More Than A Game: The Story of Cricket's Early Years. John Major

      In Terence Rattigan’s screenplay for the film The Final Test (1953), an ageing cricketer, Sam Palmer, is dismissed for nought in his last innings. Unimpressed by his father’s fame, Palmer’s son Reggie, an aspiring poet, hero-worships Alexander Whitehead, a literary icon. But unbeknown to Reggie, his idol is a long-time admirer of Palmer. When Whitehead learns the identity of Reggie’s father, he accepts an invitation to dinner to meet him. Both Palmer and Whitehead are tongue-tied by the eminence of the other, until the conversation turns to cricket. The poet tells the cricketer – to his astonishment – that he envies him his profession. ‘I,’ says Whitehead, ‘am a creative artist. I will be judged on my work because I leave a record. You – on the other hand – will see your legend grow. You are like Paganini, Nijinsky and Garrick: one day you’ll sit on Mount Olympus between Don Bradman and W.G. Grace.’

      In this, Rattigan touches on a central truth. Reputations grow in the memory. This is especially true of cricket. Lovers of the game tend to view its past romantically, however crusty they may otherwise be. Just as the fictional Sam Palmer would ‘see his legend grow’, so have the reputations of the early cricketers and their sponsors. Nonetheless, we can say with absolute certainty that the years of the later patrons, Mann, Tankerville and Dorset, were formative ones for cricket. By 1750 the game had taken root; forty years on, technique and style had evolved, famous grounds had been laid out, detailed scores were kept, the rules had been codified and a governing body was in place. Further changes lay ahead, but in its essentials modern cricket had been born, and clubs were spreading far beyond its narrow birthplace of the Weald. Two of them were to have a lasting impact.

      Hambledon, about fifteen miles north of Portsmouth, is an ancient Hampshire village whose cricket expertise ensured that its history is now more legend than fact. Many believe that the game was first played at the village’s Broadhalfpenny Down, despite the reality that its genesis is at least two hundred years earlier. Yet Hambledon has become myth, and – as ever – myth has become reality. The myth sprang, unintended, from the pen of one man. John Nyren was born at Hambledon in 1764, the son of Richard Nyren, captain of the Hambledon team, guardian of their cricket ground and, until about 1771, proprietor of the Bat and Ball inn on Broadhalfpenny Down. From the age of twelve young John watched the Hambledon team, at the time when they were in their heyday and he was at his most impressionable. His love and admiration for Hambledon cricket was never to leave him, and over fifty years later, in 1833, he published The Young Cricketer’s Tutor,* which in its final chapters included his recollections of the great days of Hambledon.

      The book is a charming portrait of his heroes, infused with romanticism as Nyren recalls, no doubt with advantages, the deeds they did. It is a boyhood memory of men and their successes, in which virtues are recalled, fun is revisited and any failings, squabbles and miseries left unrecorded. It is a cricketing fairy story, a fusion of King Arthur and Robin Hood, and its simple recitation of good men and great events is a delight. The Young Cricketer’s Tutor is the source reference for mid-to-late-eighteenth-century cricket, for no other comparable record exists. It carried the Hambledon team – or, more accurately, teams, for their glory days exceeded thirty years – into legend. The ‘great’ games were big social events. A pavilion, ‘the Lodge’, was erected for members, and the boundary was circled with tents for the teams and for catering: with flags flying, it was a colourful sight. Hambledon cricket was not just a game, it was big business. The team was professional and well-paid, the bets were large, and the logistics of feeding and watering twenty thousand spectators were formidable.

      No doubt the team’s fame is merited, even if Nyren does gild the lily. It was a remarkable collection of individuals. Every season they met for practice on the first Tuesday of May and each Tuesday thereafter. As their fame grew, even their practice days attracted crowds of spectators.

      In the mid-1770s the two premier bowlers were Tom Brett and the left-handed Richard Nyren. Brett, a farmer, dark-haired and strong, was the fastest bowler of his day, and famed for his accuracy. Nyren, a Slindon man and nephew of the great cricketer Richard Newland, was the undisputed leader of the team in all matters: batsman, bowler and, despite his stout build, ‘uncommonly active’ in the field. Off the field he was a hard-headed businessman, mine host of the Bat and Ball, who advertised matches to attract crowds to the game and thereafter to his inn, where he sold ‘punch to make hair curl’ at twopence a pint. John Nyren remembers his father as ‘the head and right arm’ of Hambledon cricket, adding that he ‘never saw a finer specimen of the thoroughbred old English yeoman’. In those few affectionate words the character of Richard Nyren stands out: did any father ever receive a finer tribute from his son?

      The second-string bowlers were William Barber, who took over the Bat and Ball from Richard Nyren in 1771, and the unfortunately named William Hogsflesh – ‘staunch fellows’, Nyren tells us, ‘and thorough going’, which conjures up an image of honest yeoman cricketers with no intellectual pretensions.