Samoans Brighten Their Cricket

Manawatu Times, Volume LIV, Issue 7298, 27 October 1933, Page 10

Samoans Brighten Their Cricket

FIFTY PLAYERS OR MORE ON FIELD

aDVOCATES of. brighter cricket might take points from the young men of Samoa, where the game has of recent years achieved such popularity that tlie playing season has had to he restricted by Jaw (writes a correspondent of tlie “Manchester Guardian.”). Amid the exquisite scenery of the romantic South Sea Isles the game is played on a carpet of luxurious tropical greenness such as the groundsmen at Lord’s or at the Oval could scarcely dream of. In the background a treesmothered hill, the last resting-place of Robert Louis Stevenson, rises majestically. Below, seen over the tree-tops of a vast bread-fruit plantation, the Pacific stretches away to merge at the horizon with a sky of only a paler and more transparent blue. In the shade of an enormous tree sit the spectators, a hundred stalwart young natives, some the descendants of cannibals, crooning, almost in a whisper, old melodies of the islands to the softly plucked strings of a guitar. Fifty or more players are spread over the field. Apparently there is no limit to the number of each side. Their lithe, muscular bodies are naked but for a bright red “lava lava,” or cotton skirt belted at the waist, which contrasts vividly with the rich brown colouring of their skin. Somewhere among the crowd is the umpire, equipped with while coal and the shrillest of shrill whistles. But he seems a person of relatively small importance. The real master of ceremonies is a broadly smiling young native who sits Buddha fashion in the centre of play. Before him on the ground lies an empty petrol can —the war-drum of modern Samoa—while in his hands are two slfort lengths of bamboo cane by way of drumsticks. “Burrp. . . . Burrp. . . . Burrp-burrp-burrp” goes the drum. 1 ' “Slap. . . . Slap. . . . Slap-slap-slap” go the hands of the players, as with astonishing precision of rhythm they execute a few steps of a war-dance, evidently with the intention of demoralising the batsmen. Shrill whoops of encouragement split the air, apparently directed at the howler. This individual steps lightly back a few paces from the wicket. Then he hurls himself forward, his bare brown feel Hashing across the turf. Over swings his arm, to send down a smashing ball of perfect length. The dusky batsman awaits it confidently. Flexing

his powerful wrists, he raises his enormous bat —a war-club in appearance, and fully four feet long. “Crack!” The style is unorthodox perhaps, hut the ball has flown to the line of grass huts which constitute the boundary. The crooning from beneath the tree rises of a sudden to a full-throated triumphant chant, while half a dozen of the deep field become entangled with a little mongrel pup who has designs upon the ball. “Burrp. . . . Burrp. . . . Burrp-burrp-burrp.” The drum is beating again. The war-dance is repealed and

the howler glares hatefully at the batsman. Down flashes the ball once more. ’l’he batsman makes a tremendous swing —and misses. One of his slumps (there are only two) is Hying in the air. The tom-tom beats now with a new, a victorious rhythm. The players leap about the field on one leg, each holding the ankle of the other in liis right hand. From 50 throats hursts a triumphant chant which may, for all we can tell, be an old Samoan battle-cry. But, curiously enough, it sounds uncommonly like a single English word repeated over and over again: “Out. . . Out. . . . Out-out-out. . . . Out. . . . Out. . . . Out.”