On Books, Deliberations, and Cricket
Come, let's take a ride
I am currently reading On The Ashes, a collection of essays on Ashes cricket by Gideon Haigh. As the 2023 Men's Ashes hits the final bars of a soaring crescendo, Haigh's book makes for a lovely accompaniment. I struggle enormously to find what to read next, so I let the mood board decide. Last week, while watching a police procedural based in Punjab, I picked up two books that explore crime in India and its complicated relationship with law enforcement agencies. Earlier this year, while watching the Women's T20 World Cup, I downloaded Suprita Das' wonderful Free Hit, a study of women's cricket in India, its crests and troughs, drives and pushes, navigating a system that is still learning how to facilitate their growth. Aayush Puthran's Unveiling Jazbaa is the next on my list of cricket books. Every word I've heard about it is laced with affection and awe.
I stumbled onto On The Ashes by accident, while casually scrolling through Amazon recommendations. The cover image, a bunch of hand-drawn pictures of famous cricketers from Australia and England, was unmissable. The name of the book was emblazoned in big, red font with Gideon Haigh written below it. A no-brainer. Haigh has written too many books for me to claim to have read them all, but he is one of my all-time favourite writers across genres. A match report and a 5000-word essay have the same fluidity. It's inspiring and infuriating. I met him briefly in Chennai this year and I wished there was a way to make him cancel all his other plans and give me a one-on-one masterclass on prose and storytelling. You are allowed to giggle, but can you blame me?
The timing of it was funny too. India were playing Australia in a Test series at that time, and no writer reminds me of the pristine aesthetic of Test cricket more than Gideon Haigh. It is quite cool that I meet him next, this time through the written word, as another important Test series is on. Since the men's Ashes only covers Tests, this new book was the coming together of two of my favourite things in sports.Â
One of the essays, which I believe Haigh himself holds closely, is written on Victor Trumper. For my generation, the myth of Trumper is confined to images and words. Unlike the many modern greats whom we can inherit through stories, Trumper remains distant. No one I know was alive during his peak years. So, where do we go for texture on him? Essays like Haigh's, or, on most days, Google. On the Images tab, the first six photographs are all in-action. Vivid, almost visceral. As if there is something about Victor Trumper that photographers wanted to convey. The second one stands out. It is a picture from 1905.
For those in the know, it is one of cricket's most iconic images. Maybe even its most iconic. If a contest were to run, if such a thing was even possible, George Beldam's side-on photograph of Trumper shaping for a shot - it is titled "Jumping out for a straight drive" - would finish high on the list of universal favourites.
It is a seemingly simple but incredible frame. For starters, the orchestration. Picking up from Haigh's description, Beldam was an amateur cricketer and keen photographer who was enamoured by the action of cricket. Instead of clicking from afar, he devised a way to place the camera near a batter while he acted as a bowler. At the right time, Beldam would push a button that, through a cord, clicked the shutter. Voila. This picture appeared in his book Great Batsmen: Their Methods at a Glance.
But now, the frame. There is so much happening. Trumper is standing well outside the crease and his leading leg is airborne, a sign of aggressive intent from a time when aggression and cricket didn't quite see eye to eye. His trailing leg is crouching ever so slightly to give him a solid base to hit from. His arms are at the top of his bat swing, just about to descend like a whip and deposit the ball into a different postcode. He isn't thinking of a forward defence with that posture. Eyes looking at the pitch, possibly where the ball is landing; head still; lips pursed tightly. The veins in his top arm are popping; he is gripping the bat tightly even for a photograph.
The famous baggy green cap is more an ornamental accessory than a functional gear. Its brim is too narrow to protect the eyes from sunlight. Gloves, or whatever those tiny finger-covers were called back then, only used on the right hand. In the era of uncovered pitches where the ball did whatever it pleased, that was standard bravery, beyond comprehension for those of us who have only known highways and multi-layered protection gear. There is a neatness to the shirt and trousers, even if both are crumpled. No logo in sight. The undershirt tells me something about the weather in London. I love long, rolled-up sleeves, and Trumper's are hanging out at just the right height, showing enough of the arm but covering the elbow. The bat itself is so thin; the width of its face will just about cover some of the edges today.
More than anything else, this picture is a portrait of cricket from a different life. An era that is not just unrecognisable, but unfathomable. Some of the attached romance, especially from my generation, comes from that specific hue. We have only known a commodified version of the game. Logos peppered across kits like graffiti on a wall, liquor baron-owned teams, shout-outs to car manufacturing companies for every boundary and wicket.
It is foolish to complain too much because the very game that we funded, through gate passes and television revenue, has expanded into an industry. It was always going to. The route has been rocky most times, hazardous even, but there was only one destination for a sport with this kind of popularity and market. Football is no different. Sample this - a team in the English Premier League, which lost its talismanic striker to multiple cases of illegal betting, carries the logo of a betting company on its kit. Once the Ashes gets over, cricket too will dress for a long party of bright floodlights, even brighter jerseys, and screeching commentary. The 50-over World Cup is a couple of months away; the T20 World Cup, one year. It will soon be time for India Cements Super Sixes.
So, when an image like Trumper's comes into my eyesight, or a collection of essays by Gideon Haigh is available on Amazon, I let it carry me into a wave of deliberation. What must cricket have been like during that moment in Brisbane when Joe Solomon picked the ball and aimed at the striker's end, seconds before causing the first-ever tied Test? Kerry Packer hadn't walked into the ACB office yet. Cricket didn't know what coloured kits looked like.
Do we romanticise that time of muted sensibilities because ours are too loud, too garish? Do we, after spending most of our lives fawning over such productised entertainment, even get to use those adjectives?
Why this ramble, then? Because truth be told, any journey that shows you a land that you have never seen, and will never see, is always worth the time. A Gideon Haigh essay on Richie Benaud in the middle of a 90-day IPL? Yes, please.
Books mentioned:
On The Ashes by Gideon Haigh
Free Hit by Suprita Das
Unveiling Jazbaa by Aayush Puthran
Just marvellous. What a delight to read you Sarthak. Thank you for this.