Cricket

Ahead of the Times revealing its post-war XIs, Norm has made his own selection. As you’d expect, they’re pretty strong teams. It’s a little depressing to realise that selecting a Greatest Post-1945 Australian side is much, much more difficult than doing the same for England. In fact I don’t think I can disagree with any part of Norm’s England XI: 1. Len Hutton, 2. Geoffrey Boycott, 3. Ken Barrington, 4. Denis Compton, 5. Peter May, 6. Ian Botham, 7. Alan Knott, 8. Jim Laker, 9. Fred Trueman, 10. Derek Underwood, 11. Brian Statham. You could, mind you, make a case for Frank Tyson. Alec Bedser is also unfortunate to miss-out.

Yorkshire cricket is the epitome of hard, correct cricket. Lancashire cricket is always bowling into the wind, beating the edge and wondering if luck will ever shine on the Red Rose. Kent cricket, I somehow feel, should always be played in a manner that has the ghosts of Woolley and Cowdrey murmuring their approval. These, of course, are generalisations. So if Trent Bridge remains the loveliest of Test grounds (“A lotus land for batsman”, as Cardus wrote, “where it is always afternoon and 360 for 2”), I’ve nonetheless always thought of Nottinghamshire as a kind of junior Yorkshire. From Arthur Carr and Larwood and Voce to Clive Rice and Richard

The News of the World’s revelations about connivance between cricketers and bookmakers is dismaying; the story can’t alas, be considered wholly surprising. If proved – and on the face of it there’s every reason to suppose that the allegations are accurate – then it’s difficult to see how Salman Butt and the other players implicated can escape heavy punishment (and perhaps in the skipper’s case a lifetime ban). The consolation, in as much as there is one, is that the evidence points to spot-fixing rather than match-fixing. Saying that the former is not as serious as the latter does not mean it’s unserious. It just means that matters could be

Broad and Trott skip on against Pakistan. Amir looks on in some pain. Photo: Clive Rose/Getty Images. One ball. One wicket. That’s how far away Pakistan were from establishing a match-winning and series-squaring position at Lords. Now only god or, more probably, rain can save them. When Stuart Broad joined Jonathan Trott at the crease on Friday England were reeling at 102-7. If any one of the next, oh, 180 deliveries had dismissed either batsman England might have been dismissed for no more than 200 runs and Pakistan would have enjoyed every chance of forcing another improbable victory and, in so doing, levelling the series. Such are the margins between

  Was it Warren Buffett who said investors should be wary of any company that decides it needs to spend huge amounts of cash on swish new corporate headquarters? If it wasn’t the Sage of Omaha then it was someone like him arguing that this is often a warning sign of a company behaving recklessly and with little regard to its shareholders’ interests. (Hello RBS!) Anyway, I thought of that when I saw, again, this sign at County Galway Cricket Club. Though there is record of cricket being played in Galway as far back as the 1830s (the original garrison game!) the present club dates from the 1970s. Recently they

All will be quiet here this week. I’m heading offline and, more importantly, to Ireland for a week of cricket. Six games in six days across three provinces is a punishing, even optimistic schedule. Then again, it can’t go any worse than it did on Saturday when my two overs were walloped for 29 runs. Anyway, see y’all next Tuesday.

I suppose that relatively few people in England knew Alan Ruddock, who died from a heart attack on Sunday aged just 49, but in Scottish and Irish journalistic circles he was a considerable figure. As Kevin Myers reminds us, he defied the IRA as editor of the Sunday Times’s Irish edition. Later, as Stewart Kirkpatrick remembers, he was a very fine editor of the Scotsman, presiding over the paper and its coverage of the first elections to the new Scottish parliament in 1999. Later still, and foolishly, the Irish Times declined to give Alan the chance to edit the old lady of d’Olier St. Their loss. Instead he wrote a

A new cricket season is upon us and something to take our minds off this election caper. Happily this also means it’s time for another lovely piece from Frank Keating, still the doyen of British sportswriters. This time he’s strolling down Shaftesbury Avenue, compiling an XI of playwrights who have played and loved the noblest game. It is everything you would imagine and hope it to be. Beckett* and Pinter and Stoppard feature prominently of course; so too Simon Gray. There’s this too, from Peter Gibbs, once of Derbyshire and subsequently of the stage: In that long ago piece Gibbs had been, in real life, even more metaphysical than Stoppard

Until today I had not known that Adolf Hitler played cricket. Once. Apparently. This is, actually, reassuring since it seems that cricket found him out and, as it is wont to do, smoked out the essential elements of Hitler’s character. Ben Macintyre has the story: Adolf Hitler played cricket. He raised his own cricket team to play some British prisoners of war during the First World War, then declared the sport “unmanly” and tried to rewrite the laws of the game. The Führer’s First XI sounds like a Spike Milligan joke, but this small nugget of history is true. In all the millions of words written about Hitler, his telling

I have many more enthusiasms than convictions (in any sense of the word) but I am certain about some things and enthusiastically so. Cricket and tobacco, for instance. They’re as natural a fit as ham and eggs. If the government really wants to clamp down upon smoking they should probably consider banning cricket – for in no other sport does Lady Nicotine provide such a useful, nay vital, service. There are the cigarettes you smoke when you’re waiting to bat and the wicket looks a little lively and the other mobs’ fast bowler has a vindictive look about him and you’re just hoping that he’ll have exhausted his allotted overs

Sunday evening: a roaring log fire, a calming glass of claret and listening to HMS Pinafore. For once, cruel world is vanquished. For a time anyway. And, of course, Pinafore helps illuminate our Britain too. Here, for instance, is how Bob Ainsworth became Secretary of State for Defence: And here is what the Barmy Army, if they had any wit about them at all, would sing* every time Kevin Pietersen** comes to the crease: *If sing they must. **Or Strauss, Trott and Prior too.

An occasional series in which the great theorist’s ideas are considered in terms of how they may be applied to cricket. Today: defence. Granted, Clausewitz takes the view that the defensive side in war generally finds itself in a stronger position than is customarily the case on the cricket field. Nonetheless, his observations on Types of Resistance are germane: Defence is thus composed of two distinct parts, waiting and acting. By linking the former to a definite object that precedes action, we have been able to merge the two into one whole. But a defensive action – especially a large-scale one such as a campaign or war – will not

Strauss: caught Amla, bowled Steyn 0 Photo:Duif du Toit/Gallo Images/Getty Images. Andrew Strauss might wish that he’d lost the toss at the Wanderers this morning since, as it turned out and despite a stripey pitch, South Africa would also have batted first. Strauss may have been dismissed by the first ball of the test but he’s in pretty good company: the first man to succumb to the opening ball of a test match was Archie MacLaren, done in by Arthur Coningham at Melbourne in 1894. Despite being skittled for just 75, England won the match by 94 runs… Strauss’s dismissal today was the 28th time that a batsman has succumbed

Graeme Swann and Ian Bell combine to dismiss Ashwell Prince for 16 runs: Swann would finish with nine wickets in the match. Photo: Paul Gilham/Getty Images. With his long-sleeved shirt and buttoned-collar there’s something appeallingly old-fashioned about Graeme Swann. True, the sunglasses he often favours add a modern touch but, at bottom, Swann’s the kind of chirpy Englishman familiar from so many classic Second World War movies. You can easily imagine him serving under Noel Coward aboard the Torrin in David Lean’s In Which We Serve. He is, without doubt, England’s cricketer of the year and I expect Wisden will ratify this come the spring when it the venerable almanack

On the one hand you have Jacques Kallis, on the other Chris Gayle. Together they remind one that there are many ways to play the game. And, also, that individual brilliance may manifest itself in ways that do not always help the team as much as quieter, more sustained application might. That may seem a churlish observation since one has just watched Chris Gayle score 102 off a mere 70 deliveries. And in some ways it is churlish, not least because Gayle’s innings was one of the most thrilling one has seen in years. In terms of deliveries faced it was the fifth fastest century ever; if he could ever

Having endured a miserable time of it last time he was in England, there was a typically Kallisian probability that the bugger would grind his way to a century today. And so he did. It had everything you’d expect from a Kallis innings – which is both a compliment and thin praise indeed. Naturally the commentators were united in praising the South African as a true modern great, “up there with the best of them”. But is this true? No-one ever said of Kallis, as Cardus did of Woolley, that his batting is the stuff of “soft airs and fresh flavours” nor does it even contain “the brevity of summer”