One early memory is of sneaking into the senior housemaster's dining
room at Wanganui Collegiate and, on a frosty Monday, listening to a
static radio broadcast of day two of the second Test between England
and New Zealand. It was winter 1949 and the gentle Jessie Mills
treated us to cocoa and buttered toast at five in the morning as we
gathered around the gas heater and Jock Mills, the senior housemaster
prattled engagingly about one of our new boyhood heroes, Martin
Donnelly.
There were other, more imposing, heroes those days: Len Hutton,
Headley Verity, Maurice Leyland, Herbert Sutcliffe, Clarrie Grimmett,
Tom Burtt; even, after a fashion, Frank Mooney, John Reid and Noel
McGregor. Mostly though it was Hutton. Yet Donnelly somehow came alive
for us young Kiwis that chilly 1949 dawn as we tried to hear, through
the static, what Rex Alston and John Arlott had to say over the
ancient Atwater-Kent radio.
Donnelly: a hero of sorts whose left-handed talents once inspired
Errol Holmes, of the MCC team of 1935/36 in New Zealand, to write a
letter and suggesting here was a schoolboy whose special skills
deserved more recognition after reaching the 40s and threw it away
when, in excited anticipation, he stepped out to smash the spinner and
was stumped.
How do you conjure a hero of someone who you have seen only in
newspaper pictures or flickering newsreel camera shots? Hutton had
been a hero through the same medium, as well as from stories found in
a book of pre-World War II exploits; the same for Grimmett, Herbert
Sutcliffe (not our own Bert), Verity and Leyland. Quite easy if you
are a 10-year-old with a taste for Yorkshire lore and legend and
tradition, or imagine all New Zealanders should be able to bowl like
the great Clarence Victor.
Later Hutton became a reality: an innings of calm artistic Yorkshire
precision at the Basin Reserve, and the odd guest appearance in the
late 1950s when the spirit of adventure had transplanted a budding
journalist in England.
Donnelly, however, was one of those shadowy figures who came more
alive through the voices of Alston and Arlott and their ball by ball
descriptions rather than fusty newspaper reports and the agency style
of clipped, precise and dull standards with their perception that
statistics were more important that a classic cover-drive or flowing
straight drive past a bowler.
A 10-year-old with a deep passion for the game, a touch of the
romantic and an articulate eye for batting or bowling style and a love
of leg-spin bowling argued in his mind he could have penned tastier
embellishments than the cold words written by the `special NZPA tour
correspondent' appearing in the local daily. What did they know of
Donnelly whose artistry had been unfolding before them on a warm,
sunny late June afternoon at Lord's. The 10-year-old did, in fact,
write an essay which, when rediscovered years later made the author
cringe with embarrassment: tortuous and clumsy phraseology than those
of the agency men doing a better job.
Yet, for five months the exploits of the forty-niners under Walter
Hadlee's leadership, captured the mind and burrowed their way into the
subconscious; images of greatness and calm, stoic Kiwi charm which
graced the county grounds of England with his left-handed perfection
in those early years after World War II.
Then came the rare opportunity at the Basin Reserve in the mid-1950s:
Donnelly played in a charity match to benefit the 1949 team manager
Jack Phillipps. The footwork was still measured, the handwork
confident and certain and for Phillipps the perfection of someone with
a taste for the moment with a cameo far sunnier than the chilly two
November days. It was as though Donnelly had not five years before had
stepped into the shadows of a business career and rarely touched a
bat.
Cardus once wrote, in the London Sunday Times of a Test innings at Old
Trafford in 1949 of how he `plays late, like all batsmen of class, and
without rhetoric or show of violence or waste of muscular motion. He
is a courteous batsman, a pedigree batsman'.
Years later, during a rained-off Test afternoon in 1960 in a cramped
tea lounge at Old Trafford, Cardus was asked by the youthful
journalist had he really meant it when he once suggested Donnelly was
the finest left-handed foreign batsman to play in England since World
War II.
``I did say that, didn't I,'' he said with a careful smile, eyes
glinting behind his glasses. ``There were Arthur Morris and Neil
Harvey; not forgetting your other fine left-hander, Bert Sutcliffe.
All good; all quality. Donnelly and Morris were different. From the
moment they walked out to bat: you could feel it, they had a touch of
style, of class. What England would have done had he been one of us
and available for selection in 1948 . . ?''
It was a statement more than a query, a touch of hope that the young
man, who at 19 toured England with the New Zealand side of 1937, had
suddenly become an Englishman. Then, there had been a touch of the
snob about Cardus.
In 1937 he scored 1414 runs at 37.20 and classified as a Jacobite by
The Times as he usually was at his most munificent when fighting for
lost causes; a fair description as his innings had the habit of
lingering in the mind of many long after others of equal greatness had
faded into print on yellowing pages.
His life in those elysian times was not all about applying his batting
skills to a particular battle. In World War II he rose to the rank of
a squadron commander and was in the charge into the port of Trieste
before heading for England to join the New Zealand Services side in
1945. It was at Lord's in those first weeks where he learnt to adjust
to pitch conditions with some careful advice from a teammate, Ted
Badcock.
``Sit still, you're moving around; be patient and give yourself time
to see the ball,'' came Badcock's comment; sage advice on why applying
the basics are always so important. The smart bowler would pick up the
fidgeting at once, spot it as nervousness and probe it for weakness.
Then again, Donnelly had neither a net nor handled a bat in three
years since playing for Wellington. As with all batsmen after a long
break, there was a touch of impatience; a wondering of why he was not
striking the ball with calmness and precision; getting the elbow up
and the bottom hand guiding the blade through.
He joined the Dominions XI for a game at Lord's against England. The
sun shone throughout; the war in Europe had been won and the public,
after years of deprivation, thirsted for a game or more and Lord's was
packed with thousands unable to gain admission. Wally Hammond
classified the 133 as the finest innings of that summer; Donnelly
classed it among his top five. And a six hit the pavilion roof and
clattered into the guttering.
There is a story about this game which was apocryphal of the time and
related by Donnelly's mother-in-law. A spectator had gone into a
nearby pub, ordered a double scotch, said ``I have just seen the most
marvellous day's play'' drank his whisky and dropped dead.
In the October of 1945 he went up to Winchester College at Oxford and
the following summer gave a new meaning to university batting
standards with six centuries, one was an undefeated 116 against the
Indians for the University while another was for Oxford in the
University game at Lord's; all as a freshman.
For New Zealand in 1949 he batted at five, for other teams he normally
went in at four with a reputation for style and grace, which included
an impressionable 162 for Gentlemen against Players' at Lord's in
1947.
Born in Ngaruawahia, on October 17, 1917, into a farming family, his
twin brother, Maurice, died during the influenza epidemic which killed
off many children in 1918, and spent much of his life abroad: England,
Australia, Europe during the theatre of battle in WW II. At a young
age the family moved to the Taranaki dairy farming community from
where his spirit of adventure began from an early age and continued
through a career which turned him into one of New Zealand's finest.
Bert Sutcliffe was probably more organised and orthodox and it showed.
Donnelly though carried skill with his class and that was the
difference between the two great left-handers.