A magical combination

tauringhuang.

Jul 24th 2008
From Economist.com

Sun, cricket and alcohol, on the cusp of great upheaval


Monday | Tuesday | Wednesday | Thursday | Friday
Monday
THE buzz of anticipation starts to build well before reaching Lord’s. On the train into central London I see two young men in shorts and sun hats with a large cool box. Surely they are on the same journey as me—to Lord’s, the home of cricket. Nearer the ground the tube train begins to fill with more like-minded souls. I glimpse a flash of the distinctive “egg-and-bacon” yellow-and-pink tie of the Marylebone Cricket Club, the custodians of the laws of cricket, whose home is Lord’s. Next a Panama hat or two with a band in the same colours hoves into view. And finally on Wellington Road, close to the ground, the few become a jovial throng heading for the Test match. The smattering of MCC colours is reinforced by more daring older members who sport dazzling MCC blazers, lurid beacons amid the more soberly attired cricket fans.

There is no finer way for a cricket-lover to spend a summer’s day than at Lord’s. Players are of much the same opinion. Professional cricketers around the world, when asked what grounds they like the best, dutifully name their home turf, before adding “…and, of course, Lord’s”. It must be one of the world’s most attractive sporting arenas. An Edwardian pavilion nestles comfortably between more modern stands. Facing it across the gently sloping field of play is a space-age press box, often compared to a gigantic radio-alarm clock. The wacky design attracted controversy when it was first built but now is as much a part of the furniture as is “Old Father Time” on his weathervane.

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As fine as they comeUnlike most sporting venues, here the pitch and stands are surrounded by pleasant open spaces—the nursery cricket ground and cool shady gardens abut a circular walkway around the outside of the stands. If a whole day of cricket is too much to take (and it can be), wandering around Lord’s to the tootling and parping soundtrack of a traditional jazz band provides an excellent opportunity to watch the English middle-class male at leisure. This is not as awful as it might sound. Because a special spirit pervades—of bonhomie, great good cheer. A magical combination of sun, cricket and alcohol ensures that it is so.

Though women, children, and examples of many of Britain’s ethnic minorities mingle happily at Lord’s, the bulk of the crowd is male and white. Perhaps cricket’s great attraction for them is that it is one of the few occasions when otherwise respectable gentlemen, well past their teenage years, feel it reasonable, desirable, mandatory even, to begin drinking shortly after play commences at 11am. The only other venues where this sense of freedom, of a satisfyingly wicked abandonment of social mores, really takes hold is in airports, where a beer may be taken at any hour—though typically under the cover of an imminent switch of time zones.

And, unlike at most other sporting venues, bringing along a drink or two to cricket, while not exactly encouraged, is hardly frowned upon. Rules displayed prominently at the gates limit the amount one might bring into the ground. But more for the sake of the takings of in-house bars than from any fear that alcohol-fuelled violence will erupt among the middle-class men.

The worst result of excess boozing I have ever witnessed (and this was at London’s less salubrious international cricket venue, the Oval) was a naked man treating those around him to a spirited and tuneful rendition of “Suspicious Minds”. By the time stewards had come to eject him he had put his clothes back on. “Who was it?” demanded the leader of the baffled forces of authority. “Was it you?” they demanded of the guilty party, who had assumed an air of wounded innocence. The stewards, still unsure of their quarry, surveyed the mass of cricket fans suspiciously until a distant voice piped up: “I am Spartacus”. Another voice, familiar with the famous scene in the epic film about the slave revolt in ancient Rome, chimed in with the same line. Then another and another, until the scene of Spartacus’s fellow rebels attempting to shield him from capture by the Romans was pleasingly recreated in the Peter May Stand at the Oval, south London. The nude baritone was eventually identified and thrown out anyway.

But this says much about the amiable nature of a cricket crowd and the camaraderie and instant friendships that can blossom through a shared love of the game. And that spirit is a reflection of what you see on the cricket pitch. But now there are great fears about how long this spirit can endure in professional cricket. It is generally accepted that international and domestic cricket is on the cusp of great upheaval. Money is pouring in like never before and it’s not clear how cricket will stand up to this onslaught. Change is not something that cricket takes on lightly. The preface to the MCC’s laws of cricket states:

“The basic Laws of Cricket have stood remarkably well the test of well over 250 years of playing the game. It is thought the real reason for this is that cricketers have traditionally been prepared to play in the Spirit of the Game as well as in accordance with the Laws.”

The spirit of the game, shared by players and fans alike, is still in reasonable shape. It’s part of what makes a day at Lord’s such a pleasant experience. But can the spirit of cricket withstand the battering that huge wads of cash are sure to deal it?


Tuesday
IN CRICKETING terms yesterday’s trip to Lord’s was not the most satisfying. For three of the five days of the Test match against South Africa, England were on top. The expectation was that day four would follow suit and England would wrap up an easy victory. An ideal day of Test cricket sees plenty of runs scored (for your side) and plenty of wickets falling (the other lot’s). Yesterday saw few runs, even for a Test match, where scoring is generally slower than in shorter forms of the game. And only one South African wicket fell, late in the day.

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Missing another chanceIt seemed, for a time, that no wickets would go down, a feat rarely encountered in Test cricket (one source reckoned it has happened just 22 times before). Had the South African batsmen held their ground, this recondite statistic would have provided some succour to those cricket fans interested in abstruse facts and obscure statistics. And that’s almost all of us—the many and various statistics are an essential lubricant for the game just as oil is for an engine (or, indeed, for a cricket bat). Cricket lovers are generally the sort of people who would enjoy studiously poring over the instruction booklet for something as obvious and simple as an electric toaster. As it was, the cricket itself provided fewer thrills than the manual for a household appliance. Fortunately, the many other attractions of Lord’s made up for it.

Reasons for applauding were few and far between. The warmest clapping was reserved for the two South African opening batsmen, both of whom recorded centuries. The underpinnings of the spirit of cricket are difficult to pin down. But fair play is a vital component. And certainly the practice of showing appreciation for cricketing skills from both sides in equal measure is part of the equation. Even the players will put their hands together for a hard-fought century by an obdurate opponent or for any similar piece of cricketing endeavour. And unlike football, where the referee must endure all kinds of abuse from crowd and players, not questioning the umpire’s decision, no matter how dubious, is a bedrock.

Today I am following the score on my computer at work, via cricinfo.com. If I have a moment or two I may even tune into the radio commentary from the BBC’s “Test Match Special”, a long-running institution of the game. The programme provides plenty of chat about cricket between the moments of action (and those periods of inactivity make up the bulk of any cricket match). Most of that talk these days is of what will happen to international and domestic cricket in the months and years to come.

Earlier this year the first Indian Premier League (IPL) tournament took place. The world’s finest cricketers (with the exception of England’s) were auctioned to franchises based in India’s big cities and then played in a Twenty/20 tournament, a newish ultra-short version of the game. Matches last for three hours or so rather than the potential five days of a Test match. The event was judged a huge success and the lucky participants earned sums significantly vaster than are on offer in any other form of the game. Since then, Sir Allen Stanford, a Texan billionaire and an unlikely benefactor to cricket in the Caribbean, has offered a $20m winner-takes-all prize for a Twenty/20 match between English and West Indian teams. The British cricket authorities have mooted a similar contest to the IPL on these shores.

Twenty/20 in an exciting addition to the cricketing fold. But the international calendar is crowded as it is. Unless the tour can be rescheduled Sri Lanka may well send a weak team to England next year. The country’s best players want to play in clashing IPL fixtures. And who can blame them—their pay for a few weeks’ cricket would set them up for life. English players, centrally contracted to play for their country, are also set to miss out on the IPL cash and are feeling unhappy about it. No one is quite sure of the likely outcome but the mood is one of trepidation. The outcome of the Test match was more predictable after the gritty South Africans dug in for another day’s batting: the game ended in a draw.


Wednesday
MY CRICKETING bug is satisfied today with a televised Pro 40 limited-overs game between Nottinghamshire and Worcestershire on Sky TV, the “home of cricket” in broadcasting terms. Watching the match reminds me of what has changed since I first became hooked on the game but also of what has endured for a couple of hundred years and more. Sir Vivian Stanshall’s description of a fictional English country estate, Rawlinson’s End, could apply equally to cricket: “as changing yet changeless as canal water”. Cricket is a game governed by laws where other sports make do with rules. Rules are made to be broken; laws give an impression of solidity, they stand the test of time.

The MCC has been recognised as the sole authority for the laws since 1787. The laws can only be changed by a vote of two-thirds of its members. And even before the MCC’s formation came the code of 1744, compiled by the “noblemen and gentlemen” of the London Club, which played at the artillery ground in the City. This fixed the length of the pitch at 22 yards, the toss for choice of innings and most of the methods of dismissing a batsman. The laws were revised in 1755 and 1774. The latter tweaks set the present weight of the ball (between 5½ and 5¾ ounces), and the maximum width of the bat (4¼ inches).

Cricket may accept changes to the laws only reluctantly but the way the professional game is played has altered in many ways over the 30-odd years that I have been a close observer. The game I watched this evening bore many of the imprints of another earthquake that once struck cricket. In 1977, in a fit of pique at the refusal of Australian cricket’s governing body to sell him the rights to televise games in that country, Kerry Packer, a media tycoon, launched his own “World Series” of cricket. The game’s biggest stars were prised from their national sides—with the help of large cheques—to play one-day cricket. Cricket’s crusty authorities were aghast at the impertinence.

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Even Lord's has been floodlitThe experiment was short-lived but it ushered in several innovations that are in evidence in the Pro 40 game I saw tonight. For the first time cricket was played at night, under floodlights. But for traditionalists, the greatest threat that cricket had ever faced had nothing to do with the playing conditions. Shockingly, players took to the field in coloured team strips rather than the traditional all-white kit.

The consensus was that cricket could never recover. The sudden change was too much for the ancient sport to bear. A game that in the previous century had only reluctantly conceded that players need not wear a top hat was faced with teams clad in what were mockingly (but fairly) dubbed “pyjamas”.

Now big money, floodlights and the coloured strips are all accepted parts of the game. What Mr Packer had done, by challenging the incumbent broadcasters, was to bring a much-needed whiff of competition to the business of cricket. One result is the comprehensive coverage of cricket offered by Sky TV in this country. And for that I thank Mr Packer.

Not only is cricket on our TV screens a lot more often but the coverage is far more elaborate too. Admittedly the cost of outside broadcasting has tumbled. But compare the one or two cameras that the BBC would dispatch to the test venues of Trent Bridge or Edgbaston with the huge crew that now captures the action from every angle (a camera has even found its way into the stumps). Every ball can be—and often is—dissected, in order to show more precisely where it went, where it might have gone if not for the intercession of the batsman’s body, its trajectory compared with other balls and much more.

These developments are terrific for the armchair fan. On the other hand—and perhaps this is only nostalgia getting the better of me—the BBC’s coverage in the 1970s does seem to have mirrored a game that was both a little more gentlemanly and pleasantly less professional. Part of me mourns the demise of the gentlemanly amateurism of some of the BBC’s commentators. Peter West particularly comes to mind. His patrician air and well-cut blazer spoke of a former military career. He would invariably conduct, during the teatime interval, a rooftop interview with an aged luminary of the game. Mr West had the polished shine of a chap who considered make-up a touch effeminate even for a presenter under the unforgiving glare of TV lighting. And the high wind generally attendant upon his high-altitude cross-examination would whip his extravagant comb-over up and across his glistening pate where it would frantically dance while Gubby Allen or perhaps one of the Bedser twins would bemoan the state of the modern game.

I do not wish to bemoan the modern game. There is plenty about it that has added to the enjoyment of watching cricket both live and on TV. But just as Mr Packer brought competition to the broadcasting of the game, the IPL and its like are ushering in the forces of globalisation. It may well prove a broadly positive force, just as it has on other businesses. But the huge sums of money that will ride on relatively few games have stoked fears that a new ruthlessness among professional cricketers could bend or break the spirit of a game.


Thursday
PERHAPS fears that an influx of money will lay waste to the game of cricket are nonsense. “More than a Game”, the excellent book on the sport’s early years by John Major, a former prime minister with a healthy obsession, makes it clear that large sums of money, hefty wagers and attendant skulduggery are the foundations upon which cricket is built. And there was little room for sentiment. Thomas Lord, who founded and gave his name to the famous ground, hatched plans to develop and build on the site because cricket was not providing suitably juicy profits. Luckily, in 1825 he sold up instead. But were cricketers more gentlemanly—and less hardened—in the 1970s? Or have my recollections been twisted by the passage of time?

Cricketers have certainly altered in a number of respects since the mid-70s. The hairy, heavily girthed specimens that patrolled the outfield in 1973 would have been dumbfounded by the fitness regimes and pop-star girlfriends of today’s professional. A jog round the ground before the start of play would have counted as a punishing workout then; now hours of sweat in the gym are the staple of any aspiring international. But a sensible diet and a modicum of alcohol would not have provided sufficient fuel for the cricketers of my youth.

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Those were hairy times“Flat Jack” Simmons, an off-break bowler and a vital component of the Lancashire side for 20 years, reputedly scoffed portion after portion of fish and chips to keep himself in shape. Mike Gatting, of Middlesex and England (pictured), was no stranger to the buffet table and had a waistline to prove it. The svelte and buffed cricketer of today is almost literally half the man his predecessor was.

And am I right that heightened professionalism has left less room in the changing room for entertaining oddballs such as one of my favourite batsmen, the straggle-haired and fidgety Derek Randall of Nottinghamshire? Phil Tufnell, a spin bowler for Middlesex and England who retired in 2003, was perhaps the last nonconformist to wear an England shirt (training regime: cigarettes). Read an autobiography of one of today’s internationals and it is all about focus, intensity and other vague but tough-sounding expressions gleaned from the sports psychologists who tone up the mind of the modern pro. By contrast “Cricket Rebel”, the autobiography of John Snow, an angry fast bowler of the 1970s, contains a selection of his poetry.

Commercial opportunities for players are of a different scale too. England’s Kevin Pietersen, the most exciting batsman playing today, is sponsored by Citizen, a fancy watch company. Another sponsor, Volkswagen, has slipped him a top-of-the-range Phaeton limousine. David Steele, a bespectacled batman called up late in his career to face the mighty Australians of 1975, was sponsored by a local butcher at the modest rate of one lamb chop per run scored in his benefit year. He ended a successful season with 1,756 of them. He dryly noted that he had to buy an additional deep freezer that year.

Helmets, neutral umpires and batsmen playing the reverse-sweep shot have all entered the game in recent years but something has been lost too. It used to be that cricketers could be recognised by their initials alone, as this was how their forenames would be recorded on the scorecard. Most people will have heard of W.G. Grace (though few could tell you that he was William Gilbert). Any cricket lover of my generation would need hear nothing more than an I.T. or an A.W. to identify Sir Ian Botham or Tony Greig. Nor would I.V.A. (Richards), R.G.D. (Willis) or A.P.E. (Knott) tax even a moderate memory. D.L. (Underwood), D.I. (Gower) and D.K. (Lillee) all conjure up fond memories. But between then and now initials have slipped out of use. The understated elegance of a decent set of cricketing initials is a loss I regret. P.B.H. (May), J.W.H.T. (Douglas) or F.S. (Truman) are classic initialisations redolent of long, hot summers past.


Friday
THE second Test between England and South Africa begins today at Headingley in Leeds. It’s something to keep an eye on. But a far bigger game is occupying my attention. For today also sees the fourth annual cricket match between The Economist and the Spectator, another weekly publication based in London. And we have an unbeaten record to defend. We are two-nil up in the series. The third fixture was a victim to an enemy of the game far more malign than any worrisome shifts and eddies in the management and structure of world cricket—the rain.

Rain threatens again today. The morning is spent nervously surveying the low dark clouds that hang over London. But cricketers are optimists and often think they can spot a potential break in prevailing weather systems that are undetectable even to the experts at the Meteorological Office, despite their easy access to powerful supercomputers. That optimism is well placed. Despite a few light showers we depart The Economist’s headquarters shortly after one o’clock, confident that an afternoon’s cricket is in prospect.


The Economist's side, in all their gloryAnd the mood is buoyant. The Economist’s cricket team, like so many made up of enthusiasts for the game, is a hotch-potch of keen cricketers of varying ability. And already this season we have beaten a team put out by our arch-rivals at the Financial Times. So misplaced confidence is sky-high. Several of our number, myself included, do not have extreme youth on our side, nor raw athleticism. But the fact that we have avoided the muscle pulls, tendon strains and ligament tears that go hand in hand with a lackadaisical approach to personal fitness mixed with occasional, intense and deeply misguided attempts at physical exertions on the cricket pitch wins us a place in the team.

Other members of the side have more to offer than merely being free of injury. A trawl of our various business units has turned up a handful of “useful cricketers”. There is almost no higher praise than being described as a useful cricketer and it is an excellent example of British understatement. It means good or very good; I have no real hope of achieving the accolade. Avoiding the description “useless cricketer”, a phrase not tinged by nuance, is the best I can hope for. Our coup this year is a recently arrived summer intern who admitted to “playing a bit” (back to understatement again—it means “played a lot at a high level”). Diffidently, almost apologetically, he revealed that he has turned out for Cambridge University, a team good enough to play matches against county sides. He sounds useful.

We are privileged that this annual fixture is played at Burton’s Court in Chelsea, in the shadow of the Royal Hospital designed by Christopher Wren. One of our number has access to this beautiful ground, fringed by plane and oak trees in a quiet square just a mile or so from the West End. We are also treated to home and away dressing rooms in a spacious pavilion and to an electronic scoreboard. A doubt nags that the standard of our play doesn’t quite match up to the grandeur of our surroundings.

We arrive at the ground at half past one o’clock and immediately get down to the serious business of the day—a tasty buffet luncheon with our opponents, all of whom we recognise from years gone by. A short sprint to the cake table serves me as a final warm-up and then the match commences. The Spectator is to bat so The Economist takes to the field first. The format is Twenty/20, the same sort of match that is sweeping world cricket. We bowl well and dismiss our opponents for 58 runs, all the while handing out good-natured advice, criticism and jibes among ourselves.

Then we knock the runs off easily and repair to a tea of more cakes and sandwiches. We are pleased to have won but no one really minds the score. A few mutterings about the umpires’ decisions but mainly laughter and good cheer accompany the tea break. And as the official match has ended all too quickly we decide to play another shorter game before we all head home. This is a much closer affair, which the Spectator wins off the penultimate ball, keeping everyone happy.

We then all congregate in the pavilion and drink a beer or two while dissecting key moments from the day’s action. If you like to watch cricket head to Lord’s; if you enjoy playing cricket a convivial game with friends and colleagues in pleasant surroundings is hard to beat. Any fears I harbour about the waning of the game’s spirit are forgotten momentarily. Today’s encounter convinces me that—at least on our lowly level—the spirit is still safe and sound.