by The Professor » Thu Apr 20, 2017 8:19 am
On this day in 1926 Prime Minister of Great Britain, Stanley Baldwin, addressed the Australian cricket team at the start of their tour of England.
At a glittering lunch held at the Criterion Restaurant, Picacadilly, Mr Baldwin gave the following speech professing his admiration for cricket:
There is an unfortunate difference between Mr Robbins (Chairman of the District) and myself. He said he had no speech to make, but some messages to deliver. I have no message, but I have to make a speech.
One of the messages he delivered reminded me of a circumstance which I am quite sure is unfamiliar even to Mr Warner and Sir James Barrie' (Pelham Warner, Chairman of Selectors and JM Barrie of Peter Pan fame). That is, the Prince of Wales once captained an England Eleven and was beaten; but that was 200 years ago.
I find it difficult to express to the Australian team what their visit means to old men like myself who, though no great performers, have followed with the keenest of interest from the days of early childhood the performances of the giants of cricket right across the world. To us the mere word "Australia" smacks of romance and we think of our childhood and those great names upon which we were brought up, and we seem to see once more the demon bowler at work - the great Spofforth - who is still living among us in London.
And we have here my old friend Sir Kynaston Studd (former Cricketer and Sheriff of London, two years later would become Lord Mayor of London), who tells me that his body is still scarred with bruises received from that giant arm.
We all think of the names of those, some of whom are with us, but some, alas! Have passed over - those great bowlers, Charlie Turner, Hugh Trumble and Ernest Jones. We seem to see once more Victor Trumper and Clem Hill, who has reminded us of his presence lately in a way most likely to attract the attention of the British public.
There was George Giffen, and, perhaps, above all, those two romantic figures, one of whom I am rejoiced to hear from Mr Smith is still living - the great Blackham, who taught every Cricketer in the world how to stand up to fast bowling without a long-stop. And there was one, no longer with us, who gained the admiration of everyone - Bonnor, whose throw-in from the country was a thing no man that ever saw it can forget. I tell the present team that if such giants as those I have named are with them today - I gather that there are - then indeed we shall have to look out for our laurels.
But this game of cricket, the nursery of which are the villages of England, has cast its seed across the ocean, and nowhere has a mightier tree grown from that seed than in Australia. There is nothing that has been imported from this country that has flourished there like cricket. The only remarkable thing to my mind is that the other great English export from this country which though it has flourished so much in Australia yet has been kept out of the team. I know not by what means, is rabbits.
In these few words of mine wishing to welcome the Australians I want to say a word of cheer to Mr Warner.
I want to ask him not to allow his nerves to be unduly rattled by the Press barrage Under which our opponents are advancing to fight us.
I can assure him I have passed through those barrages unscathed.
I can assure him that the quality of the ammunition which will be employed can be no better than is manufactured by the directors of the fire. In those circumstances I hope he will keep up his spirits and his courage.
And to the Australians I would say we offer them here today the warmest welcome.
We hope the weather will be good. We hope the games will be played out. There are two matches in this country which perhaps occupy a peculiar position for those who are directly interested in them - the Oxford and Cambridge and the Eton and Harrow. It was on the morning of the Oxford and Cambridge match that my youngest son - as I had been at Cambridge - said to me, "Don't let us have any of that nonsense today about letting the best side win."
No true sportsman in those two matches ever feels that.
But in every other match the Australians are going to play I say from my heart let us have the finest cricket and let the best side win.
I ask you to rise and drink the health of the team, and I couple with the toast the names of Mr Collins, who is no stranger to this country, and Mr Smith, the manager of the team."
JM Barrie then rose and delivered, in today's parlance, a roast of the Australian team:
"If I were to say one-tenth of what I could say about cricket, especially about my own prowess at it, there would be no more play today.
Once more I buckle on my pads, I stride to the wicket. I take a look round to see how Mr Collins has set his field - and, oh horrible! I see Mr Gregory waiting in the slips.
What can he be waiting for? I get one consolation from Mr Gregory's name - he is obviously a MacGregor. I have no doubt that he inherited his bowling form his ancestor, Rob Roy MacGregor, who, as the books tell us, used to hurl rocks at the stumps of Sassenach.
Mr Gregory is now joined in the slips by Mr Henry and Mr Mailey. Three to one!
I don't know what they think they look like, with their arms stretched out imploringly, but to me they look as if they were proposing simultaneously to the same lady.
Even though one of them wins her, what can he do with her? I hope they will remember this in the first Test Match, and that it will put them off their game.
The first Test Match! Fancy speaking that awful mouthful in words of one syllable. All the awful words this year are to be one syllable. The three T's - Test, Toss, Tail.
The first Test Match is about to begin. We are all at Trent Bridge. The English captain wins the toss and puts the Australians in. I think he must have something up his sleeve. I don't quite catch sight of his face, but I saw him having a secret conversation with Mr Warner's old Harlequin cap, and I believe they are up to something.
Maurice Tate takes the ball . You know his way. He then puts his hand behind his back; an awful silence spreads over the universe. The Prime Minister, in the House of Commons, in the middle of his speech is bereft of words.
It has been said, probably by Mr Gregory, that drowning men clutch at straws. On a balcony in the pavilion nine members of the Australian team pick up straws and clutch at them.
Mr Noble pauses in the middle of drawing up the complete Australian averages of the tour. Mr Hill in Australia is suspended between Heaven and the ink pot.
Maurice Tate takes a little walk which is to be followed by a little run.
My lords and gentlemen, pray silence while Maurice Tate delivers his first ball. There is now nothing to be heard except Mr Gregory letting fall his straw. Tate comes rushing forward and sends down, not the ball, but the seam.
What does the mighty roar from the onlookers mean? Have the Australians already made four, or does it mean, in journalistic phrase, "The next man in is Macartney"? Much good that will do us.
Then there is Ponsford, who, I am told, has only been out twice in the last five years.
I suppose I am the only man in the room who knows what it is to be the constitution of the English XI. Mr Warner and his committee don't know - at least I haven't told them.
On such occasions as this it may seem cruel to damp Mr Collins, but I suppose the truth is best, and I am afraid I must tell him that this year there is no hope for his gallant but unfortunate company.
Our team is mostly new, and is at present hidden away in cellars. Our fast bowler - I mention this in confidence - is W.K. Thunder, who has never been known to smile except when he hears Mr Gregory referred to as a fast bowler.
Of our batsmen, I shall merely indicate their quality by saying that Hobbs is the 12th man.
Of course, things may go wrong. There is the glorious uncertainty of cricket. Even the Prime Minister - in the only game in which I saw him play - in the first innings he made one, but in the second innings he - was not so successful.
But even though Australia should win - this time - I have a rod in reserve for Mr Collins.
In that case I shall myself choose the Scottish XI.
My first choice is MacGregor, with him MacDonald, Macaulay and Macartney.
Two other names as Scotch as peat are Hendry and Andrews. A.W. Carr is my captain. M.D. Lyon my wicket-keeper and there are still Douglas, Nigel Haig, MacBryan and Armstrong. With this Scottish XI I challenge the Australians. The game not to be played on turf or matting, but, as always, on our native Heather.
In conclusion - for I was out long ago (caught Gregory) - in conclusion, as Mr Grimmett said when he went on to bowl in the last Test match - let us pay our opponents this compliment, we are sure that if we had not thought of cricket first, they would have done it, and whether we win or lose, O friendly enemy, you cannot deprive us of our proudest sporting boast, that it was we who invented both cricket and the Australians.
And let us not forget, especially at this time, that the great glory of cricket does not lie in Test Matches, nor county championships, nor Sheffield Shields, but rather on village greens, the cradle of cricket.
The Tests are but the fevers of the game. As the years roll on they become of small account, something else soon takes their place, the very word may be forgotten; but long, long afterwards, I think, your far-off progeny will still of summer afternoons hear the crack of the bat and the local champion calling for his ale on the same old bumpy wickets. It has been said of the unseen army of the dead, on their everlasting march, that when they are passing a rural cricket ground the Englishman falls out of the ranks for a moment to look over the gate and smile. The Englishman, yes, and the Australian. How terrible if those two had to join their comrades feeling that we were no longer playing the game! I think that is about the last blunder we shall make. I ask you to drink to the glorious toast of cricket, coupled with the name of one of the greatest of all Cricketers and one of the greatest of cricket captains. Mr Warner"
"It has been said of the unseen army of the dead, on their everlasting march, that when they are passing a rural cricket ground the Englishman falls out of the ranks for a moment to look over the gate and smile."