Ben Travers Sees Cricket in Australia

Sun (Auckland), Volume II, Issue 556, 8 January 1929, Page 13

Ben Travers Sees Cricket in Australia

NotedEnlish Playwright Writes of Towns and Crowds HE PLAYED AS WELL lien 7ravers, the noted English playwright, who is touring Australia. has written the following entertaining impression of cricket for the Melbourne “Axous” :— J HAVE -watched every incident in a couple of Test matches in this i country. I have also taken part in a j cricket match almost as remarkable in some respects as the Tests themselves. In fact, for the past month I have been saturated in cricket, and my dream of the English enthusiast’s ideal holiday has come true. I have paid due attention to all that has been told me and written in the Press for my- benefit by players present and past. I have listened attentively to stand neighbours, tram companions and taxi drivers. I have boldly imparted my own views on the game to the only two girls I could find in Australia who knew nothing about it. and to one small boy who. I supposed, would refrain from answering me back, but who disappointed me.

Brisbane for a start. And let me say it would be impossible to discover better facilities .for watching a Test than those offered to me and other English visitors at Brisbane. The w 7 ay in which the camp-followers of tire English team are not only admitted but welcomed to the best accommodation going, the way in which they a.re treated (in the deepest sense of that luscious word) with all the hospitality of this generous country—these things are as marked at Brisbane as everywhere else. Good Time in Brisbane

But whether the Brisbane ground is a fitting venue (I know that’s the right word because I lifted it from an article written by a cricketer) for a Test game is a question which has been raised before and elsewhere. I’m very glad we were there, because I had the time of my life in Brisbane, but from the strictly practical point of view and apart altogether from the sordid question of takings, that cricket ground does appear to lack some of the features becoming to the great occasion.

X believe it was originally intended for cattle shows, trotting races, rodeos, and those public-spirited mass meetings on Empire days, when seventy-odd thousand children (to say nothing of the teachers, also probablyrather odd) form themselves into groups spelling patriotic messages and do physical jerks. Apparently, too, in the bygone days of whiskered athleticism this field was the scene of the grim push-bicycle contest; for the ground has been banked steeply all round the rim to the pickets in a merciful attempt to preserve the cyclist from the reckless menace of his own. centrifugal force. This bank provides a novel attraction to a cricket match, since it means that when a half-volley is pasted past a fieldsman he cannot stroll a few yards after the bail as is his wont and allow some glorying kid to sling it back to him. The dashed thing reaches the bank, surrenders its impetus, trickles to within a foot of the fence and comes to rest. The fieldsman has to run and retrieve it, the batsman has to run his four runs: both parties gain a lot of additional excitement and jolly exercise, and indeed there might be quite a lot to be said for this bank innovation on some of the bleak besweatered playing fields of England. But at Brisbane—in a Test match—well, quite a lot might be said about; it there, too.

The Queensland Barracker

Moreover, it would appear that the merry Queenslander's gifts in the art of comment and incitement manifest more force than sublety. The Sydney Hillite can give him points in appreciation of the intricacies of the game. Heartily be-bellowed, but not too wisely. Occasionally he scintillated to the extent of disserting upon the English batsmen’s interval for refreshments with “Give Sardine some olive oil.’ But best I liked the quiet optimist on whose mind three successive l.b.w. decisions against Australia from the same end apparently weighed somewhat heavily. At the opening of England’s second innings he thus exhorted the Australian bowlers:

"Go on, boys. Appeal whenever yo% can. That old cove will give ’em out all right.” I think the whole atmosphere and environment of this first test match were characteristic of Brisbane. A 111! if asked ((which I have not been) how Brisbane strikes me, I should put it (as I am putting it) like this: Miss Sydney and Miss Melbourne are now of age, mature young ladies of great attraction. Miss Sydney in her loveliness. Miss Melbourne in her stately grace. Miss Adelaide I have merely saluted in passing, but in her I seem to see the blue stocking of the family of Australian cities, a trifle more retiring, but very attractive, too, in Her wistful way. But Brisbane —oh, Brisbane is a boy. The schoolboy of the family, with all the schoolboy’s delectable qualities. Still a little ungainly, a little transitory: wearing out recently erected buildings and recently instituted improvements, and demanding bigger and better ones, even as the sprouting schoolboy prematurely outgrows bis wardrobe. A glorious, untidy boy, a bit unkempt, a bit obstreperous. But who does not know that when the “Ginger” ot the family bids you welcome, there is something every whit as inspiring in his greeting as there is in the amiable hospitality of his gracious sisters? But back to Sydney and more During my stay in Sydney I had been informed that c certain cha*ty match was being organised. Sffndrv giants of the past had consented to reappear in the good cause, together with several present-day exponents of ■’ll© game. Excellent, thought I. will visit this match and recall great glories of toy kuickerbocker days of cricket enthusiasm. Then some devilish mischiet possessed the organiser of this hitherto creditable affair. Deaf to protest and caustic to excuse, he pencilled my aame down in the list of players. In

view of the remarkable innings I played it seems idle now to dwell upon the qualms that beset me. Without, therefore, attempting any detailed description of my preliminary moments of prayer and perspiration, let me pro* ceed to the great scene. The venue (thanks again, old stylist) was Rushcutter’s Bay, Sydney, a delightful ground in many ways, but rather a mistaken site for this contest, as the long open roadways that encompass it give almost unlimited access to any members of the, public whs have the morbid curiosity j to come and witness the torture of a comparatively innocent English visitor.

The morbidity of Sydney was well in evidence, and vested some possibly well-meant but unnerving pleasantries as I approaches the wicket. A man is in a pretty tight corner when he goes in with a collapse preceding him and only sundries to follow.

The Quality of Mercy I have a sort of feeling that my innings look better on paper than it did at Rushcutter’s Bay. But if the wicket-keeper refrained from stumping me off one of Mr. Clem Hill’s bewilderingly flighted leg-breaks that was, after all, well in the spirit of charity cricket. Again, when Mr. Gar Waddy, who was bowling from the other end, suddenly decided not to do so and caught me heartily backing up half way down the pitch, he doubtless used very fine discretion in not breaking the wicket. He probably foresaw that it might lead to a flood of international disagreement and criticism compared with which the Kippax incident would he mere treacle. Suffice to say that, at the conclusion of my third innings, I triumphantly retired with two runs and a leg-bye to my credit.

But the really crowning delight of the great experience was being in the field wlien Messrs. Noble and Clem Hill were partners at the wicket—those same past masters whom, in my younger days at home, I had so often watched with awe and rapture. They may be a few years older than they were, but to he stationed close in on the off side to them is still a deeply moving experience. Anyhow, I know I moved as deep as I could. A Great Cricketer

Of the second Test match, it strikes me that all has been written that need have been, and a certain amount that needn’t. But one remarkable episode, outside the actual play, must always dwell iji the memory of any Englishman who had the good fortune to witness it.

The scene of the presentation to Jack Hobbs and of his subsequent tour of the ground, with, thousands forsaking shelter from the threatening storm in order to rush to the ringside and shout their tribute to him, was a magnificent demonstration of Australia’s appreciation of a great cricketer and of great cricket. On these, big occasions, with the atmosphere electric With Test match tension, who is there -who does not confess to little moments, essential to human nature, of irritation and challenge? One’s nerves are on edge; a neighbour may tickle them up with some possibly quite justifiable comment. Rather a hard little ring may creep into the sound of our mutual banter. There is the temptation to Indulge in “ifs” and excuses, and to (iispute the "ifs” and excuses of the other side.

The annoyance of dashed hopes, the enticements of protest—who does not feel them at times? And yet how trivial these passing vexations and anxieties seemed in that moment when the great Australian crowd massed to the pickets and cheered Hobbs.