PLAY!

The timeless beauty of Worcestershire’s home ground

In the fast and potentially dangerous game of Rackets, arguably the fastest racket game in the world, the scorer has to call out “Play!” before every shot. If somebody is in the wrong place and likely to get hit, he calls out “Time”, and the rally stops. In my recent dip into county cricket as a spectator, I was often minded to shout out “Play!”, at such a lethargic pace was the game out there being conducted. Slow play has been a bugbear of mine for a number of years and I simply do not understand why the authorities consistently fail to get a grip of the problem.

It is an anomaly, one that I have never really been able to explain, that the majority of former players are not the greatest watchers of the game. At the annual past players’ reunion at Hampshire, nobody watches the cricket. Everybody is too busy catching up with old friends and revisiting past glories – and failures – with maximum embellishment and the loudest of laughter. It is the same, I hear, at past players’ days at other counties. Deeds out there in the middle seem to have lost their significance. Yet for all that, I found myself attending, in the most agreeable company of old friends,  two county matches last week, the third-to-last day of the season at New Road (Worcestershire v Sussex) and the second-to-last day of the season at the Rose Bowl - I refuse to call it the Utility Bowl, because it makes it sound like a toilet – (Hampshire v Sussex).

Is there a more pleasant ground on the county circuit than New Road in Worcester? Certainly not on a gloriously sunny, early autumnal day from our viewpoint, unsurprisingly called The View, atop the new stand, with the sun-dappled cathedral to our left and the smoky blue Malvern Hills in the distance to our right. I could almost see in my mind’s eye the ghosts of past – RE Foster, Nawab of Pataudi, Don Kenyon, Jack Flavell, Basil D’Oliveira, Tom Graveney, Vanburn Holder, Glenn Turner, Graham Hick, as they bestrode the same stage that has changed very little in all those years. The current team lacks some of the stardust of former years – Worcestershire were doomed to be relegated long before this game – but the cricket fare was not uncompetitive and Sussex under the captaincy of my nephew, Tim’s, former team-mate at Middlesex, John Simpson – he also scored a hundred and kept wicket - look a very useful side.

No, there was nothing wrong with the entertainment served up. It reminded me of the ageless appeal of the longer format of the game as opposed to the crash-bang-wallop of the limited over versions. What did drive me mad was the sluggish pace at which the game was conducted. Everybody dawdled. Batsmen did not cross on the field of play at the fall of a wicket. The new batsman, having taken guard, waited for the field to be set….and then reset. Bowlers ambled back to their mark. The Sussex and Indian left-arm seamer was so slow walking back that I feared he would topple over. A wicket fell five minutes after tea. Water carriers rushed onto the pitch to rehydrate parched players who had only just finished their tea. Water carriers made their appearance at regular intervals throughout the day – God knows why. There were of course the obligatory efforts by the fielding side to get the ball changed, which necessitated protracted delays while the umpires conferred and put the ball through the gauge and as it wasn’t deemed entirely round, a new batch was sent for, and much discussion ensued as to which replacement ball would be chosen. There were also calls for the 12th Man, and the 13th Man and the 14th Man to bring on helmets for the close fielders. Batsmen signalled for new gloves (why?). And all the while, the umpires who should be setting the tone wandered slowly from wicket to square leg at the end of an over as if they were enjoying a gentle stroll along the adjacent River Severn. It all became beguilingly soporific, not a contest red in tooth and claw.

In our day in the 1970s – I hate it when former players hark back to a golden era, but the comparison is apt – we had to bowl nineteen-and-a-half overs an hour throughout the season. If we failed to reach that target over the course of the season, we, the players, had to pay a fine, and as cricketers back then were paid peanuts, we were all anxious to

avoid that outcome. The game proceeded apace, and the umpires were the first, followed closely by captain and team-mates, to jump down our throats at any unnecessary delays. I was once berated for my time-consuming run -up, and I came in from all of ten paces! Today the over rate nowhere near approaches that figure. The umpires are as much to blame as the players, if not more, for they are the ones who should control events and set the tone. “My God!” exclaimed my companion, as we observed the umpires on another leisurely stroll, “I’ve seen more purposeful activity down at the local bowls club!”

Umpires do have a difficult job, and I hate to criticise them inordinately, but I wish they would apply more common sense from time to time. There were three overs left in the day. The sun was still shining; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was six o’clock and this was late September, so the shadows were lengthening but the light was perfect. Why then did the umpires remove the bails and bring the day’s play to a conclusion because of ‘bad light’? It was inexplicable. All right, the pavilion had cast a shadow over half of the wicket, but it had been there for three overs. The light was not appreciably different between the last few overs and the three remaining.

Thence to the South Coast and an intriguing battle between relegation candidates Hampshire and newly deposed champions Surrey. It was a murky day; the Rose Bowl floodlights could be seen ablaze from the M27. Nonetheless, the game proceeded without interruption. By ‘interruption’ I am referring to the weather. As for interruptions that were man-led, they were aplenty, for all the reasons that I have identified above. It was chilly too, definitely a two-sweater day, even more reason to get a move on, but alas, the modern player and briskness are total strangers. The umpires wore black armbands. Perhaps they were officiating at a funeral, so funereal was the pace of play. (I assumed the black armbands were in memory of the recently departed Dickie Bird.) For all that, the cricket was absorbing. Jeopardy was in the air. Win and Hampshire stay up. Lose and they would probably go down. They did lose but escaped relegation by one point, thanks to a calamitous collapse by Durham in their last innings against Yorkshire, which consigned them, and not Hampshire, to Division 2 next season.

Hampshire’s home ground in Southampton under lights

But the day was not concluded without another crass ‘bad light’ decision by the umpires. With the game poised on a knife edge, Hampshire needing 35 to win, Surrey needing one wicket to win, they took the players off for bad light. The light wasn’t good, it had to be said, but it hadn’t been good all day, and it hadn’t appreciably worsened by this stage. Besides, the floodlights were on, and two spinners were operating! How, by any stretch of the imagination, could the conditions be described as ‘dangerous’? The umpires could easily – and should have – finished the game that evening. As it was everybody – stewards, ground staff, bar staff, catering staff, administrative staff, car park attendants, press, coaches, players and spectators – had to come back the next day for…what, half-an-hour’s play? The umpires peered at their light meters and were governed by a reading on a dial instead of using their common sense. “I’ve played cricket for my club in much worse light than that,” grumbled one member as we all departed, “and we haven’t got floodlights.”

Umpires are slaves to their light meters. Why can’t they use their eyes – and common sense – and make up their own minds?

Sometimes, I think professional cricket shoots itself in the foot.