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.

Arlott, Swanton and the Soul of English Cricket

In the same package as this year’s Wisden, there arrived Arlott, Swanton and the Soul of English Cricket, co-authored by Stephen Fay and David Kynaston. The book is part biography, and part history of post-war English cricket. 
 

John Arlott and EW (Jim) Swanton were the two most influential cricket writers and broadcasters from the forties to the seventies.  Arlott didn’t miss a home test for the BBC from the 1946 series against India (for which he was borrowed from his role as poetry producer on the grounds that he would pronounce the names of the tourists without causing offence in the lead-up to independence) until the Centenary Test of 1980. From 1968 he was also cricket correspondent of The Guardian.

Swanton occupied the correspondent’s seat at the Daily Telegraph for thirty years, like Arlott combining writing with broadcasting. By the time I came across him in the sixties he was delivering close-of-play summaries with a gravitas that made news reports of death in Vietnam and Biafra appear frivolous by comparison.

Fay was the last editor of Wisden Cricket Monthly in its previous incarnation, but has a cv as a journalist of which cricket is only a small part. David Kynaston is a historian best known for his work on post-war Britain, but has written about cricket too, including Archie’s Last Stand, an account of MCC’s 1922/3 tour of New Zealand. Also on the shelves of the library at Scorecards Towers are two volumes of Kynaston’s excellent Tales of a New Jerusalem series in which he uses a vast range of sources to recreate life in post-war Britain. 

A similar approach is taken in this book. The writing and (where recordings exist) broadcasting of Arlott and Swanton are used to tell both their own stories and that of English cricket in their time.

It would have been interesting to know how Fay and Kynaston divided their labour, but they choose not to tell us. Certainly, they have achieved a continuity of style that makes it impossible to tell who wrote what. They refer to themselves as the older (Fay) and younger (Kynaston) authors, in the manner of the Mr Graces in Are You Being Served?

I didn’t learn much new about Arlott, which is more a measure of how much I have read about him than any omission on the part of the authors. For readers coming to him fresh, there is plenty to amuse, and to help them understand why Arlott in such affection by those of us who heard and read him (but particularly heard) at the time. For example, his irritation at hearing a repeat of his first broadcast. “They’ve got this country chap reading it”, he told his wife. “That’s you, fool”, she replied.

I have not yet read David Rayvern Allen’s biography of Swanton, so learn more from the material that Fay and Kynaston take from it, particularly his horrific experiences as a prisoner of war of the Japanese, where he was the subject of “animosity and ridicule” from his fellow prisoners. 

The idea that a social history of the post-war game could be written balancing the different perspectives of Arlott and Swanton is appealing. Arlott, the self-educated radical contrasted with Swanton the establishment man, though Swanton was more petit bourgeois than the impression he gave the world. These authors give his birthplace as Forest Hill, though another source says this was Swanton’s preferred description of Catford[1]. His public school, Cranleigh, was distinctly minor, founded as recently as 1865 “to provide a sound and plain education, on the principles of the Church of England, and on the public school system, for the sons of farmers and others engaged in commercial pursuits”. There was no university education for the man who became so fond of reporting the varsity match. 

But as this book points out, the differences between the two were less straightforward than the stereotypes. As many of us can attest, being to the left politically does not preclude conservatism in cricketing tastes, or vice versa. Few of those behind the Hundred will be voting for Mr Corbyn, any more than Kerry Packer would have. 

Both Arlott and Swanton were traditionalists. From 1964:

Knock-out cricket can never be real cricket. It is a contradiction of that game when the fielding side do better to confine their opponents to 100 for no wicket than to bowl them out for 101.

That’s Arlott. Swanton’s view was pretty much the same. 

More surprisingly, they were much closer than might be expected on the issue of South Africa. Arlott announced in 1970 that if the tour by South Africa went ahead he would not commentate on it. I didn’t know that Swanton had not covered MCC’s tour of the Republic in 1964/5 because of his “distaste for apartheid”. However, in 1968 he worked behind the scenes to save MCC’s tour of the Republic after the late selection of Basil D’Oliveira led to its cancellation.

I tried to fulfil, but with scant success, some sort of catalyst function between the Establishment and its critics.

By this stage of his career, this was probably not self-aggrandisement, though earlier on Swanton was prone to over-estimating his importance. He went to his grave believing that Bodyline would not have been as ugly had the Evening Standard sent him to cover it.

Earlier in 1968 Swanton had written to his own newspaper a condemnation of Enoch Powell’s Rivers of Blood speech:

If ‘Enochism’ were ever to win through there would surely be a migration from this once-great nation of white as well as black.

This would have provoked breakfast-table harrumphing across the shires. Swanton was to enrage them further two years later by calling for the cancellation of the tour by South Africa in the sports pages while the opposite line was being taken in the leaders. He took this position more because it would be unseemly to play cricket behind barbed wire rather than any moral objection, having got nowhere with the politically naïve suggestion that South Africa send a multiracial team. 

That he was able to be so contrary to the Telegraph line says something about his status, though his editor’s opinion of his worth was unlikely to outstrip that of Swanton of himself. I recall a TV interview he gave to Tony Lewis during a rain break in an early season one-day game at Canterbury in the late eighties. The issue was coloured clothing. He pronounced that he was willing for there to be a trial of coloured piping on white clothing, but did so with a tone that the Pope might adopt if announcing a Vatican-branded range of contraceptives. Lewis and the other interviewee (possibly Chris Cowdrey) suppressed giggles.

Fay and Kynaston understandably do not touch much on Swanton’s role on the Kent committee in retirement. In Clive Ellis and Mark Pennell’s Trophies and Tribulations: Forty Years of Kent Cricket Swanton is the chief villain of the story of Kent’s eighties decline. They relate that in 1996, when Matt Walker was approaching Frank Woolley’s Kent record 270 at St Lawrence, Swanton entered the dressing room, demanding a declaration so that his hero’s record would stay intact.

Arlott spent his retirement in Alderney, away from the game but making the occasional television or radio appearance. The last of these that I recall was a TV programme on an Aboriginal touring team visiting Alderney sometime in the late eighties. They met Arlott. By that time the famous voice had become a high-pitched parody of its former self, but the wit was still there. “My word”, he said “in those baggy green caps I might have mistaken you for the real Australian team if only you hadn’t been so damn polite”.

Fay omits a story from his own obituary of Christopher Martin-Jenkins in The Independent. There he says that when assistant editor of The Cricketer, CMJ’s football reports for the Daily Telegraph had to be written under the byline Christopher Martin in order to avoid Swanton’s decree that no staff member of the magazine should ever write about football (or association football as Swanton would have called it—football was played with an oval ball, as he spent many winters reporting). A good story, but if true it would have been a disappointment to Swanton that both Tony Pawson and Bryon Butler were regular contributors to The Cricketer at that time while being among the country’s leading football journalists. 

It is a well-known part of Arlott’s story that he reported football in print (only a last-minute swap meant that he was not on the plane that crashed in Munich carrying the Manchester United team in 1958) and gave full-time reports for Sports Report. I discovered only recently from BBC Genome that Arlott had also commentated on football, initially in the late forties then again in the early sixties, in the latter period usually in partnership with his friend Maurice Edelston, presumably from south coast grounds. How wonderful it would be if examples of those commentaries were to be discovered an attic somewhere. How did the measured delivery, the wit and the pauses adapt to the faster pace and looser structure of the soccer field?

Here and there, there is a little avoidable factual imprecision. The authors say that it was “probably by the early 1970s that he [Arlott] was starting to scale down the frequency of his twenty-minute spots on TMS”. This occurred from 1973, when he went from six commentary stints to three so that he could focus on his Guardian report (and, no doubt, work his way through a couple of bottles of red) for the rest of the day. BBC Genome verifies this, listing three ball-by-ball commentators (Arlott, Johnston and McGilvray) throughout the 1972 Ashes, but always four from the following season. 

They say that Brian Johnston “joined the radio commentary team in the early 1970s”. Johnston moved to radio full-time in 1970, but had alternated between radio and TV for tests since 1966 (see BBC Genome or CMJ’s Ball By Ball). As cricket correspondent he had been commentating on county games for the radio on Saturdays when there was no cricket on TV since the fifties. Johnston himself related the switch as being more sudden than it actually was. 

In researching this piece I came across extracts from Arlott’s last day of commentary, on the Gillette Cup final of 1980, providing plenty of evidence that he left while still better than everybody else. 

Both authors declare themselves Arlott men, but that writing the book has increased their admiration for Swanton. I am certainly an Arlott man, and though I can’t say that reading this book has provoked any admiration for Swanton, I will blow the dust of a couple of his books that I have.

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[1] Hugh Massingberd, reviewing the Rayvern Allen biography in 2004 for the Daily Telegraph. A defender of Swanton, he nevertheless says “he could be overbearing, pig-headed and a bit of a bully. He was a shameless looker-over-the-shoulder and a fantastic snob”.