CRICKET.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXVII, Issue 20496, 22 February 1930, Page 1 (Supplement)

CRICKET.

THE SERIOUS MIND.

BY KQTABE.

" Golf." said the cheerful idiot who had crowned a succession of-outrages by a stroke so superlatively bad that even the adamantine soul of the caddie wilted under the shock —" golf is a funny game." "It worn't meant to be," was all the stricken caddie could muster in retort. And he was right. Golf is, as they say in Scotland, a sairious business. They are not worthy of it who regard it only as a game. It must not be approached flippantly. Like any other religion it demands a fitting solemnity of demeanour and a sober mind.

Most of our games tend that way. Our age has succeeded in treating most of the things our fathers reverenced with a lighthearted, almost contemptuous insouciance; but by way of counterpoise we take our games with a profound seriousness. Apparently we must bo serious about something, and one age differs from another chiefly in the tilings it approaches with a sense of the momentous issues involved and the dignity of behaviour demanded.

The weather's misbehaviour ou the days assigned for the third Test match has put Auckland in an awkward position. Wo shall never be able to explain it satisfactorily. Xo other centre proved so unreasonable. At least we were thorough about it; that is the Oillv consolation we can apply for the soothing of our wounded spirits. The gain to the country may comfort us in some measure, but it will not prevent Aucklanders from walking softly and holding their peace when gratified southerners make ribald comments ou our climate. Things have suddenly become difficult; we of all people have let New Zealand down. We shall get over it in time, no doubt, but for the present we cherish a hidden sorrow. " A Funny Game." No, cricket was not meant to be a funnv game. The weather might have remembered that. It might have observed the thousands that sat day after day while Auckland strove with the M.C.C. for the mastery, and did so valiantly that when three days were up no ono could say to which side the verdict would incline. "We are breeding true to type. The breathless hush, the intent strained faces, the complete absorption in the run of the plaf—we are assuredly of tile old stock. We still respond to the linked sweetness long drawn out of a well-fought cricket match. The concentrated febrile delights of Rugby evidently satisfy only one side of our nature. The old streams still run deep. \et while that sombre intentness was the background, there is little doubt even the most serious student of the game found the primitive man in him exulting when a sixer soared over the fence. If one part of us was satisfied with the grim struggle hour after hour, there was another part that longed for something spectacular, something that would set the blood coursing in the veins. Cricket Songs.

I have never read any song celebrating the hero who keeps his wicket up hour after hour, dourly meeting every subtlety of attack, not worrying about tile score if 0!)ly he can save his side from defeat. There are plenty of odes and ballads to the smiter of si.xes. He is the inspirer ot vour poets. As witnesseth Mr. Lucas " Song of the Eall " :

Give me the batsman who 3<iuander3 h'.s force cn hip. Crowding the strength of bis 30ui in a stroke; Perish the muff and the little tin Shrewsbury.

ilerely contented to potter and poke. He who would pleasure me. he must do doughtily.—

Bruises and buffetings stir me like wine. Giants. come all, do your worst with the ball. Sooner or later you're mine, sir 3, you're mine.

And it is not only the bail that enjoys an innings by Mr. Earle. Joseph Baron pictures the advent of the slugger who takes his block with jaunty air while the unfortunate bowler heaves a sigh of r.npleasurable anticipation and offers up a silent prayer.

Bv George, he malies the bowler swear. The chap who welts them ail the while. Not many writers have appreciated that cricket may at times be a funny game. A. A. Milne has told of the sorrows of the dud in some Punch essays republished in " The Day's Work " —thu simple record of tlie man that occupies the place just above the byes and will never get any higher on the list; the man that probably gets the most fun out of the game. J. M. Barrie has some delightful descriptions of backyard cricket, in his

" Little White Bird." But the best humorous study bv far is Mr. Ernest Bramah's delicious account of a Chinamail's experience of the national game. Mr. Bramah's Kai Lung stories rank among the very greatest, achievements ot modern fiction. They stand as good- a chance of immortality as anything else written in the twentieth century. Kai Lung spent his days in China, but Kong Ho, a worthy compatriot, visits England and writes home his impressions of English life and character. Kong Ho. Among his experiences is an invitation to play in a cricket, match. He is too much a gentleman to refuse and considers it would be beneath the dignity of his rank to admit iie knows nothing of the game. From its name, his subtle mind deduces the theory that cricket is a profoundly . symbolic representation of certain aspects of the life of the " jumping grasshoppers." He has attained in his native land an amazing proficiency in leaping. He can soar higher and stay up longer, lie is sure, than any barbarian Englishman. With this equipment he essays the game. He has difficulty in reaching the wicket. A period of profound meditation settled on him as he left the pavilion, and lifted to reveal that he had left the ground altogether and was proceeding along the chariot road. Even then he is with difficulty directed to the wickets, chiefly through his idea that, he must, take all the -available cover before lie exposes himself, and proceed in the stealthy fashion of the serpent.

"When the man at, the oilier ends calls for a run Kong Ho conceives that the time has come to display his grasshopper agility, and sets off across the field performing prodigies of saltation. All efforts to stop him inspire him to nobler efforts.

" From the pagoda a loud cry of wonder acclaimed the dexterity of flu's person's efforts; the three tiers of maidens climbed one upon another in their anxiety to lose no detail of the adventure, and outstanders from distant points began to assemble. The enemy at once abandoned themselves to a panic, anj for the most part cast themselves incapably to the ground, rolling from side to side in an access of emotion ; the two arbiters clad in white conferred together, doubtless on the uselessness of further contest."

Only the arrival of the fire-brigade put a period to his inspired bounds. Pure farce, of course, but inimitably done, and if your reverent cricketer can forgive the impiety of it, an admirable corrective to the ultra-seriousness that threatens to descend open the game.