‘Lankysher Be Blowed!'

Sun (Auckland), Volume I, Issue 188, 29 October 1927, Page 10

‘Lankysher Be Blowed!'

CHEERFUL CRICKET BARRACKERS Players That Please the Fans ¥ V the following article, Seville Cardus, doyen of English cricket *• writers . discourses entertainingly on players tvho please the crowds. lie also picks tchat he calls an "eleven of artists.”

< 'rieket h;i« a delightful knack of conjuring the crowd out of narrow partisan interests. Imagine that you are a .Lancashire or Yorkshire supporter, anxious about your county’s position in the championship. And suppose Hammond should come along some fine day and hammer magnificently the bowling of Macdonald or Macaulay. What is our Lancashire or Yorkshire supporter the more likely to do —find delight in Hammond’s play or :i cause of despair and frustration? Kvery stroke by Hammond may well be a nail in the coffin of the pet team of our supporter and yet—such is the art of cricket —he is bound to applaud every dashing hit. At Old Trafford, early in the season, Hammond smashed the Lancashire bowling prodigiously. In half an hour lie made 50; he drove fast bowling from Macdonald five times to the boundary from five consecutive balls. “Go it, Ammond!” said a man in the shilling seats. “I ’opes as ’e meks two ’undred.” And in order to “draw” this ecstatic Lancashire follower I said: “But. what about you own county?’* And he replied: "Ah’m a Lankysher man all right

born in Pendleton —but this is cricket. Well ’it, mi lad—go it, ’Ammond — Lankysher be blowed!’’

Once on a time, Lancashire needed a victory badly—to keep pace with Yorkshire in the championship struggle. And on a sunny July day, they had Sussex almost beaten: Ranjitsinhji was the only obstacle in the way to a win. Mold Quickly got “Ranji” caught for next to nothing. Was the crowd happy then—happy to see Lancashire assured of a much-wanted victory by this speedy overthrow of the enemy’s greatest batsman? Well, the crowd was. and it wasn’t! At the sight of “Ranji’s” fatal stroke, a groan of dismay passed over Old Trafford, and thousands of Lancashire men left the ground. Even in the “grim competitive North” victory is not everything; the great game will cast its spell, making disinterested lovers of skill and beauty of us all! “ELEVEN ARTISTS'* [ have often wished to see in action an eleven picked purely and simply to please—to give aesthetic satisfaction. For such a team 1 would take no notice of the averages; I would even overlook “current form.” Ever player would get bis place on the strength of stylo. And by style I do not mean merely a correct method. Character is style: and style is the man himself. In my “XI. Artists” I doubt if even so correct a batsman as Sandham could be given room. Sandham never plays an ugly innings, but be is a stylist only in a conventional sense. He has made no stroke his very own; after a long innings by Sandham lie leaves little or no impression of character. My eleven would contain none but cricketers capable of getting through a game in ways entirely their own; every innings by members of this highly aesthetic side, would give you a glimpse into a cricketer’s nature—perhaps into his immortal soul. Let me try to pick such an eleven from players of the moment. THE MASTER BATSMAN Hobbs, of course, goes in straightway. for reasons which do not require to be stated. Sutcliffe is pretty to watch, and in every big innings played by him he expresses, despite all his cool polish, authentic Yorkshire obstinacy and shrewdness. Hammond, like Hobbs, gets his cap for the asking. Jardine I select because I have never

yet seen him play a flavourless innings; in all of his strokes the smack of culture can be tasted. His on-side play is his very own, and not to be confused with anybody else’s. Chapman is as much a beautiful law unto himself as Hobbs or Hammond, his 260 achieved against Lancashire at Maidstone in three hours was creative cricket, and handsome beyond words. I see his bat now—in my mind’s eye, Horatio —like a banner waving in the summer air. Tate is chosen for my .eleven, not only because I want one or two good bowlers, but also because no cricketer extant at the present time puts more of honest nature into the game than Tate. An innings by Tate is a jolly wind which lapsets decorum and makes old lady Orthodox puff hard for breath. . . . Fender is my next choice; ho posseses skill and individuality. I like to see him wearing his spectacles, for I imagine that he is looking through them, saying, “All the better to see you with, my dear Hallows.” I also choose Hearne without hesitation; a batsman chaste and dignified in every outline but —a bowler of the present epoch of “jazz.” (“Googlies” belong to the jazz of cricket). Freeman, of Kent, too, brings to his work a comically diminutive personality. And his bawling appeals at one and the same time to the intellect and to the imagination. His spin lies based on good science, but sometimes it achieves flights which, to the poor batsman, seem infinitely mysterious. Larwood and Duckworth round off my ideal eleven: Larwood in action is as glorious to look upon as,a galloping young horse. And Duckworth is the crowing Chanticleer of our wicketkeepers. Let us* now survey this team of ar-tist-cricketers in all its beauty, side by side: Hobbs, Sutcliffe, Jardine, Hammond, Chapman, Fender. Hearne, Tate, Freeman, Larwood and Duckworth. My eleven is not guaranteed to win every time —merely to provoke delight in the crowd. Yet I doubt whether a liner side could be picked by a more utilitarian method. The great match-winners of cricket have usually been artists, characters.