Slum Cricket.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIX, Issue 18, 2 November 1907, Page 41

Slum Cricket.

“Aht!” “You’re a loiar!’' It is not an easy question to decide, and slum cricket knows no umpire. Possession of the bat is nine points of the law of the game as played up side Streets east of Aidgate Pump. The bat is a home-made article in a more restricted sense than that employed by Tariff Reformers. It is, in fact, a wooden board cut away at one end to form a handle—a sorry vice-Roy for King Willow, but good enough for Slumland. The ball is a solid one, indeed, even as is the kind authorised by the M.C.C., but a solid marble—of a larger growth than the ordinary — but a marble; and a kindly and sympathetic Providence watches over the heads of the slum babies who form an audience on the curb! The pitch—did I say so? —is, of course, in the middle of the road, a byway where motors come not —opposite the Slum Parson’s domain. The team is a sturdy one. Its members play in their 1 shirt-sleeves, for two reasons —sometimes three. Incidentally, to secure coolness and freedom of action, but mainly because a pile of coats 5s the authorised substitute for a wicket in Slmnland. Tire third reason is that some have no coats to remove, but their failure to contribute a quota to the appointments of the game does not disqualify; there is no-

thing of the snob about the slum cricketer. Neither are there physical disabilities. One of the spriest of the team is a little one-legged Urchin, who hops about with a crutch, for all the world like an alert London sparrow.’ H> gives one the impression of having got rid of an encumbrance in the second leg, with the like of which his companions are still incommoded, so extraordinarily agile are his movements. During his innings the bat-of-sorts does duty for the crutch, which becomes, pro tern., the plaything of a two-legged onlooker. The innings of the one-legged one appears to recur with unusual frequency, but whether this is due to his prowess with the limbs of which he retains possession and tire power of his crutch—a formidable wea-pon—-or to the chivalry of slumland, one is not quite sure, for the latter certainly exists. The one-legged youth is not the only handicapped cricketer. There is

another urchin, who is in charge of a minute baby brother w itii wide, bandy legs, and an absolute ignorance of the thing we cal! fear. This appendage remains close to his guardian all through the game in the most intimate persona! contact. He squats behind the sartorial wicket, Close up, or takes short cuts with due deliberation 'between the bowler and batsman. “Obstacle cricket” is a game peculiar to the’slums. Mayfair, winning potential Waterloos on the playing fields of Eton, would not put up with it! The slum cricketer, however, accepts it all with the utmost good humour, just as he accepts the occasional cart- which interrupts his game, dr th? passing of a policeman. The latter, by the bye, generally turns a blind eye oa this form of infringement of the Law; for he has a little iad of his own who sports white ducks and plays cricket i:i Victoria Park with the Curate. In truth, there are excitements connected with slum cricket unknown to Lord’s or the Oval. The chance hitting of a passer-by on the ankle, and the ensuing voluble protest in the immensely comical lingo of the Alien, being a variation entirely missing from the cricket obtaining at Eton or Harrow. The breaking of a window, too, is not without its fascination, and the intermittent excursions into the private “grounds” of the Slum Parson in search of the ball, always undertaken by the whole Team, “en masse," has a joy peculiarly its own. The Slum Parson, I have it on authority, once vowed the elimination of street ericket. He selected a cane, says the legend, and was hurrying forth to revenge a broken church window, when he caught sight of the “viee-roy,” made nearer home than Germany, and his heart failed him—or, rather, stood him in good stead. “Bother the little wretches!” he said. “They’ve been and made their'own bat!” And slum cricket proceeded, in. spite of many broken windows. I have tried to ascertain the strict rules of slum cricket: “Well.” says the urchin whom I interviewed. “y.er. gits one, see? if yer hits as fur as the lamp-post, and two aerost the turning.” “And when it goes into the Parsonage grounds?” . A wide grin. “That counts six.” “And how many runs for a broken church window?”

A wider grin. “,’Ow many runs? I guess we all runs!”