'OWZAT?'

We know that summer is nearly here, despite the weather telling us otherwise. It’s cricket, lovely cricket.

Of course, this is completely incomprehensible to Americans. The notion of a game that can last 5 days without a winner strikes them as totally bizarre.  However, it was precisely summed up when an old boy, asked by a Yank what kind of game this was,  replied ‘Game? It’s not a game. It’s a way of life!’

The serious point is that it embodies certain behavioural values. Sportsmanship; fair play; playing in preference to winning (we are very good at that bit); teamwork but individual effort, etc.

Much of cricket argot has entered our everyday speech. ‘ He bowled me a googly’ (fooled me); ‘play the game’ (stick to the rules and spirit); ‘it’s not cricket’ (unfair, deceitful); ‘he bowled me a fast ball’ (difficult question or riposte).

We also have ‘sledging’, making some rude comment just as the batsman is about to play, with the intention of putting him off. A few examples.

Aussie bowler to English batsman: ‘Hi, Beefy, how’s your missus and my kids?’; ‘Hi Warnie, the missus is fine but the kids are retarded!’, a fine example of repartee. Warnie never said another word throughout the game.

The batsman hit an easy catch but it went between the fielder’s legs. ‘Sorry, Fred’ said the fielder to the bowler ‘ I should have kept my legs closed’. ‘Aye’ said Fred ‘And so should’ve thy mother!’.

And possibly the all-time classic; bowler to batsman, a man of full habit: ‘Why are you so fat?’ Batsman: ‘Because every time I shag you wife she gives me a biscuit!.

A nice one from the earlier days. The Duke of Norfolk has his own cricket ground and played regularly. The bowler appealed that the Duke was caught behind the wicket. The umpire was the butler, Meadows. His decision was a credit to his craft; ‘His Grace is not quite out’ he decided.

The commentators add to the wit - ‘Playing like that he was lucky to get nought’; ‘My granny could’ve caught that in her pinny’; ‘ My granny could’ve hit that with a toothbrush’, and about a player, notoriously obese,  who missed a catch ‘He’d have caught it if it was a cheese roll’.

Probably the most famous incident was when the commentators, Brian Johnson (the daddy of them all) and Jonathan Agnew corpsed. The batsman, Botham, tried to play back and came dangerously close to stepping on his wicket. He unsuccessfully tried to lift his leg over the wicket. Johnners commented ‘Oh dear, Botham can’t get his leg over!’ Aggers started to giggle. Johnners pleaded ‘Oh, do please stop it, Aggers!’ and then had a fit himself. Then it seemed that the whole nation started to giggle. Drivers on motorways listening to the commentary had to pull over on to the hard shoulder in semi-hysterics.

A couple of days later the BBC got a solicitor’s letter which said ‘Our client was at the top of a step ladder during Test Match special, painting the dining room ceiling. The effect of your commentary was that he fell off the ladder on top of his wife. The paint pot fell on the carpet which was ruined. The ladder broke the gold-fish tank, scattering gold-fish over the carpet.

Unless our client receives by way of damages a recording of the commentary within 7 days we are instructed to commence proceedings’.  The BBC duly obliged. You can still hear it on You Tube.

And the bloopers.

‘Welcome to Worcester where you have just missed Richards hitting one of D’Oliveira’s balls clean out of the ground’

‘There’s Harvey standing at leg slip with his legs apart waiting for a tickle’.

‘Welcome to the Oval where the bowler’s Holding, the batsman’s Willey’.

‘Fine ball, that. It’s remarkable how he can whip it out just before tea’.

Then we have the Barmy Army who follow the English team around the world, to the gratification of bar-owners wherever they go. A portly player is likely to get a chant of ‘Who ate all the pies, who ate all the pies, ee-aye-addio, who ate all the pies?’

I was at an England v Australia game a few years ago. The Aussies had a bowler who looked like a gypsy, with long, dank black curly hair and a swarthy complexion. Every time he came on to bowl he was greeted with a chorus of the old song ‘Where’s your caravan?’

There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night --
Ten to make and the match to win --
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote --
'Play up! play up! and play the game!'