CROWNING THE WILLOW

Greymouth Evening Star, 16 November 1935, Page 4

CROWNING THE WILLOW

CRAFTSMEN WHO MAKE BATS

It is a small, rather depressing looking building on the outskirts of Nottingham in England.. Only a dingy brass plate informs those interested that this is the home of a renowned firm of cricket bat makers. It caught my eye, and I went inside (writes Basil Hall in the “Melbourne Argus”). A factory by Board of Health regulations, the name is entirely misleading. There is no slap of belting, no rows of intense operatives bendiug over whirling machinery; neither are logs pushed into the qnd of a Heath Robinson like contrivance, to come out —cricket bats at the other. In fact, it is not a factory at all. It is a workshop, or, perhaps, a studio, since each man employed there is an artist at his job.

Everyone knows that cricket bats are made from willow wood. But it has to be a peculiar kind of willow; a close-barked type that can be grown in Australia, but which, as far as England is concerned, comes from the eastern counties.

The manager who showed me round, explained each process. Trees are bought standing when they are aged about 16 years. This is his personal duty, and one that requires a lifetime of experience. Once bought they are felled when the sap is stagnant in the autumn, and sawn into logs about three feet in length. , ,

Heaps of them are lying about or being cut into clefts. Easy as this looks to anyone familiar with a woodheap aud an axe, it is really as difficult a‘task as any other in the works. An old, old man, who might be a whitehaired edition of the illustrious W. G. Grace himself, fingers a broad-bladed axe; He examines with care the grain of the up-ended block, then places the edge of his axe upon it. A blow with a maul, and the wood. is sliced as cleanly as a pat of butter. In less than a minute, he has split the log into clefts, and utilised,, every porition of it without waste.

In another corner of the yard, two men are roughly shaping these freshly hewn clefts into blades. Still using an axe, and with due regard to the weight of the finished article, they determine which is to be the face and which the back of the bat. These are operations that machinery could never do. Only the sense of touch that is a craftsman’s hallmark, makes it possible. WHEN HAND BEATS MACHINE The whole yard is piled high with these roughly chopped blades, which are’left to season for two years before ndergoing their final preparation. The main workroom is nothing more than a loft under steeply sloping eaves; ill lighted, one would think, but with rows of benches and a dozen men working there in perfect silence. Nothing but the swish of shavings can be heard, and the silky sound of very sharp knives being drawn over very soft wood.

The silence and unflagging concen ration are themselves impressive, for :ere is born that mysterious thing callid “’balance.” Every sportsman knows :; the gun that seems to fly unbidden ojthe shoulder; the tennis racquet, or

fishing rod, which perform their* functions without effort, and the cricket bat that after a long, tiring innings still seems a feather-weight.. Only m-.’ii like these possess the secret.'

Let us watch this wizard. From a. cile of roughly hewn billets he selects i grey, weather-beaten piece of wood. A pressure of the thumb, a glance along the grain, and already he has envisaged the finished article. Clamped

into a vice the drawknife now comes into play. Long strips rise up to join the ankle-deep litter on the floor, an'd almost in a twinkling the bat takes shape before one’s eyes. Every now and then the workman releases the wood and twirls it in his hands to get the balance once again. Wherever you .ook you see men getting the “feel” of •he bat as it undergoes each process. On some blades a tiny piece of the original surface is left—a, bar sinister, as it were. They call it the .workman’s “witness,” for it is a ‘ sign, that, through the run of the grain or some other cause beyond his control, the finished product will never make a first-class bat.

In the centre o£ the room is a ponderous, old-fashioned looking press. It gives the face the “surface” which enables Don Bradman to lift a ball over the pavilion roof without showing a mark upon his bat. Under pressure the fresh wood looks as soft as putty; it is possible to see it moving as the fibres are compressed. But only the face and edges are so treated; the back is left to cushion the blow. Away in & corner a circular saw nicks out a made for the splice, and then the blade is ready for its handle. AN ART IN ITSELF. The making of these handles is an art in itself. From the depth of the jungle—the “White Rajah’s” jungle in Sarawak —comes bundles of the best cane in the world. These are glued together with strips of rubber .in between and taken to a small room completely filled by a large lathe, attended by another patriarchal old gentleman who looks like a dignitary of the Church.

A touch of a chisel. apd aniid a shower of chips the roughly squared roll of cane becomes a handle. This :dd man makes scores of these daily, •nd each one of them is'perfect. Forty years he has been with the firm, “and O 6od for a few more yet,’’ he adds, with a grave, episcopal smile. In yet another room these handles are being fitted to the cleft, and here .t seemed to me that more sheer sorcery was displayed than anywhere < .se. Not a rule or a guide of any cart is used. Only the judgment of a keen blue eye and the edge of a keen, cold chisel.

Connected with this I read a tale not long ago that I can well believe. It concerned a cricketer who, having bought a new bat, used it for half a season, until the handle and blade suddenly parted. Full of annoyance he returned it to the makers with a demand for compensation and apology. Beginning with the manager tlms< people smiled. Slowly <he' chuckles spread from bench to bench, it was a joke they could appreciate. The complaint was the ’ greatest compliment the firm had received, for someone soon discovered tha't the handle bad not been glued at all! This was an oversight, of course, buf think whal j' mean!! The perfect lit of handle i H<> splice had carried that bat through half a season’s cricket. That a feat of workmanship. There Was little more to see The! handle requires binding and the blade

polishing. This means sandpaper and a dust so fine that everyone is coated with it. The result is a surface like satin, yet with resistance sufficient to withstand the cutting and driving of a powerful man. That, with an extra rub over with a reindeer bone, completes the process of manufacture. Nothing remains but grading and branding with a hot iron.

Jack Hobbs will come to select, his bats. Bradman. Ponsford, Woodfull, and other Australians have selected bats here I hat made them famous. The office is a gallery of well-known faces and a museum of queey, distorted old-fashioned bats that have made history at Lord’s or on some village green.

And the part that delighted me most about the whole place was the thought that, in an age of fool-proof mechanical contrivances, these elderly workmen continue to turn out a hand-made article that defies competition. Unhurried, sure, and deft, they crown the willow with their craftsmanship.