ON THE BAT'S BACK
With the idea of brightening cricket, my friend Twyford has given me anew bat. I have always felt that, in my own case, it was the inadequacyof the weapon rather than of the man behind it which accounted for acertain monotony of low-scoring; with this new bat I hope to prove thecorrectness of my theory.
My old bat has always been a trier, but of late it has been manifestlypast its work. Again and again its drive over long-off's head has failedto carry the bunker at mid-off. More than once it has proved itself aninch too narrow to ensure that cut-past-third-man-to-the-boundary whichis considered one of the most graceful strokes in my repertoire. Worstof all, I have found it at moments of crisis (such as the beginning ofthe first over) utterly inadequate to deal with the ball which keepslow. When bowled by such a ball--and I may say that I am never bowled byany other--I look reproachfully at the bottom of my bat as I walk backto the pavilion. "Surely," I say to it, "you were much longer than thiswhen we started out?"
Perhaps it was not magnanimous always to put the blame on my partner forour accidents together. It would have been more chivalrous to haveshielded him. "No, no," I should have said to my companions as theyreceived me with sympathetic murmurs of "Bad luck,"--"no, no, youmustn't think that. It was my own fault. Don't reproach the bat." Itwould have been well to have spoken thus; and indeed, when I had hadtime to collect myself, I did so speak. But out on the field, in thefirst shame of defeat, I had to let the truth come out. That onereproachful glance at my bat I could not hide.
But there was one habit of my bat's--a weakness of old age, I admit, butnot the less annoying--about which it was my duty to let all the worldknow. One's grandfather may have a passion for the gum on the back ofpostage-stamps, and one hushes it up; but if he be deaf the visitor mustbe warned. My bat had a certain looseness in the shoulder, so that, atany quick movement of it, it clicked. If I struck the ball well andtruly in the direction of point this defect did not matter; but if theball went past me into the hands of the wicket-keeper, an unobservantbowler would frequently say, "How's that?" And an ill-informed umpirewould reply, "Out." It was my duty before the game began to take thevisiting umpire on one side and give him a practical demonstration ofthe click ...
But these are troubles of the past. I have my new bat now, and I can seethat cricket will become a different game for me. My practice of thismorning has convinced me of this. It was not one of your stupidpractices at the net, with two burly professionals bumping down balls atyour body and telling you to "Come out to them, Sir." It was a quietpractice in my rooms after breakfast, with no moving object to distractmy attention and spoil my stroke. The bat comes up well. It is light,and yet there is plenty of wood in it. Its drives along the carpet wereexcellent; its cuts and leg glides all that could be wished. I was alittle disappointed with its half-arm hook, which dislodged a teacup andgave what would have been an easy catch to mid-on standing close in bythe sofa; but I am convinced that a little oil will soon put that right.
And yet there seemed to be something lacking in it. After trying everystroke with it; after tucking it under my arm and walking back to thebathroom, touching my cap at the pianola on the way; after experimentswith it in all positions, I still felt that there was something wantingto make it the perfect bat. So I put it in a cab and went round with itto Henry. Henry has brightened first-class cricket for some years now.
"Tell me, Henry," I said, "what's wrong with this bat?"
"It seems all right," he said, after waving it about. "Rather a goodone."
I laid it down on the floor and looked at it. Then I turned it on itsface and looked at it. And then I knew.
"It wants a little silver shield on the back," I said. "That's it."
"Why, is it a presentation bat?" asked Henry.
"In a sense, yes. It was presented to me by Twyford."
"What for?"
"Really," I said modestly, "I hardly like---- Why do people give onethings? Affection, Henry; pity, generosity--er----"
"Are you going to put that on the shield? 'Presented out of sheer pityto----'"
"Don't be silly; of course not. I shall put 'Presented in commemorationof his masterly double century against the Authentics,' or somethinglike that. You've no idea how it impresses the wicket-keeper. He reallysees quite a lot of the back of one's bat."
"Your inscription," said Henry, as he filled his pipe slowly, "will beeither a lie or extremely unimpressive."
"It will be neither, Henry. If I put my own name on it, and talked about_my_ double century, of course it would be a lie; but the inscriptionwill be to Stanley Bolland."
"Who's he?"
"I don't know. I've just made him up. But now, supposing my littleshield says, 'Stanley Bolland. H.P.C.C.--Season 1912. Batting average116.34.'--how is that a lie?"
"What does H.P.C.C. stand for?"
"I don't know. It doesn't mean anything really. I'll leave out 'Battingaverage' if it makes it more truthful. 'Stanley Bolland. H.P.C.C., 1912.116.34.' It's really just a little note I make on the back of my bat toremind me of something or other I've forgotten. 116.34 is probablyBolland's telephone number or the size of something I want at his shop.But by a pure accident the wicket-keeper thinks it means something else;and he tells the bowler at the end of the over that it's that chapBolland who had an average of over a century for the HampsteadPolytechnic last year. Of course that makes the bowler nervous and hestarts sending down long-hops."
"I see," said Henry; and he began to read his paper again.
So to-morrow I take my bat to the silversmith's and have a littleengraved shield fastened on. Of course, with a really trustworthy weaponI am certain to collect pots of runs this season. But there is no harmin making things as easy as possible for oneself.
And yet there is this to be thought of. Even the very best bat in theworld may fail to score, and it might so happen that I was dismissed(owing to some defect in the pitch) before my silver shield had time toimpress the opposition. Or again, I might (through ill-health) performso badly that quite a wrong impression of the standard of the HampsteadPolytechnic would be created, an impression which I should hate to bethe innocent means of circulating.
So on second thoughts I lean to a different inscription. On the back ofmy bat a plain silver shield will say quite simply this:--
TO STANLEY BOLLAND, FOR SAVING LIFE AT SEA. FROM A FEW ADMIRERS.
Thus I shall have two strings to my bow. And if, by any unhappy chance,I fail as a cricketer, the wicket-keeper will say to his comrades as Iwalk sadly to the pavilion, "A poor bat perhaps, but a brave--a verybrave fellow."
It becomes us all to make at least one effort to brighten cricket.