“With Stoddart’s Team in Australia” by Prince Ranjitsinhji
Prince Ranjitsinhji’s account of England’s tour in 1896/97 comes from an age very different from our own. Those were the days of Gentlemen and Players (so-called “amateurs” who received generous “expenses” and “professionals” whose fees, albeit supplemented by expenses) were a pittance by today’s standards), but all Ranji’s colleagues whatever their status are “thoroughly decent chaps” and there is not a nickname between them – would he have been Ranji-y, Ranjers or Ranjo if he played today? Only thirteen players, handpicked by the captain Stoddart (as Giles inevitably is by Vaughan), went on the tour and only twelve of them played in the five Test matches. No fast bowler breakdowns in those days, when shins had no splints and hams no strings and muscles were things you strained every sinew of but never pulled, though Tom Richardson, that great Somerset bowler, who also turned out once or twice for Surrey, was clearly pretty knackered by the end of it all. England won the first Test and then lost the remaining four. Ranji and MacLaren were England’s best batsmen; outstanding for Australia were Darling and Hill. Our most successful bowers were Hearne and Richardson, matched against Jones, Noble and Trumble. But the details of the matches are perhaps of less interest than what Ranji’s partly ghosted record has to tell us about the behaviour and attitudes of the times.
The absurd and socially divisive practice of classifying cricketers as amateurs or professionals persisted in England until the Sixties and was perpetuated in such ridiculous practices as putting the amateurs' initials (usually lots of them) before their surname and those of the professionals after. I remember a friend telling me that once at Lord's he heard an announcement correcting the scorecard: "For F J Titmus, please read Titmus F J". Ranji, while unfailingly loyal to his professional colleagues, is somewhat defensive about the practice of what came later to be called “shamateurism”, claiming that “A good deal of wild talk and speculation is always being made as regards the financial arrangement of the team, and, as usual, those who know the least about the matter give out the most extraordinary opinions and conjectures” (so unlike the home life of our own dear website…). He laments that “some of the amateur members were much abused by ignorant critics on account of vague rumours of their acceptance of a certain payment for loss of time…” and adds somewhat disingenuously “The idea was to make people believe that the status thus assumed was merely in name, and not in reality …” Which is certainly what I have always believed about many of the amateurs who played in my youth and before (always excepting those splendid schoolmasters, Watts and Walford, playing for pleasure during their sunny summer holidays). And I am sure Big Jim will have something to say about Wilfred Wooller’s spurious tenure at Glamorgan.
Writers were, clearly, paid, by the comma, and the length of their sentences, in those, more pedantic, days, makes for a somewhat laboured style, while some of the language is distinctly jarring in our ever so politically correct age: “The extraordinary interest taken in cricket by ladies is truly marvellous, and is particularly noticeable at big matches, and, unlike the majority of the fair sex in the Old Country (sic – is England actually ‘older’ than Ranji’s native India?) are particularly well posted up in their knowledge of the game; and there can be no denying that they come to see cricket played, and played well. It is not only my opinion, but the opinion of a good many others, that the average lady spectator in this country knows quite as much of the game as, if not more than, the ordinary man.” I think this must have been a tour that Bagpuss missed and Ranji was clearly unaware of sheffieldsabre’s encyclopaedic knowledge of Australian cricket.
Yet despite the differences there is some interesting resonance with cricket, as still played between England and Australia more than a hundred years later and common themes then and now include throwing, perceived different approaches to the game by Australia and England, to walk or not to walk, and crowd behaviour.
The South Australian Jones was ferociously fast and no-balled for throwing in the state’s first game against England. Ranji’s little sermon on the matter is worthy of a Private Eye editorial: “I wish it clearly to be understood, before making any further criticism, that I don’t in any way accuse Jones of throwing deliberately (that is to say, of throwing, knowing himself to be throwing when he was supposed to be bowling). At the same time, I cannot help thinking that his action is such that were I to practise or cultivate it, I should have no hesitation in believing myself to be throwing.” There is something familiar in his complaint about the neglect of the MCC to deal with the matter more assertively and – rather optimistically – he praises the Australian umpire for his “worthy example” of “eradicating throwing in any class of cricket.” He admits that he has personally accused his friend and Sussex colleague, C B Fry, of throwing and he argues that there “could be no harm in introducing [throwing] into cricket” (with which some contemporaries might well agree), save that it minimises skill and endangers batsmen.
Ranji hints at the greater competitiveness of the Australians, but is inclined to dismiss their preference for running quickly between the wickets, thus turning ones into twos, as reckless. He admits that most English batsmen are rather slow in taking advantage of quick runs though the Australian practice is often successful, but “A single run is never worth risking a wicket for.” One wonders how those “late” and dignified Victorians would have taken to the frenzy of modern one-day cricket. At a banquet the Governor of New South Wales, presumably a true Brit, alluded to the fact that Australian wickets were too favourable to the batsmen, “thus making cricket a more monotonous game than it was in the olden days”. (His Excellency’s future career as adviser to the groundsmen of Pakistan presumably never took off). Evidently the Australian bowlers adapted to their own conditions better than the English. Our Ned would approve of Ranji’s comment that the “English bowling … aimed at steadiness rather than head work and sting”. His opinion is that Australian bowlers “exercised greater head power, used more dodges, and studied the batsmen more than the English bowlers.” The English rely on keeping a good length and “wearing out the patience of the batsmen.” “The Australian bowler often sacrifices length both in trying too many tricks, and attempting to impart a big break on the ball” and Ranji, himself one of the most inventive of batsmen, generously admits that, although a happy blend between the two approaches is undoubtedly the best, he prefers “the Australian method from a purely scientific cricket point of view” and that “on Australian wickets the subtle methods of Australian bowlers are more profitable.”
Will it surprise anyone to read that the issue of whether to walk when one knows one is out was not invented in the late Twentieth Century? Anyone who knows anything of the great WG is well aware that cricket is not the wholly chivalrous and selfless game depicted by such as Henry Newbolt, within whose breathless close-side hush boys grew to manhood by the simple expedient of playing up and playing the game. Ranji was clearly delighted by the batting of Iredale for New South Wales and as disappointed as the batsman when he was lbw for 90 to a ball he clearly hit. Yet when Iredale had scored only about twenty he was adjudged not out when the wicket keeper appealed for a catch. Without any apparent irony Ranji comments that Iredale “admitted in the most generous manner afterwards that he had touched the ball.” So that’s all right then: admit that you touched the ball after you escape with impunity and all is forgiven. I’d enjoy listening to a discussion on that view of life between Gilchrist and Hayden.
Ranji and his captain are particularly critical of the “ungenerous and ill-mannered” behaviour of the crowds, particularly at Sydney where they booed their own captain. (And for those of you who did not know: even in those days Sydney Cricket Ground held 40,000 spectators, but fielding in the outer was rendered somewhat perilous by a cycle track that ringed the field.) It should be salutary for today’s cricket authorities in Australia to know that at Adelaide Ranji was himself the target of “merciless barracking” and subject to “uncomplimentary and insulting remarks”. He does not specifically say so, but it is clear that the abuse was of a racist nature, which he describes as “bad taste”. Again he demonstrates the naivety of his optimism by saying “I feel sure, however, that I shall not appeal in vain to the good sense of the Australian people, in asking them not to handicap players of either side by unnecessary jeering during the progress of a match, inasmuch as, to put it in the mildest form, ‘it is not fair play’ ”. And in case Ned is starting to feel smug, there was plenty of barracking at Melbourne as well, particularly when the England fielders appealed, which our Prince somewhat sulkily describes as “uncivil and unjust”, though he does not mind mentioning that the umpires were often wrong in their decisions and implying a certain home bias on their part.
Happily through all the vicissitudes lips have never been stiffer and we are reminded that the yeomen Sinhjis of Suffolk are mentioned in Doomsday Book on reading that “It has always been a characteristic of English players, and of Englishmen generally, to take their defeats in a most generous and sportsmanlike manner. It is admitted by all nationalities that one of the finest traits of the Anglo Saxon race is the spirit in which they acknowledge the superior qualities of their opponents.”
The style is ponderous, the attitude is often patronising or petulant, but the Prince’s observations are acute, particularly when directly related to the cricket and the players. Take for example his comments on the soon to be brilliant Victor Trumper (and 110 years later to be known as the Australian Hildreth), who was just nineteen years old and was not picked for the Tests. Playing for NSW against the tourists, he made no significant scores but Ranji clearly noted his special talent: “He created a very favourable impression on me from the way he was shaping at the wickets. He seemed to be all there, and the confidence with which he played the bowling, although it was for a very short time, makes me firmly believe that he will be a very great batsman in this country, and at no very distant date. Indeed, I have seen very few beginners play the ball so well, and show the same excellent style.” Some prescience, indeed; some (of the generation of Palairet and myself) still think he was Australia’s finest ever batsman, just as Ranjitsinhji was – perhaps – for England.
Loyal of Lhasa
31st January 2006
