Cricket is the most gracious of games. County grounds in the lee of cathedrals, village greens in the perfect setting of trees and a pub, and not far from the parish church: even if the match will not be over in time for evensong, there is more than a hint of Dearly Beloved, a phrase which captures so much of English civilisation.
Cricket is an intellectual game. It baffles Americans. Try explaining that a Test can last for five days and then end in a draw — which may well be the right outcome, morally and aesthetically. Think of Gavaskar’s immortal match in 1979. Any other ending would have been much less satisfying.
Cricket engenders humour. At his best, Cardus is up there with Wodehouse, MacDonald Fraser (in the McAuslan books) and even Waugh. ‘It was as if God had taken a piece of good old Yorkshire clay, moulded it into human form, breathed life into it, and said: “Thy name is Emmott Robinson and tha shalt open t’bowling from Pavilion End.”’ The barmy army can be funny, especially when baiting Australians: ‘If your grandad was a convict, clap your hands.’ But the unceasing cacophony ruins those moments of profoundly eloquent silence, when the bowler begins his run-up to a batsman who has been playing and missing throughout the over — and the entire field is crouching round the wicket like a pack of piranhas.
The barmies also drown out the inspired heckle. Hutton, batting at Headingley, is hit on the box by a delivery from Lindwall (can you be given out ‘balls before wicket’?). Anyway, the poor chap limps in the direction of square leg, massaging the stricken region. Voice from the cheap end: ‘Stop pleasurin’ thyself, ’utton, and get on wi’ match.
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