# Out-door Games: Cricket and Golf/Introductory

INTRODUCTORY
We have all of us seen in late years a multiplication of handbooks on hunting, shooting, and all forms of fishing, and games, both outdoor and indoor. Hunting especially has been the means of bringing into existence works that are classics. Beckford, Surtees, and Whyte-Melville are three great names, and the sport of hunting has been brought before our eyes by means of novel, treatise, and poetry. In Whyte-Melville's "Market Harborough" the author remarks, in discussing the redoubtable Crasher, that the love of hunting breeds a poetical instinct in its devotee, and the man who goes well across country frequently has a spirit of poetry in him, and we can well understand that this is the case. The wild excitement, the open air, and most of all the pace, ​would seem to those, who have never hunted, to make up the chief poetical elements of hunting. To Mr. Surtees belongs the credit of having established for ever a standard of humour in the novel that, as far as hunting is concerned, is not likely to be superseded. "I hope you read a chapter every day," said the father to his son. "Yes," said the son, "I always read a chapter of Jorrocks before I go to bed." The father was not thinking of Jorrocks, but the Bible. Walton's "Compleat Angler" perhaps holds a higher position, as a beautiful bit of inspired prose writing, than any book on sport that has ever been written, and Sir Edward Grey has told us how the book has grown into a part of his life. Sir Edward Grey is a born angler himself, but nobody who has any taste for a pure and old-fashioned style can fail to love the "Compleat Angler," though he may never have handled a fishing-rod in his life. In the same way Whyte-Melville, both in his poems and novels, has written about hunting, in such a way that a man need be no rider, and need perhaps never have seen a fox in his life, to appreciate both hunting novels and poems, and, if he has any humour at all, the same ​must be said of, at any rate, two of Surtees' books, "Jorrocks" and "Sponge." But what can be said of the literature of cricket, and games generally? Nyren has written a simple, old-fashioned book that has a great charm about it; and in modern times we have the great name of Andrew Lang, who seems to me to combine every quality that a writer on cricket should have. But between those two writers, or at an interval of about fifty-five years, the literature of cricket may be said to be a series of records and one or two treatises, and some poems, few of which have any great merit, if the famous hymn sung to the praises of Alfred Mynn be excepted. The cricket novel of the level of Handley Cross has yet to be written, but there is no reason why the cricket Surtees should not arise; the description of an exciting match has been done, and admirably well, in a book for boys, which it is to be hoped the present-day youth read as all did thirty-five years ago—"The First of June;" and there are many forms of excitement in cricket matches, which could be brought in with great effect in a novel. The cricket literature of to-day has been of two kinds, the reminiscence ​and the didactic treatise. W. G. Grace, Daft, Giffen, and Caffyn have given the first kind, and the Badminton and the Oval series the second.
Golf has the great advantage of numbering amongst its great players a man who to his great skill as a golfer has added a fine gift of writing. Mr. Horace Hutchinson has laid down the proper principles by which golf is to be learnt. He has also charmingly given us a series of pictures of golf links, and in fact it may almost be said that he has told us everything, and has exhausted the subject of golf. But of golf, as of cricket, it may be said that the golfing novel has yet to be written. Mr. Surtees may have found out and produced the one form in which a sporting novel may be produced, and so covered the ground that any subsequent effort must more or less be a form of imitation. It only needs, however, an author with the necessary gifts, and both a cricket and a golf novel can then be produced. Golf, however, though of ancient date in Scotland, is, as far as England is concerned, quite a new plant. The stage of reminiscence has not yet arrived, though it certainly will some day, and the didactic so far has held the field.
​The present volume will treat of cricket and golf, but I hope that both reminiscence and teaching will be conspicuous by their absence. As far as golf is concerned, the author's reminiscences only extend to thirteen years, as until 1886 he never saw a golf club, and as for teaching, he may be said to know nothing of the game. At cricket everything that he can say on the didactic side he has said elsewhere, and the public are weary of statistics, which, thanks to the energy of our press correspondents, are thrust upon them at every turn. What the author hopes to be able to do is, to talk of cricket and golf from the untechnical point of view, to try and show not only the charms of both games, but also the shortcomings and the principles which should guide those in authority on the matter of reform, and the proper spirit that should be shown in playing the games, and also to describe the conditions under which both games are played, and the points of interest of both.
Many people must have often wondered if the English world generally have ever asked themselves what has contributed most to the pleasures of mankind. Hunting is and must ​always be the sport of the rich and well-to-do, and it is sad to think that the hunting farmer is not to be found in the number that formerly was the case. Speaking from an outside view, the one man who ought to be able to hunt is the farmer. He occupies the land over which the field gallop; he is willing to be put to expense and trouble to keep up hunting, and yet the hardness of the times, the diminished profits, and the greater demand on his time, have sadly thinned the ranks of hunting farmers. Shooting is always in the hands of those who can afford a license and the other expenses, but these are of such a nature that this too is a sport for the well-to-do. Fishing in England, owing, it is presumed, to the huge increase of towns and water-polluting manufactures, is having its area seriously curtailed. Racing and coursing are participated in mainly because they are a source of gambling; the thousands that go to race and coursing meetings are gamblers, or at any rate many more than fifty per cent. are. Eliminate, if it were possible, all betting by a stroke of the pen, and most of the race meetings would die a natural death. If ​racing was really confined to the few who own horses and do not bet, like the late Lord Falmouth and the Duke of Westminster, it would be even more than it is now the sport of rich men, because a horse is an expensive animal, and to keep horses in training on the chance of winning prizes that, apart from betting, would have comparatively small money value, will always be an expensive luxury. What has then really contributed most to the gaiety of nations, confining the word nations to those who speak English?
The one article which is mentioned without hesitation as an answer to this question is the ball. This is of different sizes or different weights, sometimes hard and sometimes soft, sometimes kicked, more frequently hit, but in whatever size or weight you find it, it somehow or other forms the indispensable chief part in games. Take away, if possible, that blessed ball, what would a large majority of the inhabitants of the British Empire do for recreation? The very idea takes our breath away; we should have to take to keeping tame rabbits or haunting tea-gardens. The ball in some shape or other was introduced ​to all of us who were well brought up directly we could walk; it is the means whereby we get recreation and exercise in youth and middle age; and when the muscles are withered and useless and no longer actively participate in games, still the eyes are there, and what the hands and muscles cannot perform, the eye can appreciate when looking on at others. The old therefore find their pleasure in criticism.
Consider for a moment what it means. A ball is the centre, the focus, the indispensable feature of cricket, football, golf, tennis, racquets, croquet, fives, lawn tennis, and billiards. If figures could be given on this subject it would be interesting. What is the annual cost of all these games? how much is spent in materials and rent? and finally, most astounding of all, how many human beings play in all these games, and how many go and look on at others?—if all this were known, humanity indeed would be staggered. To take first-class cricket alone, each year in England and Australia millions of spectators crowd to matches; there are county clubs, social clubs like Quidnuncs, the Zingari, Free Foresters, clubs belonging to iron-works, soap-works, working-men's institutes, ​schools, public, secondary, and elementary, villages, towns, and districts. At football the same thing occurs; the spectators at a League match in Birmingham, Sheffield, Newcastle, and all over Lancashire, amount to ten, twenty, and even forty thousand. Golfers travel all over the United Kingdom and Ireland in search of links. There has been a revival of croquet; where there were forty years ago about six tennis courts, now there are about twenty-five; while in every club and hotel and many houses billiard-tables are found, where in evenings men of every profession and trade, and those with none, get much enjoyment, exercise, and perspiration from the gentle art of billiards. Englishmen have the love of games in their marrow as pipeclay was in the marrow of Mulvaney, and when we consider all these facts we may indeed regard the ball with respect, affection, and reverence.
Our feelings towards those unfortunates who take no interest in games, and have never played in any, are those of pity. There are men whose lives have been written and are even considered great, whose minds have been laid bare before the public, but who yet have never ​appreciated cricket. Carlyle, that sour, snarling, dyspeptic old man, took eighteen years in writing the life of Frederick. What his poor unselfish wife suffered during that time we all know, but I cannot help thinking that if in the year 1861, when he was deepest in the valley of the shadow of Frederick, he had gone to Lord's and seen the University match, and entered into the spirit and excitement of that interesting game, he would have returned home a better man in every way. Frederick would have been forgotten, perhaps even the dyspepsia and the noise of the neighbour's poultry, and best of all Mrs. Carlyle might have had some hours' peace.
Cricket and golf are the two games that this volume professes to try and discuss, and in doing so it is difficult not to enter into comparisons. It is an evil and a danger to England that the crowds who go to races are more in number than the crowds at any other game. Of course racing goes on in some form or other all the year round, but the demoralising thing about racing is that the vast majority only go to races because of the facilities given to betting. Few ​on a racecourse have ever owned a horse, many are as ignorant of the points of a horse as a Malay, and yet they go in the hope of winning a few pounds or shillings. People do not go to see cricket in a spirit like this: the large majority are or have been players, and therefore they understand the game, and they do not go with the object of betting. It is impossible to say how much cricket owes to the fact that as a medium for betting it is impossible, and always will be. A man may risk hundreds of pounds over a match if he chooses, though we never heard of such a case, but the professional bookmaker is an animal that does not find his métier on the cricket field, and where he does not exist, betting is not carried on to an unhealthy extent. A professional bookmaker will not establish himself anywhere unless there is a good prospect, perhaps you may say certainty, of his making money, and I am thankful to say that cricket is not adapted to his purpose. This can hardly be said of any other game, although I do not think there is much betting connected with Association football.
The real reason why professional bookmakers avoid cricket is because there is no scope for ​villainy. A jockey can be squared, also a trainer, and a stable-boy, and any one of them is sufficient for the purpose. But it is impossible for a bookmaker to bribe or square a whole eleven, and to square one or two would not pay. With the best intentions in the world, they may not be able to effect his purpose. Two men who had been bribed might get no runs, bowl no wickets, and field badly; but some others would score freely, bowl well, and two men fielding badly might not do much harm. It might be possible to find an eleven whose success generally depended on the skill of one man, like W. G. Grace for Gloucestershire, or Richardson for Surrey, when each was in his prime; and if it were possible for such a man to be squared for a series of matches, no doubt his side would lose matches that otherwise they would have won. But to attempt this for one match would be risky; if attempted for a series of matches it would become obvious and impossible. It may at first sight appear that this is equally the case at football. I know nothing of Rugby football, but at the Association game, unless two sides are very unequally matched, the ​goal-keeper—but only the goal-keeper—frequently has it in his power to lose a match. I have heard of such a case, but it was some years ago, and it is earnestly to be hoped that such things do not occur now.
As compared with football, cricket is not so much a scene of storm and stress; its interest is spread over a wider area of time, and at the present day it would really seem that the Britisher loves football more than cricket. One reason for this is, no doubt, because cricket is on the threshold of drastic reform. As at present played, it is far too much in favour of the bat, and the matches are unfinished. But football probably will always attract the greater crowd, because a man may see the game begun and ended in an hour and a half, and the bulk of the matches are played on Saturday half-holiday afternoons, when the workmen mean to enjoy themselves, and wages jingle in their pockets. Moreover, a Britisher loves excitement, and football is the concentrated essence of excitement. There is also an element of roughness about it, not to an undue extent, but to some extent, and a Britisher loves this too; it is ​probable indeed that this is one of the causes that makes him at heart a soldier. If you have watched football in League matches at Birmingham and West Bromwich, you will always notice that, however great may be the enthusiasm created by a fine tricky run, there is always a yell of joy when a player of the visiting eleven is sent flying on his back, and then, indeed, the spectator may be said fully to realise the pleasures of life. But such things do not occur in cricket: this is quite a different game: it is long drawn out, in a great many cases it is painfully slow, there are long delays, the niceties of the game are observed only by the intelligent, a batsman is only applauded by specialists in the pavilion when he plays a maiden over successfully on a difficult wicket, the public only applaud him when he hits a fourer, and the higher and harder it is, the more lustily will they shout.
It must not be supposed, however, that there is no excitement in cricket; there may be, and frequently ought to be a long drawn out and painfully exciting phase of the match that may last for some hours. A fourth innings of a match, when the quantity of runs necessary to ​win is the right number, the number that seems likely to ensure the inside winning by one wicket, or the outside by twelve runs, unless there is a collapse or pounding of the bowling by the earlier batsmen—such an innings is according to the best judgment the finest spectacle to watch that any game can afford. We all know the look of such an innings, how the hopes and fears alternately rise and fall; how, when you really begin to feel happy, the side whose colours you are wearing look like getting the runs, when lo! one or two wickets fall, and your spirits go to zero, and the other side become proportionately exalted. It may be that the last man comes in when ten runs arc wanted: the excitement then cannot last long, but it is so intense or even painful, while it lasts, that men are positively afraid to face it. Many men retire into the bowels of the pavilion in order to avoid looking on. Cricket, during the progress of a match, may present every form of excitement or the reverse. The game may at one moment look an absolute certainty for one side, ten minutes after it looks an equal certainty for the other side; the downfall of a ​batsman who is well in and scoring rapidly often has, and it is to be hoped often will again, turn the fortunes of a match. While he was in, the scoring was fast, and the bowling looked easy: now he is out, the boot is altogether on the other leg, the bowlers are happy, and the two batsmen who are at the wickets both look like getting out every over. The celebrated International Match between England and Australia in 1882 lasted only a short time, but the last day's cricket can never be forgotten. The University match of 1870, that of 1864, and Gentlemen and Players in 1877 and 1883, are just the same landmarks in cricket history. To this day all old cricketers and young ones too, who properly understand the history of cricket, talk of such matches, and call such matches by the name of some player whose prowess was the chief feature of the game. The Gentlemen and Players match in 1857 is always known by scholars as Hankey's match, because Hankey's innings of seventy was the main feature of the match. The University match of 1864 is to this day Mitchell's match; 1870, Cobden's match; the Australian and England match of 1882, ​Spofforth's match. Absence of betting, real skill and patience, intermixed with rapid and perhaps unorthodox hitting, many ups and downs, a most perplexing uncertainty, and the caprices of English weather—such is cricket, and it is justly called the king of games.
What can be said of golf? What is the reason of golf coming to stay in England and in America, too, if report speaks truly? It is not easy to say why such is the case. Anybody can understand why football is a popular game; it is fast for one thing, and there is violent exercise in it, which an Englishman always loves. And in the case of cricket anybody can understand the joy of hitting a ball over the ropes, while the excitement of playing before crowds appeals strongly to many of us. But how uninviting it sounds to hear golf described: "Your object, sir, is to get a ball down a series of holes in as few strokes as possible." Such was the definition of a Scotchman of the game, spoken in proper dialect, and no more and no less could be said. How very different from an imaginary epitome of the game of Association football: "See that ball, and see those two posts; now set ​to work, and kick that ball between and through the posts, and if anybody gets in your way just knock him over and go on." This sounds far more attractive to the Britisher: "knock him over!"—this is real joy, and so simple. Golf, however, in the first place, is a game like billiards, you must mind your own play, you can only to a limited extent, and that indirectly, interfere with your opponent's play. There is no "knocking him over" at golf, nor is there at billiards. All you do is to play your best in the hope that your opponent's best may not be as good as yours. If your opponent at football is running the ball down, you can go for him, not with your fists, but with your body. At cricket, if you are getting runs, your rivals are trying to bowl you out, or get you out somehow. But, except that you give safety misses at billiards, and thereby impede your rival's progress, golf and billiards stand alone among games in that they require you to concentrate your efforts on your own game and ignore your opponent's; he must go his way and you must go yours. At billiards you can do absolutely nothing while your enemy is playing; you have to look on and ​cannot even play. At golf you do indeed play, but you cannot interfere with the enemy. Each of these two games is self-centred; learn how to play certain strokes well, and when you win matches it is because your rival cannot make them so well as you. Of course, there is a large amount of luck in both games, billiards especially, but over a series of matches there is little to choose in this respect, and there is luck at every game except chess and that class of contest.
But though you ought not to heed your opponent, but simply play your game and if possible ignore him altogether, still to do this is a counsel of perfection, for the skill of your rival exercises a most important effect upon the play of practically everybody. I have mentioned billiards so much that I may be accused of wandering from the subject of cricket and golf, but there is in some ways so much in common between golf and billiards that I think I may be pardoned. A few years back, and even now, you could see players of the calibre of Mitchell, Peall, Dawson, and Diggle play among each other, and so well did they play that a simple man would infer from the length of their breaks and general ​skill that for Roberts to give them a start of nearly half the game was impossible. The inference that was made was that these players could play against Roberts as well as they played against each other. In nine cases out of ten no greater mistake could be made. You play against a great and strong player—he does not interfere with you, there is nothing to prevent your making the same breaks as last week you made when playing against Snooks, but as a matter of fact you do not make these breaks, and you seem unable to play at the top of your game when playing the great player. It is the same of golf. Vardon wins nearly every match he plays, not only because he plays better than any of his rivals, but also because everybody, or practically everybody, feels something within him which tells him that Vardon cannot be beaten, and this feeling has a blighting effect, and though Vardon may not be playing at the top of his game, still he wins; whilst Roberts has the same effect on his opponents at billiards. Everybody, no matter what game is played, knows how he feels when pitted against certain strong players. It is one aspect of how ​nerves affect players, and to analyse and explain it is difficult. It is easy to understand that to play the top of your game all that is necessary is to put your opponent out of your mind altogether, and just go on and play as if you were playing against an ordinary player. As I have said before, this is a counsel of perfection, and few can obey it. A man is somehow apt to feel that it is no good playing a good stroke, the probability being that his rival will bring off one equally good or better. The fact is overlooked that even a grand player fails occasionally, and that everybody finds it very hard to beat a very steady player, who can profit so much by one of his opponent's mistakes. Somehow or other a blight is on you; try how you will, you cannot forget or put out of your mind the prowess of the great player who is opposing you; he strikes a terror. This is one characteristic of golf, and it is one which golf shares with billiards.
One great attraction of golf, however, is that which appeals to the older of us, with whom work is a disgusting necessity and holidays the joy of the year. The middle-aged professional man with a substantial figure—"a fine chest that had slipped ​down," as I have heard it described—and a family, used to be driven in old days to the seaside for his month's holiday. I have known several cases in which it is not too much to say that the one thing the head of the family looked forward to all through his so-called holidays was the getting back again to his London house, his business and his club. He had absolutely nothing to do at the seaside, except consume tobacco, walk about the cliffs, and avoid street minstrels. Now the same business man has probably taken to golf even if only in foursomes, he has an amusement and a recreation every day, and he can always take it at the seaside—he can get a game, and his children can get health at one and the same place. I have heard people talk of the sorrows of a golfer's wife; they are nothing as compared with the sorrows of a non-golfer's wife during an enforced stay of a month at the seaside without golf and nothing to do. His children can learn golf in the proper way, namely in the holidays and not at school: there are often ladies' links where his daughters can play, and though the conversation may be too much in the one line of golf during dinner, ​nevertheless everybody is happy, and the holiday is a holiday and everybody is the better.
I have heard it said that bicycling and golfing have revolutionised England. In a sense they have. Distance within a limit has been quite annihilated, and a game has taken root on a soil where it was badly wanted; it has brought into activity a large trade, and increased the value of property in the neighbourhood of links, and added to the gaiety of nations.