The Cricketer & Playfair Cricket Monthly September 1972

 

Excavations in the cupboards of Scorecards Towers have unearthed a second magazine to provide an insight into the cricket of half a century ago: the Playfair Cricket Monthly. The April 1966 edition of this publication was the first cricket magazine that I owned; The Cricketer did not become a regular fixture until five years later.

The Playfair magazine complemented the annual of the same imprimatur. Both were edited by Gordon Ross. The annual remains a must-have for the serious cricket watcher in the UK to this day, but by September 1972 the magazine was in its final months. It was swallowed up by The Cricketer in 1973. Playfair concentrated almost exclusively on the international and first-class game, while its senior rival encompassed cricket at all levels.

The September editions of both focussed on the third and fourth tests of what was becoming one of the finest Ashes series since the Second World War. John Woodcock reported for The Cricketer, while Basil Easterbrook was there for Playfair.

Easterbrook’s name will ring a bell with those who have Wisdens of the 1970s on their shelves, as he has a feature in almost all of them, on subjects ranging from ducks (“the dreaded cypher”) to county cricket’s workhorses, the Mohammad family and Compton’s summer of ’47.[1] He was cricket correspondent for the Kemsley regional newspapers, so his byline rarely appeared in the national press, which was their loss; he writes lightly and perceptively.

Here is an extract from Derek Hodgson’s obituary of Basil Easterbrook in The Independent:

Like most of his generation, he was unenthusiastic about the advance of commercialism but he was once put in charge of the Press Box hospitality at Worcester by a new and happily naive sponsor. The hacks were duly impressed on the first lunchtime when a bottle of Chablis arrived at each seat. Easterbrook beamed.

The next day more wine arrived accompanied by a fly-past from the Red Arrows. Challenged to top this, on the last day, Easterbrook smiled and pointed out of the window to where, under the shadow of the cathedral, the groundsman's hut had gone up in flames.

He was a small, bright, perky man who could be waspish with fools and angered by injustice. He always had a new humorous story. We had not seen him in the box since 1983 but we still miss him. He spent his later days watching Torquay United, not always happily, but he was always keen to tell you of the latest developments with the Gulls.

England and Australia went to Trent Bridge for the third test at one-all. Ray Illingworth astonished the cognoscenti by putting Australia in. This seems nothing nowadays; at the Basin Reserve there would be widespread swooning if the skipper winning the toss did not insert, but this was the era of uncovered pitches, rest days, and unreliable weather forecasts. A captain giving the opposition first use of the pitch on Thursday morning was gambling on there being no rain from Saturday on.

Losing such a wager was to be the downfall of Mike Denness at Edgbaston three years later. Illingworth got away with it here, though the pitch gave little of the expected help to England’s seamers, though there were a succession of dropped catches on the first day. Things got worse in this regard. Woodcock says that England’s fielding in the second innings was “the worst anyone could remember from an England side”.

Keith Stackpole’s century headed Australia’s 315. England replied with only 189, and an unbeaten 170 from Ross Edwards left a target of 451. Brian Luckhurst led the rear guard with 96 over five-and-a-half hours. It was England’s top score in the series, which made it all galling for we Kent people that he was dropped after Headingley. England lost only three wickets on the last day, on a pitch Easterbrook calls “this gentle featherbed”. In these days of Bazball England would have had a go at scoring 340 in the day, but in those more timid times it was out of the question, particularly as a draw meant that Australia would have to win the next two tests to win the series.

It is easy to throw around emotive words like ‘disgrace’ and ‘scandal’ as labels for the pitch on which England won the fourth Test by nine wickets with two days and ninety minutes to spare, but rather more difficult to justify them.

So begins Easterbrook’s report in Playfair. Mention this game to an Australian fifty years on, and those words will be the least of the vocabulary that is offered in response. That the match saw the return of DL Underwood to the England XI fuels the conspiracy theory. He took ten for 82 in the match and, as Woodcock wrote, “Whichever side Underwood had been playing for would almost certainly have won”.

Bryon Butler’s In the Press in The Cricketer quoted two distinguished Aussies who started as their compatriots have gone on. Ray Lindwall in The Sun:

Call me an Aussie squealer if you like [OK, we will­-Ed] but I am angry and disappointed that we should lose the Ashes this way. These spinners’ pitches have cropped up too often in England for me to shake them off and say ‘Hard luck, isn’t it?’

Jack Fingleton in the Sunday Times interviewed the groundsman in the presence of Joe Lister, the Yorkshire secretary.

When I mentioned the abnormal spin, Mr Lister intervened to say “Well wait and we will see how the Englishmen handle this pitch.” I replied “But we have no Underwood or Illingworth.” Mr Lister said he didn’t like the inference[2]. I told him I would reply to him later. It was the pitch I was interested in.

Twelve of the other 21 wickets also fell to spinners. The two reporters have contrasting explanations for the spin-friendly nature of the pitch. Easterbrook blames a thunderstorm three days before the game that flooded the field and hampered pitch preparation. Woodcock says that the groundsman, alarmed by a hand injury inflicted by Willis on Boycott in a Gillette Cup game a couple of weeks before, took too much grass off the pitch.

On the afternoon before the Test it was obvious for all to see that the pitch was to be a burial ground for fast bowlers.

Stackpole’s 52 apart, none of the Australians contributed more than 26 in the first innings, though Easterbrook cites Inverarity and Mallett’s eighth-wicket partnership of 47 in defence of the pitch. I recall watching on TV (we got our first colour TV that year, from Radio Rentals) as Underwood tied them up in an afternoon session in which Australia lost six for 40 (though coverage was interrupted by racing from Goodwood; the deprivations we suffered in the seventies).

That England secured a lead of 117 was largely down to the 104 that Illingworth and Snow put on for the eighth wicket. I have written often enough that Illingworth is as good an example as Brearley of a captain picked for his leadership rather than his runs and wickets, but he was most likely to come up with a gritty fifty when the top order had not delivered. Snow had considerable ability with the bat, when he could be bothered. He finished his career opening the batting for Warwickshire in the Sunday League.

Paul Sheahan’s unbeaten 41 was the best Australia could manage in the second innings, and Luckhurst hit the winning run before the end of Grandstand. Five of the England team turned out for their counties in the Sunday League the following day.

Playfair featured the Captain’s Column. In past years a different captain had contributed each month, but in 1972 it was the sole preserve of Kent’s Mike Denness. How things have changed over half a century.

…two of my own county’s Test cricketers, Alan Knott and Brian Luckhurst, battled through a five-day Test against Australia and were faced with an eight-day break before the next Test.

…as a county captain I have found the greatest difficulty this year I keeping the players at their peak with long breaks between games.

…we have found in Kent that we have had no cricket on two Saturdays. I would have thought that Saturday is the one day we must play cricket.

Both titles reported on the first Benson and Hedges Cup final. John Arlott was there for The Cricketer. It was as unmemorable as a final could be, with Leicestershire taking 47 overs to overtake Yorkshire’s 136, though it was Leicestershire’s first trophy in any competition.

Arlott found one aspect of the day distasteful.

The mass singing which accompanied the prize-giving was a stern indication of the difficulties cricket speech-makers are likely to encounter in the future.

I generally found the B&H final to be more raucous than the 60-over equivalent, presumably because it was outside the football season.  

Here is more on Basil Easterbrook from The Questing Vole (aka Patrick Kidd).

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[1] In researching Easterbrook’s writing I have discovered that my 1971 Wisden is missing pp149-152. Is it too late to return it for a refund?

[2] It must have been the pressure of the moment that caused Mr Lister to confuse “inference” with “implication”.

 

1968

Sharp-eyed Twitter followers will have spotted that a few weeks ago @kentccc1967 became @kentccc1968. This was intended to be the prelude to a brief return to the day-by-day re-creation of cricket and the world fifty years ago, which proved popular among the discerning when applied to the 1967 season last year. The idea was to follow events from the first day of the final Ashes test through to the cancellation of MCC’s tour of South Africa.

It soon became clear that I don’t have the time to achieve even this modest goal. For one thing, work is very busy, for another my Khandallah correspondent and I were married a few weeks ago. She returned from a trip to Auckland recently with a copy of the 1932 Wisden for me, so I won’t do better. 

On the face of it, 1968 should have been a season worth remembering. It was an Ashes year, overseas players were able to play county cricket without enduring a qualification period and bonus points were introduced to encourage brighter cricket. For all this, it was not a summer that shouts out for commemoration.

The Ashes series was a damp and often dull, without quite emulating the torpor of the 1964 series (frighten your children with Tom Cartwright’s first innings figures at Old Trafford: 77–32–118–2).

During the final test against India recently, one of the television commentators revealed that of the previous 31 test matches in England only one had been drawn. Coming into the ’68 series, just over half of the 25 Ashes tests in England since the Second World War had been drawn. England won just four home Ashes tests in that period.

An unfancied Australian team won the first test, at Old Trafford, by 159 runs, England collapsing to Bob Cowper’s soothing trundle in the first innings. Then the rain set in.

After the Lord’s test against India, Mike Atherton wrote a piece in The Times about how ground technology has moved the game along. He imagined how that match would have progressed in an age without top-notch drainage and floodlights. India might well have saved that game, not just because much more time would have been lost, but because they would have had the opportunity to rescue their first innings from a bad start by batting in the friendlier conditions that England experienced.

Let’s reverse the counterfactual. What if the rain-ruined second and third tests of 1968 had had modern ground facilities available? It is probable that England would have won both.

In the second, at Lord’s, Australia needed 273 to avoid an innings defeat (having been bowled out for 78 in the first innings), but, with only two-and-a-half hours played on the last day, survived easily enough.

The first day’s play in the third test at Edgbaston was called off at 10 am. England again gained a considerable first innings lead. A declaration left Australia with 330 to win, an achievable target now, but one that the Ashes-defending Australians would never have attempted in those defensive days. The onset of rain an hour or so into the final day raised hopes that Derek Underwood could be a drying-pitch magician, but it didn’t stop all afternoon.

The match was notable for Colin Cowdrey becoming the first cricketer to play a hundred tests, which he marked with a hundred, all the more meritorious for the fact that he had Boycott as a runner for the latter part of the innings.

The rain mostly stayed away from the fourth test at Headingley, but still there was insufficient time for a positive result. The first three innings each reached just over 300, leaving England 326 at 66 an hour, a fact recorded in Wisden as if it were one of the tasks of Hercules. They gave up soon after tea with four wickets down, the possibility of defeat apparently more shaming than the chance of winning the Ashes was enticing.

In The Times, both John Woodcock and Jack Fingleton identified the superior Australian fielding as the defining difference. Fingleton contrasted the pristine flannels of the home side with those of the grass-stained Australians.

Those who see the selection of Adil Rashid for the test team after he had forsaken domestic red-ball cricket as an unprecedented derogation of county cricket should have a look at the England team at Headingley, in particular at the presence of ER Dexter at No 3. Why had Dexter been brought into the side? What sort of season had he had?

He hadn’t. A few knocks on Sundays for the Cavaliers apart, Dexter’s first innings of the year came against Kent at Hastings on the Saturday before the Leeds test, after he had been given the nod for selection. He took full advantage of the opportunity, knocking up a double century against Kent at Hastings, but what did David Green, Brian Bolus or Alan Jones—to name three players who were having good seasons—think of Dexter’s selection?

As well as Dexter, the selectors brought in another southerner, Keith Fletcher, for his debut. They couldn’t have anatagonised the Yorkshire crowd (who favoured their own Phil Sharpe) more had they gone round Headingley poking each personally with a sharp stick. Fletcher got a first-innings duck, dropped a couple of catches and had a rough reception at Leeds ever after. One senses Dexter making notes for his own spell as selectoral supremo a couple of decades later.

So to the Oval, and a truly memorable test match, the more so because of the rain. Late on the fourth evening Australia were left with 356 to win. Now, that would be thought tough but achievable, but the caution of the era meant that the possibility of an Australian win was barely considered. Fingleton thought Cowdrey too cautious in not declaring.

In the nine overs bowled that Monday evening, Australia lost two wickets. I remember watching on television as a gleeful Underwood left the field having just got Redpath lbw.

Tuesday morning’s television coverage started at noon, half an hour after play began. There was no reason for this other than the cussedness of the scheduler; the hour-long gap between Watch With Mother and the cricket was filled only with the test card. So I’d have heard about Ian Chappell’s leg-before dismissal to Underwood on Test Match Special (Arlott, McGilvray and Hudson commentating).

You can see the Chappell dismissal and that of Doug Walters on this black-and-white footage. That vicious bite and turn from Underwood refutes the notion that Underwood was dangerous only on drying pitches. And what a catch from Alan Knott. If I could choose the last thing that I would see on Earth it would be Knott taking a catch like that off Underwood.

By luncheon (as The Times still called it) Sheahan was also out and Australia were 86 for five. The main question for me was how many of the rest would fall to Underwood.

As they walked off at the interval the rain started to fall. By the time of the scheduled resumption the Oval was a collection of ponds, and a draw looked certain. There is a famous photograph of a forlorn Colin Cowdrey looking across the field like a failed Moses.

With modern drainage the water would drain straight through. It would be out of the question to give fifty or so strangers sharp objects with which to accelerate the drying. It is surprising that there is no recorded objection from the Australians, as it would not have happened if they had been on the verge of victory.

It worked. Play resumed at 4 45 with 75 minutes to go (it was all on the clock, no statutory number of overs to be bowled). For half an hour the pitch was sedated by the rain. Inverarity and Jarman had little difficulty dealing with Underwood or anybody else. Then came the first signs of drying, with the ball starting to kick a little. D’Oliveira induced Jarman to leave a ball that clipped off stump and was immediately replaced at the Pavilion End by Underwood, who made the cricket world aware of what we in Kent already knew: that on a drying pitch he was a sorcerer.

McKenzie and Mallett fell in the first over of the spell, caught by David Brown, insanely close at short leg. John Gleeson survived for a quarter of an hour before leaving a ball that took his off stump. Ten minutes remained when last-man Alan Connolly reached the middle. Throughout the carnage, John Inverarity had remained staunch and defiant. He contrived to face what might have been Underwood’s last over and it seemed that he was within a few defiant lunges forward from saving the game.

But to the third ball Inverarity raised his bat and almost turned his back to the bowler. Charlie Elliott’s finger went up so quickly that it was almost ahead of the appeal, but freeze the video in the right place and you will see that the impact came before the big movement of the leg; it was a good decision. Underwood finished with seven for 50.

It was the tensest finish to a test that I would see on television until Edgbaston 2005. Yet the end is not what the match is primarily remembered for. Much has been written about the Oval ’68 on its fiftieth anniversary, almost all of it about Basil D’Oliveira’s first-innings 158, his initial omission from the MCC team to tour South Africa, his later inclusion as a replacement for Tom Cartwright and the cancellation of the tour.

I have discussed previously the importance of these events of the development of my own political consciousness. Looking at the TV listings, I realise that another strand of my political development was taking place at the same time. BBC 1 had breakfast time coverage of the Democrat Convention in Chicago. I had no interest in American politics but was nine-years-old, so would have watched grass grow for the novelty of having the TV on at that time of the morning. Nor did I know that President Johnson and Mayor Daley had sown up the nomination for Vice President Humphrey. So the theatre of the state-by-state voting (“on behalf of the great state of [insert name here] I am proud….” etc) drew me in. For the first time I understood the thrill of the concept of having the numbers, something that passes the time for me half a century later, on days when there is no cricket to watch.

There is colour footage from the Oval test on YouTube, but according to the television listings in The Times, the fourth test, at Headingley was also in colour, making it the first test match to have live colour coverage, in Britain or anywhere else. Colour TV was restricted to BBC2 at that time, so only the post-tea session would have been seen in its full colour glory. For the rest of the day, the cricket had to share monochrome BBC1 with other sports, or be subject to the random whim of the schedulers.

BBC2 was where the Sunday International Cavaliers games were to be found, so, if The Times listings are accurate (and I am not convinced that they are), the first cricket match anywhere in the world to be covered live in colour was the International Cavaliers v Cambridge University Past & Present. Feel free to take this information and win bets with it.

The other day I caught myself flicking up the collar of my polo shirt as I have for years, so long that I had almost forgotten that the habit started in imitation of Garry Sobers.

Colour cameras had not yet found their way to Wales, so Sobers’ six sixes on 31 August at St Helen’s, Swansea are recorded in grainy black-and-white from over fine leg, Wilfred Wooller combining secretarial and commentary duties. At least they were there. Outside the principality, 1968 seems to have been the year when the BBC gave up covering Championship cricket outside the Roses games, though the ITV regions still took some interest.

As in 1967, Kent finished in the Championship and won one more game than chamopions Yorkshire, but didn’t get the hang of the new bonus points system as well as the northerners did. A good last week at Folkestone reduced the final margin to 14 points but that was closer than it had been for some weeks.

The year before, the Canterbury Week clash between the two had decided the title. This year’s repeat of the same fixture was washed away like so much of the 1968 season, though on the first day Tony Nicholson, who may have asked for the Canterbury pitch to be relaid in his back garden, so partial was he to it, took eight for 22, still the best statistical bowling performance that I have seen in its entirety. The second day was completely rained out, and the visit of the Duke and Duchess of Kent failed to console me. Play resumed only later on Friday, a draw inevitable.

I will recreate a season of the past at some point when I have more time; 1970 or 1978, both Championship years for Kent, would be obvious choices. In the meantime, the domestic season here in New Zealand begins later this week. If I can muster sufficient circulation in my fingers to scribble a few notes, watch this space.