The downside of heroism

Given cricket’s uniquely radical transformation over the final third of the 20th century, it is perhaps only to be expected, and certainly forgiveable, that worthwhile innovations have been hard to come by of late (don’t get me started on powerplays or any other pointless attempt to make life even easier for those spoiled-brat batters). Which is why the current umpiring revolution warrants a good deal more than three cheers.

If cricket were a normal sporting obsession, we Englishmen would be celebrating right now. June 4, after all, marked the 50th anniversary of Peter May and Colin Cowdrey’s fourth-wicket stand of 411 against West Indies at Edgbaston, still the highest stand for their country in Tests. For heaven’s sake, it almost inspired the second post-follow-on triumph in Test annals, pre-empting ’81 And All That by nearly a quarter of a century. Lordships have been awarded for less. Instead, the birthday passed with barely a whisper.

There were exceptions. While researching an article about the alliance, I thought I’d check out Cowdrey’s autobiography to elicit some first-hand reflections. Astonishingly, for all the extensive memory-riffing in May’s memoirs, the cupboard was as bare as that hearteningly cynical chapter in Len Shackleton’s autobiography about football club chairmen, which comprised a single wordless page. Do we assume that, reminiscing and writing a couple of decades after the fact, Cowdrey and his ghost, Ian Wooldridge, experienced a collective hard-drive crash? I rather doubt it. In which case, the only other option, from where I’m sitting, is embarrassment.

Let’s examine the evidence. Another legendary landmark established at Birmingham was Sonny Ramadhin’s 98 overs in that second innings, arguably the most untouchable Test figure this side of 99.94. Overburdened by the non-selection of little pal Alf Valentine and injuries to new-ballers Frank Worrell and Roy Gilchrist, “Ram”, who had maintained his decade-long mastery of Englishmen in the first innings with a smartly-spun (and, by his own admission, well-chucked) 7-49, was a broken man by the end. Come sun-up he was still “aching all over”. Small wonder he was never remotely the same force again.

He still went for well under two an over, but his opponents weren’t bothered about run-rates. They had a match to save. And they did their duty mostly by dint of thrusting pads ever further down the pitch and kicking the ball away, as recommended by selector Wilf Wooller. Cowdrey took the best part of eight hours to reach three figures. Trevor Bailey - who as next man in grew so worn out waiting he declined to do so by the time Cowdrey finally obliged – reckoned Ramadhin had at least 100 appeals turned down flat.

Fast forward and the legacy is twofold and doubly welcome. For one thing, had it not been for the torpor and ennui instigated May and Cowdrey, breeding as it did a veritable epidemic of pad play, it is tempting to wonder whether the clamour for the limited-overs revolution would have been so fervent. The Sixties, after all, proved rather longer on longuers than thrills.

For another, Law 36B, a pointed repudiation of pad-play, would eventually permit umpires to award leg-before verdicts if they did not detect any attempt to play the ball, curbing if not terminating such tactics. Now, finally, we are witnessing closure. Whenenever umpires, regularly if not uniformly borne out by Hawkeye, give a batsman out with his front foot well outside the crease, bat tucked shamelessly behind pad, I bet I’m not alone in letting rip with an inner yelp of delight. Those harbouring geometric objections, remember the philosophical justification, and from whence it sprang.