A Treatise for the Reappraisal of a Great Game

I recently had the unusual pleasure of playing cricket with someone far better than myself. I am not a bad cricketer, but neither am I a particularly good one. The structure of age-group sport matches players of similar ability. Of course, this leads to a fairer, more competitive game and therefore, greater enjoyment for all involved. The best play with the best, pushing each other towards excellence. Others bowl with crooked arms and a triad of bounces at awkward looking contemporaries wearing another’s gear. The search for excellence demands that the best net with the best; the worst must wallow together in their ineptitude.

I stood at the top of my run and watched as a left-armer steamed in over the wicket and swung the ball back into the right-hander with a delivery reminiscent of Ryan Sidebottom: pitching inside of leg-stump, swinging in, and rattling the batsman just below the knee-roll between middle and off-stump. It was, as the game’s vernacular would declare: plumb. The bowler returned to his mark and I congratulated him the on the delivery. He looked down, chuntering to himself and shaking his head. I was perplexed. He’d delivered a ball I could only dream of bowling. Having voiced my confusion, he turned to me and explained: ‘Swing is simple. What I’m trying to do is control when the ball swings; that one swung a fraction too early.’ My feet felt for the floor; I was truly out of my depth. He raised the ball to his eye-line and continued to extrapolate the issue.

‘If I place the shiny side on the outside with an ever so slightly canted seam, the ball will swing in towards the right-hander. However, if I split the seam with my fingers, placing my index and third finger slightly further apart, I should be able to make the ball swing later, ideally in the five yards before the popping crease. Now, of course, a split-seam delivery will reduce the speed, and this is the issue. There is a sweet-spot to be found whereby the ball swings late without losing pace.’

So, what? Well, I argue that perhaps more than any other sport, cricket is played on two discrete levels. The amateur game is simple (rules and regulations aside); one player delivers a ball to another who in-turn attempts to hit it with a stick. The most rudimentary components of cricket exceed even football in their simplicity: throw, hit, throw, hit, throw, hit. To play with one’s hands is more instinctive than with one’s feet.

Throwing predates kicking; this should be no surprise considering that the imperative to kick a ball whilst still using one’s bipedal stance for mobility would have seemed ludicrous to early man. The professional game, however, is one of immense technical skill. This genius is overlooked due to its subtlety and the old adage that cricket is a lot of standing around and a break for tea. Certainly, contemporary players are physically fit; yet, I expect few arguments that the conspicuousness of their conditioning is dwarfed by those who play football, rugby et al.

Alongside the idiosyncrasies of cricketing legislature, the quirks of almanac enthusiasts and the stench of stale jockstraps and linseed oil, is the astonishing skill and scientific precision within the professional game. I recently met someone studying for a PhD at Cambridge University, his topic? The Art of Swing Bowling: A Scientific Analysis. Watching the great, good and grumpy of the game discussing bowling lengths on Sky Sports and TMS belies the true dexterity of the great players; in particular, the great fast bowlers. Indeed, the mastery of James Anderson or Glenn McGrath is difficult to observe on television and even more so from the stands. The lay audience are often ignorant to the position of the ball in the hand, the careful planning for each batsman and the astute observation of climatic and terranean conditions. In the ignorance there is charm. The gift of watching cricket with an absent eye should not be underestimated; however, I argue that a broader appreciation of player’s scientific prowess would not go amiss. The game can be read on a deeper level; the narrative can become an odyssey when skill is observed over spectacle.

I began to put on my pads; left before right, always. I tucked my chin strap against my throat and gulped twice. Gloves on, bat in hand, walking down the wicket like a nervous bride to-be. The left-armer adjusted the position of his fingers across the ball’s seam and took-off from the top of his mark.