THRILLING CRICKET IN THE RAIN.

Hawera & Normanby Star, Volume XLII, Issue XLII, 7 October 1922, Page 9

THRILLING CRICKET IN THE RAIN.

(By an Old Etonian.) We got the weather out at Lord's on Saturday after all. Caught and bowled he was—also stumped and I.b.w. The match ended in a draw, with Eton leading on the first innings. It was fine in the morning, fine enough for Eton to give themselves an excellent start by the aid of that remarkable all-rounder, Lord Dunglass, son and heir of the Earl of Home. Jndeed, we went to lunch pretty happy with the world. I came back to my seat to find Harrow doing -fairly well. Eton's declaration at 190 for nine was a good sporting chaiiee. Harrow travelled evenly enough in reply until seven, wickets had gone., Then began the most dreadful ex perience to which fanatics can be sub jected. . One of the Crawleys still stucl to his wicket, and still played free anr alarmingly good cricket. Could he bea us on the first innings? The weather started bowling again A menacing black cloud spread ove our heads. The wind shifted all rount the compass. Drops fell. Umbrella

went up on the mounds. Drops "became rain, and rain became almost a deluge. Would they slop play? Perish a thought so ignoble. Let it rain. Eton and Harrow were there to play the . game, and the fanatics were there to see them play it, ruined frocks, soaking tophats or no. j 'The game went on and the rain died i away. Powell was bowled at last after an heroic effort. Powell was no sort of bat. But he kept the ball out of his wicket while Crawley made the runs. He deserves to be "hoisted," if they hoist their gallant gentlemen on the Hill. j I trembled. The' man next me I trembled. The women wondered if we felt ill. I did, He did. We all did, we who could b& more strained by this in communicable passion of loyalty than any other thing left in life. A greybeard next mey. Jseaver1 of beavers, left his seat. He muttered: "This is too much." His arteries were ancient and his heart was young. Eight runs to make, one wicket to fall. Crawley still there. The yells and cries died down. The waving blue was still. Even the ironic chant of "Poor old Harrow" was heard no more. And then—and then a half-volley, half-hit, a catch in the deep field, and with a gasp we came to life again. Eton had done it. ' Perhaps :t is all foolish. Perhaps the match at Lord's, the frocks and frills, the tophats, the solemn fervour, are all ridiculous. So some say. But I would not sacrifice one heartbeat of it.' The imperishable thrill justifies the public school system of England.