THE GOOGLY: FLASHMAN SUMS UP CRICKET'S APPEAL

FOLLOW HUW TURBERVILL @HUWZAT

‘The Green Man was a famous haunt of cricketers, and it was the sight of bats and stumps and other paraphernalia of the game in the window that suddenly brought back memories, and awoke a strange hunger – not to play, you understand, but just to smell the atmosphere again, and hear the talk of batters and bowlers, and the jargon and gossip.’

A sublime passage from Flashman’s Lady; a fine, funny read marinated in fictitious tales of our beloved game in the 1840s. In this third book of the popular series, written in 1977, George MacDonald Fraser has his philandering bully, Flashman, bump into his old enemy, the pompous christian Tom Brown of Rugby (of Schooldays fame). 

Brown invites him to play in a match at Lord’s, and Flashman, unsurprisingly a tearaway quick, shines. He dismisses real-life, celebrated Kent triumvirate Nicholas Felix, Fuller Pilch and Alfred Mynn (the latter after he tricks the umpire into giving an lbw decision, the cad – Shane Warne anyone?). The hat-trick delights the packed Lord’s crowd, “10 deep at the boundary”. Flashman then takes part in Canterbury Cricket Week. He receives a bung in a brown envelope from Daedalus Tighe, a notorious bookie, and is forced to try and deliberately throw a single-wicket competition. 

Descriptions of him laughably attempting to give up his wicket brought Lou Vincent’s relatively recent courtroom revelations to mind. Presuming that MacDonald Fraser has done his research, it suggests that match-fixing is far from a post-Hansie Cronje phenomenon. There is a huge amount for fans to enjoy in the book, although the comical description of ‘brothel cricket’ is for adults only.

That first quote resonates the most for me, though. Until my mid-20s, it was all about: 1) if we won; 2) how many runs I made; 3) how many wickets I took (not necessarily in that order, I admit). 

Then my journalism career took over, and I fitted in the odd game here and there, for a number of sides. That was until a few years ago, when I suddenly had a craving to be taken into the bosom of a club once more. 

My performances have done nothing to justify my excitement. I am so dismayed at my batting this season, I have even briefly thought of quitting at the age of 43. But it is the camaraderie, and the banter, that makes playing for a team, and a club, so special, isn’t it?

Being with my club in Suffolk, from 18–26, gave me some of the happiest days of my life. Playing the game itself. Learning how to adapt from schools’ to men’s cricket. Being taught how to eat curry and drink beer afterwards. By teachers, a traffic cop, a scientist, an orchard owner, the local bank manager. Listening to their jokes (some repeatable, some not). As a schoolboy or student, learning about the meaning of life. 

As Flashman says… the atmosphere, the talk of batters and bowlers, the jargon and the gossip. Unbeatable.

Flashman’s Lady is published by Harper.

Speaking of cricket books, I had a lovely chat with John McKenzie. His shop in Ewell, Surrey, has been open for 43 years. I am happy to report he is still going strong, despite the internet and Amazon, and has eight rooms’ full of old and out-of-print tomes – including an extension that runs through his garden. His most valuable books are Samuel Britcher’s 18th century annual reports (the precursor to Wisden). And his favourite? “As a child I went to the library and found Neville Cardus. I lost myself in his tour reports for hours.” Bliss indeed.