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Lost Property

Like a cricket sweater left behind after the issue has long been settled, made sodden by the drenching rain, barely recognizable from a distance and mistaken for some gull, heavy and awkward to retrieve, fit only for Lost Property – the body lay mortally wounded, a dead weight, disformed and dysfunctional in Polygon Wood at the northern hinge of the Ypres Salient.

It was Wednesday, November 11th 1914 and the seventeenth day in the field without relief for the 5th Field Company, Royal Engineers.  The German barrage had ceased at 6.30am and hand to hand fighting had been going on since then.

At ten o’clock the Company had been moved further up to its position on the edge of the Wood defending the flank of the 1st King’sLiverpool.  They were part of a motley collection of scratch reserves put together in desperation to plug a gap opened up the Germans who were, had they realised it, that one thin line away from breaking through to the vital supply depots of the Channel ports.

For the few hundreds fighting along this tiny front two or three miles east of Ypres it was simply defend or die, and, signalling for reserves, their Lieutenant had been shot.

Bullets wove a deadly mantle across the saturated ground, yet Sappers Farnfield and Matthews, like all their comrades haggard from days without sleep and food, unshaven, unwashed, in little more than rags and plastered with the mud of Flanders, defied the lethal fire to bring their leader back to the disused trench that they continued to defend against continuous attack from the Prussian Guard.

There they had lain him among their other lost and found, their acting ‘captain’ who, stepping in for their dead major and a dead captain, had led them for much of that time with quiet courage, his example inspiring them to transform themselves without complaint or disquiet from engineers into front-line bayonet-fixed, fighting infantry, burying their dead each night.

Once before he had led another team with distinction; Clarke House, Clifton College

As an excited thirteen year old, with bat over his shoulder he had run eagerly to the eccentrically shaped field off Guthrie Road, there to take on North Town House

He had tossed for innings, won, unhesitatingly claimed the right to bat and proudly opened for Clarke at 3.30 pm.

That innings too had involved him in a piece of remarkable endurance. By close of play at 6pm he was 200 not out.  A timeless match, he continued the next day and the next and the next compiling the extraordinary total of 628 not out, the highest recorded at cricket.

Like his soldiering at 1st Ypres his innings was a mixture of fearless attack, extraordinary stamina, burning concentration, luck and, unlike 1stYpres, survival.

There must have been a deathless hush around the corner from the Close those evenings when on a bumpy pitch in a blinding light he went passed Edmund Tylecote’s previous record score of 404 and moved on to a fifth and then a sixth hundred.

In what remained of his life, did he feel the burden of this celebrity which had come to him so young? 

Collins later played at a reasonable level of army cricket.  But who can imagine what that burden must have been like every time he strode to the wicket; the expectation, the reputation; on someone who never seemed to seek the limelight?

Did he bear it as he bore the responsibility of that last command?  

For he died in that trench an hour after being brought in out of the rain and into what ever shelter his men could have made for their ‘captain’ – a last pavilion. 

The weight of the attack was never again as heavy.  That battle within a battle within a war was won … or more precisely, not lost.  The line held and quickly extended northwards in the race to the sea.

They buried him on the night of the 12th in Polygon Wood.

The carnage would continue as a privileged and incompetent elite willingly and wilfully sacrificed the lives of millions under their inept command – lions led by donkeys as the German Hoffman described it. 

The ground that AEJ Collins was buried in would be fought over time and again in the next four years, destroying his grave, blowing his remains to smitherines.

The game would never be quite the same.

N.B. For a closer view of the match TM highly recommends this.    For an explanation of operations on the 11th November at and around Nonne Bosschen and Polygon Wood see this.

The painting is by W.B.Wollen and shows the Ox and Bucks on the 11th.  They, like Collins’ 5th Field Company, had been placed under the command of Col C.B.Westmacott.

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The Very First Reverse Sweep or That There Tim Takes a Bit of Beating*

Two posts ago, Third Man promised that he would take you to the occasion of the very first reverse sweep in first class cricket … and for that matter the second, third and fourth.  

Why the delay?

Time travel requires at least two co-ordinates: time and space.  TM must disdain from listing the third co-ordinate in case those coves from Silicon Valley are on the trawl.  You know how desperate they are to secure the secrets of the Squire’s technology.

Anyways … it began after diner in the billiard room on the night of the match when, suspiciously, the friends who had recently returned ‘empty handed’ from their expedition to find the Lost Ark of the Covenant     had been playing for the Squire’s XI.

Foley had challenged the Squire to game of spoff, the rules of which you will be familar.

Foley began his tale before the Squire could chalk his cue and tot-off.

“It was when Middlesex were playing Gloucestershire at Clifton College. 

 Woof was bowling his particular slow, slow version of slow left arm when O’Brien treated him as he afterwards treated Read at Lord’s, except that he back handed him through the slips, and did not, of course, turn round to do so.”

 “E.M, who was fielding close in at slip, narrowly escaped injury, the ball passing with great velocity through his whiskers.”

“Lore, that must have set the cat among the pigeons. What happened next?”

“Well, he did it again.”

“How did that go down with the Great Man?”

“As you can imagine W.G.’s fraternal affection was aroused. ‘You mustn’t do that, Tim,’ says he in his Glasstershire accent in that squeeky little voice of is, ‘you’ll kill my brother.’”

“And Tim’s reply?”

“He didn’t much like EM, so he replied as bold as brass, ‘And a good thing to’ and promptly did it again.”

“For a third time?!”

Foley continued without so much as a break in his cannoning, his score was in three figures by now.

“W.G. then warned him that if he did it again, he would take his men off the field.”

“Red rag?”

“Needless to say O’Brien repeated it, and W.G. marched off the field, with his colleagues.”

“Snookered, so to speak.”

“ ‘Buns’ Thornton, who was looking on, came round to the Middlesex dressing room and told O’Brien that he was quite justified in hitting the ball how and where he chose, and then proceeded to the Gloucestershire room where he commiserated with W.G. and said O’Brien was quite wrong and had no business to endanger poor E.M.’s life.”

“The old stirrer, keeping the pot boiling for a bit of fun?”

“Nor was he wrong in his estimate. O’Brien thinking that he had the great ‘Buns’ on his side, stalked into the Gloucestershire dressing room, bat in hand, in an attitude sufficiently menacing to cause E.M. to retire to the furthest position possible. ”

“W.G. thinking that O’Brien had arrived with the intention of really carrying out what he had previously described as being ‘a good thing’, planted his huge bulk between his brother and the incensed intruder, and said in his high falsetto voice, ‘ I tell you what it is, Tim, I shall send for a policeman.’”

“And … ”

“Everyone roared with laughter and the match was proceeded with in unprecedented funereal silence.”

“I wager that’s not true,” said the Squire.

As you can imagine, even though it was beyond midnight, the Librarian was summoned and required to hunt down the scorecard in the archives.

He returned a half an hour later and whispered something confidentially to the Squire.

“Good tale, Foley, but it seems that Woof and the brothers Grace never played at Clifton, against a Middlesex side containing O’Brien.”

Amid general merriment, Foley reached for his pocket book.

“But,” interjected the Librarian still smarting from being brought from the warmth of his bed and taking a scorecard from the pocket of his dressing gown, “they were all involved in a match played at Cheltenham College in 1884″

“O’Brien made 110 in the first innings, Woof taking 6 form 96 in 49.1 overs, and 58 (caught Pullen bowled W.G. Grace) in the second innings in which Woof took 3 for 115 in 60.3 overs.   Match drawn.”

“There you are Third Man, go set the co-ordinates for the College Ground, Cheltenham, 21st August 1884 – the first four instances of the reverse sweep. And remember that confounded slope on landing!”

* Foley reports that a number of years later when W.G. was asked who were the best bats in England suggested, ‘That there Tim takes a bit of beating’.  Autumn Foliage, 1935.

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Quelqu’un Motif or Can We Have Our Ball Back, Mr. Broad?

Mr. Broad was not having much luck dozing in the fresh air of his garden. He had drunk a little too much Jubilee Ale, on top of which his luncheon of cheese and pickle was disagreeing with him.

To cut out the glare of the sun reflecting from his splendid new greenhouse he placed across his face a copy of the West London Observer with its story of the opening of the new tunnel at Blackwell.  Change, change , change – he didn’t like it one little bit.

Every so often the newsprint gently rose and fell with his breath as the effects of the ale won over those of the cheese.

Not far away, that infernal puffing Jinney of the North and South Western Junction Railway, making its way to its terminus in Chiswick High Road, competed for room in his irritable thoughts with the coo-cooing of a tiresome pigeon that would be eyeing up his peas and the cries and jeers of those blasted cricketers on the pitch they’d made in the last few years a couple of hundred yards away on the meadowland south of the common. 

In a month’s time there’d be even more noise coming from that ground when a fete was due to be held to celebrate the Diamond Jubilee.  He’d seen the poster on the footbridge across the railway: “29th June 1897, A Match between Hammersmith and Shepherd’s Bush Police and Tradesman – Wickets pitched 12 o’clock – to be followed by Comical Sports – 5.30pm Dancing.”  All that fuss and noise, bands playing, children shrieking, bunting and marquees.  

Humbug! thought the old curmudgeon of Stamford Bridge Lodge.

Across to the west, on the Bath Road, where Thomas Hussey was building his new fangled ‘garden suburb’ in the fashionable Queen Anne style, an elderly looking man in his late sixties with a mammoth white beard, spacious top coat and Frenchy straw hat was capturing the scene in front of him of the English playing at their funny game of cricket, a canvas propped on an easel weighed down with an old iron, a box of the latest ready made paints in tubes by his feet.

In his head he composed a letter he would send in a couple of days time to his picture dealer. ‘Cher Alphonse, je vais me mettre au travail, j’ai ici quelques motifs à faire fort jolis …’

He counted in his head.  This must be the third painting he had made that included in the view a cricket match.  He recalled the beautiful day at Hampton Court Green in 1890, the match on Kew Green when he was living in Gloucester Terrace in … ’92, and now here in Bedford Park– the 22nd May 1897 – while his dear son Lucien was recovering from that dreadful stroke. 

He simply could not leave Lucien’s side, but he was a compulsive painter, and so had set up on a flat roof attached to his son’s new home.  

Is it possible to paint outside in England without finding cricketers in the view, he wondered?  Even his hero Turner had encountered similar problems at Petworth and elsewhere.  There was a good sized crowd over there and a holiday atmosphere. The English, so skillful at wasting their time!

On the field of play, Bob Hussey, who had made a sizeable fortune supplying bricks to a voracious market in a city expanding by the day, had the ball in his hand. “Come in a pace more if you will, Ed.  Let him know you’re there.”

Edmund Bates was the crossing keeper and lived in Railway Cottage. His wife would be putting the washing on the line and preparing his tea.  Bates loved his cricket, his single tracked railway and his wife, probably in that order.

Although no-one would actually have dared say it to his face, it would be fair to say that Bob had one of those jerky actions that were spoiling the game.  It’s time the MCC took action.

“I’ll fix that rogue once and for all,” the new batsman had told his team mates before leaving the wooden shack that served them as pavilion. 

“I’ve a brand new bat here from Lilleywhites, Bob, so you’ve been well warned.”

Bob set off on his run like a Great Western express out of Paddington, pulling and snorting.  The new blade, smelling powerfully of linseed oil, noticed the all-too adjacent Bates, came down from a great height with a swing that threatened to part the hair on the railway employee’s head, caught the ball squarely in the centre of the pristine willow and flew like a twelve inch shell into the sky, up and over the distant boundary fence and on, still gaining height. “Find that one if you can, Bob Hussey.”

In his garden, Mr. Broad woke to a sound of far-off laughter, belched discontentedly and pushed the paper from his face in time to feel the air shiver as the missile passed him.  CRASH and TINKLE went his precious greenhouse, shot through by a cricket ball that next week’s West London Observer would describe as ‘an amazing boundary’, the like of which had never been seen before.  The ball it reports had ended up in the garden of Mr. Broad of Stamford Brook Lodge on the east, yes the east side of the common.

“Humbug!”

Note: a copy of a photograph of Camille Pissarro painting on the flat roof at 62 Bath Road in May or June 1897 can be found in the Ashmolean collection and was included in the catalogue of their 2011 exhibition; Lucien Pissarro in England – the Eragny Press.

Was No 62 the house behind the signal box in the 1960s photograph above.  This would place the Footbridge view point in the front garden looking north and the view of Bath Road from a similar position but looking north-west.  The flat roof would be on the extention shown on the 1915 map. Google street views of today show even numbers on the north side of Bath Rd.  The view of the cricket ground is today masked by new social housing.

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Evolutions, Switches and Reverses

Almost a hundred years before a Middlesex batsman played a dodgy reverse sweep in a World Cup final to an Allan Border roll over another batsman from that county, Sir Timothy “Tim” Carew O’Brien, 3rd Baronet , pioneered the shot.

The trusty rusty Type III time machine can take us back to midsummer of the year 1893. Middlesex are playing their old enemy Surreyat Lord’s and the Squire’s good friend Cyril P. Foley is in the side and able to help the time travellers find their way through the north London traffic thanks to his seminal Autumn Foliage.

On the match’s first day, the 22nd June, an Empire’s capital is in shock at the news that HMS Victoria has just been rammed by HMS Camperdown as the Mediterranean Fleet, untested since the days of Nelson and now under the command of the appropriately named Sir George Tryon, has attempted the Gridiron evolution with the loss of 358 officers and men (including Sir George) out of a total ship’s company of 718.

But there is further bad news for Middlesex next day. Scoring 108 in reply to Surrey’s 287, they are following on 179 in arrears.

Then, the game turns on a Victorian silver sixpence. Openers A.E. Stoddart and Sir Tim, also the county’s captain, chase down the deficit in fine style, Foley at Number 4 sustaining a severe case of pad rash.

A now desperate Surreycaptain, John Shutter, calls up Walter Read as his seventh bowler. In league, they set a packed on side field for the infamous underarms (108 first class wickets for 32.25 apiece) temptingly lobed down a leg stump line from the Nursery End.

The 3rd Baronet in 1896

Sir Tim, noting the total absence of spin, turns completely round and drives the ball with terrific force up against the new pavilion rails, wicket keeper Wood taking refuge in the slips and the crowd roaring with laughter.

Having hit four fours in this manner, Sir Tim, attempting a fifth, misses the ball as his bat smites the ground with a terrifying blow, raising a cloud of dust as the ball balloons into his pad.

When the dust settles, the off-bail is observed to be lying on the ground.

 ‘A perfect pandemonium ensues,’ recounts Foley at countless dinners to come from Cape Town to Cairo.

Wood from somewhere behind first slip claims that the batsman has trodden on his wicket.  Sir Tim wonders how Wood can be so sure when, at the critical moment, he was running away from the scene of the action and submits a counter claim that Wood has knocked off the bail himself.

Now Read adds to the cacophony declaring above the racket that he has clean bowled the 3rd Baronet.

So, this is cricket in the Golden Age, symbolised not so much by good sportsmanship and the spirit of cricket as by the fact that it occurs to none of the principals to refer the matter to the umpires.

When at last Read does so, Coward (you couldn’t make it up) and Smith protest that their views were obscured, one by the bowler the other by the batsman.

“Anyway,” says Sir Timothy Carew O’Brien, 3rd Baronet and captain of Middlesex County Cricket Club, “I’m not going out.”

Foley will later tell how the game  ‘resumed in a somewhat strained atmosphere’;  Middlesex batting into Day Three to set a target of 199, and dismissing Surrey for 119 to win by 79 runs.

The temperature in the pavilion bar at the end of day two must have been on the cool side for a June evening.

As for Sir Tim it was just the beginning of his innovations … but the Type III must make its way to Clifton where W.G. and Gloucestershire await for the perfection of a shot that then as now divides opinions, perplexes umpires and raises voices on and off the field.

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Somnambulant Speculations en Plein Air

“Bedford is waiting to welcome you,”  proudly claims this historic village tucked up against the Kaggaberg mountain in the Winterberg range of the Eastern Cape, South Africa.

“A vibrant country district famous for its garden festival fun-loving farmers and fabulous hospitality.”

See how those farms stretch across the grasslands up into the dramatic Mankazana, Cowie and Baviaans River valleys.

“Bird watching, hiking, cycling, fishing, golf, tennis, bowls and bridge are among the local activities we invite you to join … Huge skies, fresh air, friendly people and overwhelming natural beauty …”

Surely Foley dropped by in his time.

Down in the village is the Recreation Ground.  Here’s a closer view to help fill in the details.

 

Can you spy the cricketers?

Perhaps this photograph of the Bedford side of the 1880s will help feed the imagination – not a one clean shaven, but all as dapper as a Crown Prince visiting his mother.

It is never easy to follow the internal journeying of old Third Man. No wonder the Squire suspects it may soon be time to put him down like a faithful Pointer dragging some cancerous growth to the final fireside.

But all is revealed below in the pigments pushed across the parchment by Camille Pissarro at Hampton Court, London in 1890. 

Those quickly sketched players with their toppers?   Surely they’re a touring party from Bedford, enjoying the occasion and challenging the Mother Country to a game of cricket.

Can you spot a Graeme or a Peter?  There’s sure to be a Pollock, red hair peeking from under his hat?

“Wake up, Third Man.  You’ve gone to sleep in the sun.”

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He Seldom Failed or Forgive the Lack of Brevity

The Squire was up early on this fine day waking the hedgehogs. 

Ever since His Grace discovered that they spoke in Viking he has been at pains to see that these gentle grazers survive the winter in good fettle. He is learning their particular dialect of Old Norse by the traditional ‘point and say’ method.

This preoccupation has given Third Man the leisure to follow his own researches into The Lost Ark of the Covenant, the search for which has been the preoccupation of many a fine batsman.

You doubt it?

Above is another painting by A.C. Tayler, this one of a match between Eton and Harrow in 1886.

The encounter was won by Eton thanks in no small part to the ‘patient and sound defence’ of Cyril Pelham Foley who opened in both Eton innings and who ‘scored freely to the offside’, making 114 and 36.  Scorecard, scorecard!

Wisden is of the opinion that ‘he seldom failed’.

We shall see whether or not the old Sage was viewing things through primrose tinted spectacles.

Foley played for three seasons at Cambridge, turned out for Worcester in 1888 and for Middlesex between 1893 and 1906.  In all he played 123 first class matches, scoring a total of 3,175 runs at 16.62 with two centuries to his name.

But this careful compiler of runs was a magnet to controversy.

In his first season for Middlesex in their home match against Sussex he picked up a bail that had fallen and was given out on appeal by Umpire Henty.  Billy Murdoch, the Sussex captain, stepped in to request that he be allowed to continue his innings.

Next we find Foley imprisoned over the New Year of 1896 (see photograph below) as a participant in the Jameson Raid, after which he much deserved his sobriquet, ‘The Raider’.

As Kipling reminds his fellow cricketers, If you can make a heap of all your winnings / And risk it at one turn of pitch and toss / And lose, and start again from your beginnings / And never breathe a word about your loss … advice inspired by K’s friend Jameson and later often put to good effect by Foley at the tables of Monte Carlo.

The Raider served with distinction in the 2nd Boer War, coming home in temporary charge of the 3rd Royal Scots. He was a crack shot, enjoyed car racing, fly-fishing, tennis and golf, and, during the European War, went twenty months in the trenches of France and then Salonica without leave. 

And that’s not all … but you may wish a pull on a fill of Sullivan and Powell’s Gentleman’s Mixture before continuing – it is a lengthy tale.

In the spring of 1909 Foley and his friends Clarence Wilson and Captain R. G. Duff were visited by their mutual friend, Montague Brownslow Parker, another distinguished veteran from the Boer War.  Parker, the son of the Earl of Morley, had been approached by Valter H. Juvelius, who, tradition has it, working in a Constantinople library in 1908, accidentally discovered a coded passage in the Book of Ezekiel which described the precise location of the long lost treasure of Solomon’s Temple.

According to Neil Asher Silberman, this fabulous treasure, supposedly concealed at the time of Nebuchadnezer’s conquest of Jerusalem in 586 B.C., was said to be hidden deep within the bowels of the Temple Mount in a cave connected to the city by a secret underground passage.

Equipping themselves with the very finest in expeditionary equipment and fitting outWilson’s yacht, the friends set sail forPalestine, adventure and fortune.

In his later reflections, Autumn Foliage, (adventurous pun), Foley describes how, having jury-rigged a series of short ladders, they explored the key shaft beneath Jerusalem in their quest, candles in hand.

‘Over my head was a huge dome or vaulted roof, and running up to the right a steep passage, half filled, as far as I could see, with great boulders. Nothing would have induced me to leave that ladder, for the slope appeared to be as slippery as ice. By the dim light of the candle it looked a grim and ghastly spot, and I could not help remembering that I was probably the fourth human being who had looked on it for 1,800 years…I was just about to descend when I heard a movement away up the passage and, in my horror, something came rushing down it with the speed of thought. Before I could move, a dreadful shape hit me full on the shoulder, knocking the candle out of my hand and leaving me in opaque darkness. Being deprived of all volition by sheer terror, I mechanically beat all records down the ladder, struck the ledge at the bottom, and turning a complete somersault, fell, with what the shilling shockers of years gone by would have described as ‘a sickening splash’ into two feet of dirty water.’

Permit Silberman to take the story forward:

On the night of April 17, 1911, Parker and his men entered the sanctuary of the Dome of the Rock itself. Their attention had been drawn to a natural cavern beneath the surface of the sacred rock. The rock is supposed to be the spot from which Mohammed ascended to heaven on his horse Borek. The horse’s footprints are still in the rock to prove it. In Jewish tradition this was Mount Moriah where Abraham had offered to sacrifice his son Isaac. Other traditions associated the sacred rock with a passage to the bowels of the earth-filled with spirits and demons, and containing a fantastic treasure.

Lowering themselves by ropes into the cavern, Parker and his men began to excavate, breaking apart a stone that covered the ancient shaft below. Their pace quickened as they felt that at last their treasure was near.

But as fate would have it, a simple attendant of the Mosque decided that he would sleep that night on the Temple Mount. Arriving after midnight, he heard strange noises in the Mosque, and investigating the source, came upon the strangely attired Englishmen backing away inside the holy shrine.  Shrieking in horror, he bolted from the Mosque, scurrying into the city to expose the sacrilege. Parker and his panick-stricken men gathered up their tools and quickly escaped, for they knew that they had played out their final hand.

Parker and his men promptly fled, but by the time they reached Jaffa, the first news reports had already arrived from Jerusalem. The Holy City was in an uproar. Azmey Bey had reportedly ordered the immediate closing of the Temple Mount, but before his soldiers had a chance to take up positions there, a furious mob seized Sheikh Khalil. And Azmey Bey himself was mobbed by an angry crowd, spat upon, and called “a pig” for his suspected complicity in the sacrilege.

The disturbances grew more violent as wild rumours spread, reporting that the Englishmen had discovered and stolen the Crown and Ring of Solomon, the Ark of the Covenant and the Sword of Mohammed.  Customs authorities in Jaffa, alerted to these reports, immediately impounded the personal baggage of Parker and his men for a thorough search.

Finding nothing in any of the bags, the Turkish officials threatened to detain Parker and his men until further instructions arrived from Constantinople. But Parker knew that he must escape at once. Graciously denying the wild accusations that had been made about his excavations, he invited the officials to discuss the matter in the more comfortable surroundings of Clarence Wilson’s yacht. Things would be quickly sorted out, he assured them, and besides that, he had nothing to hide. The customs’ authorities grudgingly accepted this arrangement, and Parker and his men were permitted to row out into the harbour to illuminate the yacht and prepare to receive their official guests.

But long before their guests arrived, Parker ordered the yacht’s crew to weigh anchor and steam out into the open sea.

Tradition has it that Parker and his men left empty handed, and thankful to have escaped with their lives.

But scorebooks discovered by Third Man in the Squire’s collection reveal that in the opening match of the 1911 season, Foley was opening the batting for the Squire’s XI.  Also on the card for that match were Parker, Carter, Wilson, Duff and, bringing up the tail, a certain Valter H. Juvelius, not out 0.

Returning from his discussions with the hedgehogs, the Squire glances at Third Man’s account.

“The Raider?  He seldom failed, Third Man. He seldom failed.”

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To Question and Decide

The chalk drawing of W.G. Grace by Albert Chevallier Tayler in the previous post will have reminded many of the artist’s much treasured* painting of Colin Blythe bowling in the Kent v Lancashire match of 1906 reproduced above.**

The artist reveals his cricketer’s mind by selecting the precise moment before Blythe’s right foot touches the ground.  

Tayler has stopped time to convey movement, and, over a hundred years after he laid down his brush, you still wait with eager anticipation for the action to restart, the bowler’s canvas boot to make its twisting contact with the Canterbury soil, the arm to scribe its perfect arc, the ball to leave the hand with buzzing seam, to travel tantalizingly through the air before dipping steeply, striking the turf and rearing with turn and bounce, to ask its question of batsman Tyldesley.

It is more poignant still.  Sergeant Blyth, who as an epileptic need not have served in the First World War, amid a later stride, was killed by random shell-fire on the railway between Pimmern and Forest Hall near Passchendale on 8 November 1917

The painting has a cousin: another instant of time, captured by Henri Cartier Bresson, ‘Behind Saint Lazarre Station, Paris’,  in 1932.

“For me,” wrote Bresson, “the camera is a sketch book, an instrument of intuition and spontaneity, the master of the instant which, in visual terms, questions and decides simultaneously.”

“Questions and decides simultaneously” sounds exactly like the DRS.

* Kent sold the painting in 2006 for £860,000 to Andrew Brownsword – see other less celebrated work owned by Brownsword in a DATM post here.

**The figures depicted are from the left to the right: Humphreys at silly mid-on; Dillon in the distance in front of the sightscreen; non-striking batsman Findlay; umpire Atfield; bowler Blythe; batsman on strike Tyldesley; Blaker at mid-off; wicketkeeper Huish; Hutchings on the boundary at deep extra cover; Marsham at cover; Fielder at silly point; Mason at first slip; Burnup at point; Seymour at gully.

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