing the day ninety-five not out. 

He reached his hundred on the second morning but didn’t last much longer, being bowled for a hundred and nine, but Ames, with ‘powerful driving being the outstanding feature’ according to Wisden, carried on to his hundred, adding fifty with Verity who, in his first contribution to the match, made a valuable twenty-nine to help England to a total of 440. With the pitch still playing well Australia must have fancied their chances of making a big score, and Woodfull and Brown put together an opening partnership of sixty-eight before Bowes bowled Woodfull. Bradman then contributed a quick fire thirty six ‘making many of his strokes without restraint’ before Verity caught and bowled him, England’s last success of the day. 

On Saturday evening, then, the game looked well poised with Australia on 192-2 and Brown past his hundred, but on the rest day it rained, soaking the uncovered pitch and creating conditions perfect for Verity. Monday morning dawned dark and dreary and play was held up for a time for bad light, but once the game got underway Bowes removed Brown and then Verity went to work. Chipperfield and Oldfield resisted but the rest of the batting fell away and Australia were all out for 282 at half-past two, Verity having taken 6-37 in the day for innings figures of 7-61.

Under the regulations of the time Australia had to follow-on on a pitch that was now starting to misbehave fairly seriously. Woodfull made a courageous forty-two and McCabe, Bradman, Darling and Chipperfield all got into double figures, but once Woodfull was the fourth out with the score on ninety-four the innings fell to pieces. Verity, supported by superb close catching, took the last six wickets to fall as Australia were bowled out for 118. Verity had taken 8-43 in the innings, 14-80 in the day and 15-104 in the match. Of such things are legends made. 

Sadly, this story doesn’t have a happy ending. By 1943 he had become a Captain in the Green Howards and on July 19^th he was seriously injured leading his men in an attack on German positions in Sicily. On July 31^st he died in the Italian hospital at Caserta in spite of the best efforts of medical staff to save him. News of his death reached England on September 1^st, four years to the day after his spell of 7-9 at Hove.  He is buried in the military cemetery and members of the 1954-55 England squad visited the grave on their way to Australia.

 
Verity’s last order to his men before being hit was ‘Keep going’ and in his Wisden obituary, RC Robertson-Glasgow said of this that ‘his last reported words... were but a text on his short and splendid life’. Truly, we may never see his like again.

The Greatest Batsman You've Never Heard Of

The history of cricket is littered with untimely deaths. Some, such as Hedley Verity, Ken Farnes and Colin Blythe, were established players who were the victims of war, others, such as Ben Hollioake, were cut off in their prime, while others still never made it to first class cricket. In the 1953 Wisden the report of Hereford Cathedral School’s season starts with the matter of fact, if rather chilling, statement ‘An otherwise good season was marred by the death through polio just after the last match of MJ Allsebrook, who after three years as captain stood down for 1952 in favour of JT Harries’. Who knows how many potentially great cricketers were cut down without ever having the chance to fulfil their potential? In amongst these tragic stories, however, one stand out: the story of the batsman who some thought was better than Bradman.

Archie Jackson was born in Scotland in 1909 but shortly before his fourth birthday his father, who had spent his teenage years in Australia and had returned there eighteen months previously, brought the family over to join him in New South Wales. Money was tight in the Jackson family – the story has it that young Archie only had one pair of trousers that his mother would threaten to confiscate if he was naughty – but his father made him his first bat and soon the boy was fixated with cricket, playing in the street until it was dark and doing everything that he could to watch his heroes in action.

It also swiftly became apparent that he had a rare and precocious talent and he joined Balmain cricket club, where he came under the wing of legendary leg spinner Arthur Mailey. At the age of sixteen he topped the Sydney grade cricket averages and the following summer, having started the season with two centuries, he made his first class debut at the tender age of seventeen, scoring eighty-six in the second innings and following this with his first two first class hundreds.

Many contemporaries compared Jackson to Victor Trumper, but it was the graceful Alan Kippax who was his mentor and probably a better comparison in terms of technique and style. Kippax acted as team mate, coach and employer to the young man who seemed to have the world at his feet. To give some idea of the esteem in which he was held, Don Bradman’s first class debut for New South Wales came only after Jackson withdrew from the side with a boil on his knee. 

The 1928-29 Ashes were a chastening experience for Australia. In spite of the debut of Don Bradman, who made eighteen and one, they were thumped in the first test and the second test, for which Bradman was dropped, was scarcely any better. The England attack, lead by Harold Larwood, Maurice Tate and Jack White, was exceptionally strong and Wally Hammond was in scintillating form in a series in which he would score a total of 905 runs. The third test, with the returning Bradman contributing seventy-nine and one hundred and twelve, was a much closer affair, but England successfully chased 332 for a three wicket win and the retention of the Ashes. 

For the fourth test the Australian selectors rang the changes once more and brought in the nineteen year old Archie Jackson to replace Vic Richardson. His first action was to field while England scored 334, largely thanks to an unbeaten hundred from Hammond, but on the second day his chance came, opening the batting with future captain Bill Woodfull. 

The Australian innings started disastrously, Woodfull, Stork Hendry and Jackson’s great friend Kippax all dismissed by the time the score reached nineteen. The debutant could have been forgiven for collapsing under the pressure, but he and Jack Ryder steadied things with a partnership of 126 and then, with support from Bradman and a’Beckett, Jackson flourished. With his score on ninety-seven he drove Harold Larwood, who later said that it was as fast a ball as he had ever bowled, to the cover boundary for four to bring up a dazzling debut century. Although he was tiring – Stork Hendry is said to have commented on how exhausted he looked at tea – he carried on until finally Jack White trapped him leg before for 164 made out of 287. Although his efforts earned Australia a slim first innings lead, another hundred from Hammond meant that a heroic fourth innings run chase to which Jackson contributed thirty-six was in vain as they finished just twelve runs short. 

As it turned out, however, the exhaustion that Jackson felt was more telling than the ease and grace with which he made his runs. The 1929-30 season saw the start of his ill-health as he missed a significant amount of cricket, although his 182 in the trial match secured his place in the 1930 touring party to England. Once in England he struggled both with his health and with his form in unfamiliar conditions. In his foreword to David Frith’s long out-of-print ‘The Archie Jackson Story’, Harold Larwood wrote that:

‘we had a feeling that something was amiss with this young fellow in 1930. Those of us who were closely associated with him knew that the English climate did not suit him; he was not himself. He still batted with the same charm that only he was capable of, but it was apparent that he was not the same Archie as that of 1928-29’

Jackson only played two tests on that tour, failing at Headingley as Bradman made his first test triple century, and then making a brave seventy-three at the Oval. To quote Larwood again:

‘I remember once, in England during the 1930 series, in scoring 73 at the Oval in the fifth Test, he was taking quite a physical beating. As he came down the wicket to level a high spot or two he said: `Well, Harold, it's only a game, but what a grand one we're having today! I hope you're enjoying our battle as much as those spectators seem to be. You know, you've hit me almost as many times as I've hit you! I wish you'd drop one a little off line occasionally.' I never knew him to flinch or complain at any time.’

Back in Australia, he played with varying success in the first four tests against the West Indies in 1930-31, but unknown to anyone at the time this would be his last involvement in first class cricket. He began 1931-32 season in good form for Balmain and was selected for New South Wales but had to withdraw from the side after collapsing, coughing up blood. Initially he thought that he was suffering from influenza, but by July 1932 he had been diagnosed with tuberculosis and admitted to hospital. 

In an attempt to combat the disease he moved to the warmer weather of Brisbane and for a time he seemed to be making some sort of recovery, playing some club cricket, albeit sometimes with a runner, but in early February 1933 he collapsed again. On 16^th February, the day on which England regained the Ashes at Brisbane, he died, having sent a congratulatory telegram to Harold Larwood. This was the bodyline series, a tactic that, unsurprisingly given his exchange with Larwood at the Oval, Jackson considered to be entirely legitimate. 

Archie Jackson was twenty-three when he died and had played just eight test matches, never again reaching the heights of that spectacular debut. His batsmanship is now largely forgotten, memories crushed by the brevity of his career and the achievements of Bradman, but he deserves to be remembered as more than just the greatest ‘what if?’ in cricket history but as a great batsman in his own right.

Time to declare?

All sports seem to have some established patterns that have become part of the fabric of the game and yet, when viewed objectively, make little sense. In football any free kick within about fifteen yards of the penalty area is blasted hopefully goalwards, in rugby union teams insist on dropping at goal when they have an attacking penalty advantage and in cricket we have the declaration in order to get a few overs at the openers before the close. 

This isn’t specifically a criticism of Michael Clarke, for the Australian first innings at Hyderabad was going nowhere when he declared. The value of having three overs to bowl is dubious at best, even when one of the openers is a barely mobile Virender Sehwag, but it was hard to see Xavier Doherty, who was batting as though someone had blindfolded him and tied his legs together, providing any significant boost to Australia’s meagre total, so it wasn’t an unreasonable action. What annoys me, however, is the accepted wisdom that you sacrifice runs in order to have a, usually vain, attempt at taking a wicket. 

The rationale is that opening batsmen don’t want to go out to bat at the end of a long day in the field in a situation where all they can hope for is survival, and there is a certain logic to that. However, this ignores the fact that this is basically their job – opening batsmen are generally selected for their ability to bat successfully against the new ball and to bat time. With a few exceptions it is hard to imagine an opener being particularly fazed by being asked to bat for a while and then come back and carry on batting again in the morning. Allan Border certainly saw it differently: his view was that the last thing any batsman wanted to do was to stay in the field for any longer than he had to (which is where the phrase 'mental disintegration' first came into currency). By not declaring the evening before he gained the advantage firstly of the opposition openers spending part of the final session worrying about when they were going to bat and then of the batsmen not only tiring themselves further in the field but of making them really fed up when they eventually did get to bat. 

The Adelaide test of 2006 still sends shivers down the spines of many England supporters, but even without Ashley Giles’ dropped catch and the spineless fifth day capitulation England had, and wasted, the opportunity to put the game out of sight in the first innings. On the second evening, with Andrew Flintoff and Ashley Giles going well, they sacrificed the possibility of making 650 and putting real pressure on the Australians so that they could have nine overs before the close. These nine overs were even reasonably successful, Andrew Flintoff taking the wicket of Justin Langer, but it didn’t stop Australia from piling up over five hundred themselves. On a flat wicket it made no sense to turn down a really huge score in return for a fairly small reward. 

The next time, therefore, you hear someone suggesting that the captain declares so that they can get a few overs at the openers before the end, stop and ask yourself if it is really worth it. The answer will almost always be no.

Michael Clarke's Best Position

In amongst the wailing and gnashing of teeth that followed Australia's capitulation in Hyderabad a consensus emerged: there needed to be changes to the team and that Michael Clarke needed to bat at number four, presumably on the basis that he's the captain, dammit. 

The first of these is now out of the window, although we may be treated to the sight of Steve Smith batting at number five in a test match, and the second, although the absence of Shane Watson and Usman Khawaja makes it inevitable, is difficult to justify. The general thought seems to be that as Michael Clarke is the best batsman in the side then he should take the responsibility and bat in the top four, but this ignores the simple truth that Michael Clarke is one of the best batsmen in the world only when he bats at five. 

In his book about the 2005 Ashes, Duncan Fletcher discusses the differing demands of batting at four and five at some length, explaining that the the differing requirements of the roles meant that he saw Graham Thorpe and Kevin Pietersen as direct rivals for selection because, at that stage in their respective careers, neither was suitably equipped for the demands of batting at four. In the case of Michael Clarke it is certainly arguable that he has never been adequately equipped for batting anywhere other than at five. 

A quick glance at the statistics supports that assertion. Clarke has played the vast majority of his tests at five and averages 63.95 with twenty centuries, whereas in his nineteen tests at four he averages 22.20 with a highest score of eighty. Of course these may be skewed by the fact that his recent tremendous run of form has come batting at number five, but either way there is a startling difference. 

The question, then, is this: what serves Australia better, Clarke doing what is expected of him and batting in a position that he doesn't like and which doesn't suit him. or Clarke remaining at five and scoring heavily? Of course it isn't as simple as this and Clarke's recent dazzling form may translate to batting further up the order, but when your team is struggling for runs it seems a bit daft to disrupt the one bit of it that is functioning properly simply to appease those who think that he should be taking more responsibility. This is a sub-plot to watch with interest over the coming months. 

Management Madness

I blame John Buchanan. Not for everything, but for the current trend for management speak nonsense that permeates international cricket. Ever since Buchanan took a disproportionate amount of credit for the achievements of one of the greatest collections of cricketers in history, the trend has been for cod psychology masquerading as wisdom and team building. Shane Warne's view of the importance of coaches is simplistic, but the actions of too many current coaches smack of self-importance and management learned from text books written by lunatics. 

On the face of it, there's nothing wrong with asking players to come up with suggestions as to how to improve the performances of a struggling side, although in this instance it would have helped to have picked the right team and the right squad. Indeed, players should be actively encouraged to participate in discussions about how things are progressing, but to impose the task in the way that Mickey Arthur did, and his apparently regular use of email to contact his players, smacks of a man who is trying too hard to appear managerial and, instead, looks like a buffoon. He is, after all, managing a squad of seventeen players, all of whom are practicing together, staying together, travelling together and eating together - speaking to them, either individually or as a group, can't be that hard, surely. To then react by suspending four players (and what would he have done if seven players had failed to complete the task?) certainly seems to be excessive.

Of course we don't know all of the details, just as we don't know the details of the falling out in the England dressing room that lead to the ostracism of Kevin Pietersen. Michael Clarke has said that it wasn't an isolated incident although, not unreasonably, he didn't provide any further details. It's also true that it hardly seemed an onerous task for the players to carry out, poorly conceived though it may have been. After all, how long does it take to write fly out some proper spinners, drop Phil Hughes and replace the coach? 

83%

Glenn Turner was a remarkable cricketer. In a first class career that ran from 1964 to 1983 his list of achievements arguably make him New Zealand's greatest ever batsman. In first class cricket he scored just short of 35,000 runs at an average just under fifty, he is the only New Zealander to score a hundred first class hundreds, the only man to reach his hundredth hundred with a triple century and in 1973 he joined the select band to have scored a thousand first class runs before the end of May. 

His international record is no less impressive. At a time when New Zealand were all too often the whipping boys of international cricket he averaged 44.64 in his forty-one tests, twice carried his bat through an innings, converted two of his seven test centuries into doubles and in 1974 he made a century in each innings against Australia at Christchurch. Against the West Indies in 1972 he carried his bat for 223*, which is still a record for any test playing nation. His performances in ODIs weren't too shabby either: he averaged forty-seven and against East Africa in the 1975 World Cup he made 171*, a record score that stood for eight years. 

In amongst all of these remarkable feats, however, perhaps the most astonishing came at Swansea at the end of June 1977. Turner was ten years into a fifteen year career at Worcestershire when they took on Glamorgan in what appeared to be a fairly humdrum match between two middling teams (Worcestershire would end the season one place ahead of Glamorgan in thirteenth). There was nothing in the early stages to suggest that something unusual was going to happen as Glamorgan eased their way to 309-4 declared, a declaration that was forced after one hundred overs under the playing regulations of the time. Norman Gifford took three wickets and Mike Llewellyn, who later that summer would come within inches of hitting a six over the pavilion at Lord's, helped himself to ninety-one not out. With the pitch playing pretty easily and neither side blessed with a particularly potent bowling attack a fairly high scoring draw looked to be on the cards. 

Tony Cordle and Malcolm Nash had other ideas, however. Cordle had been a mainstay of the Glamorgan attack for years and Nash had reverted to bowling left arm seam up after his experiments with bowling slow left arm had ended in infamy at the hands of Garfield Sobers at the same ground nine years before. Both were decent county bowlers but now they ran through the Worcestershire batting with alarming ease.  Turner's opening partner Barry Jones fell for one, followed by Phil Neale (three) and Jim Cumbes (five). As the batsmen fell at one end, however, Turner was providing a master class at the other end. To give some idea of his dominance, numbers two, three and four contributed nine runs between them, but the third wicket fell with the score on sixty-eight. 

Cordle and Nash continued to rip through the rest of the batting and Worcestershire were reduced to 93-8 when Turner was joined by Norman Gifford. The redoubtable Gifford hung on while Turner attacked, eventually contributing seven to a partnership of fifty-seven. Paul Pridgeon, not noted for his batting, also hung on during a last wicket partnership of nineteen to which he contributed precisely nothing. After sixty-eight overs, Worcestershire had been bowled out for a paltry 169. 

Remarkably, Gifford's seven was the second highest score of the innings. While ten batsmen, including players as talented as Basil D'Oliveira and Dipak Patel, had contributed just twenty-seven runs between them, Turner had made 141 not out , a staggering 83.43% of the total. Unsurprisingly, this is a record that still stands. As for the match, it petered out into a damp draw, but those few souls who had ventured to Swansea had seen arguably the most extraordinary individual innings in first class history.