On Monday, 10 January 1994 at 09:58:27 UTC, Uday Rajan wrote:
> This is a re-post of Cardus' essay on Woolley, first posted about a year
> ago, with apologies to Sadiq for the delay.
> -------------------------------------------------------------------------
> FRANK WOOLLEY, by Neville Cardus
> (from "Good Days", 1934)
> During the quarter of a century that is Woolley's career so
> far, the game has gone through many changes. Bowling has had its
> fashions. Fast break-backs; slow and medium spin, now from the
> off, now from the leg; swerve and googly; this theory and the
> other---Woolley has had acquaintance with the lot of them. And
> while other batsmen have compromised some virtue of their style
> so that they might do the proper and expedient thing, Woolley
> has gone his ways undisturbed, as though unaware of the
> ambuscades about him. Other and more suspicious men have looked
> ahead. `Ah!' they have told themselves, `here are gins and
> snares of a strange new invention. here are googlies and swerves.
> I must borrow the latest specifics. Fatal to trust to the ancient
> counters. The straight bat, the clean drive---why, these would
> lead me to disaster were I to use them to stop the modern
> bowling. I must hold the bat down, watch the ball all the way,
> keep my legs in front. Yes, I must be modern in the presence
> of modern bowling.'
> Since 1919, few batsmen have dared to drive a cricket ball
> hard and straight; fewer still have dared to cut past point. They
> have, most of them, got back on their wickets, watched the spin
> and the swerve to the last fraction of a second. The delayed
> stroke, supposedly safe, is bound to be cribbed and confined,
> unfree and unbeautiful. Even Hobbs has suffered a change in his
> play; his bat no longer moves where the master would have it go;
> it has for years now been weighted by circumspection, a doubting,
> empirical bat. Woolley on the eve of his forty-seventh birthday
> made runs as felicitously as he made them for us nearly thirty
> years ago. Never has he compelled a crowd to ask whether cricket
> is as good as it used to be; never has he made the pavilion clock
> go round with slow, tedious fingers. No other cricketer living
> has served the meadow game as happily and faithfully as Woolley
> has done, summer after summer. No other living cricketer has
> moved cricket crowds to the happiness which has been felt
> whenever and wherever Woolley has batted, north, south, east,
> or west, green and pleasant Mote Park or grim and sulphurous
> Bramall Lane.
> Cricket belongs entirely to summer every time that Woolley
> bats an innings. His cricket is compounded of soft airs and
> fresh flavours. The bloom of the year is on it, making for
> sweetness. And the very brevity of summer is in it too, making
> for loveliness. Woolley, so the statisticians tell us, often
> plays a long innings. But Time's a cheat, as the old song
> sings. Fleeter he seems in his stay than in his flight. The
> brevity in Woolley's batting is a thing of pulse or spirit,
> not to be checked by clocks, but only to be apprehended by
> imagination. He is always about to lose his wicket; his
> runs are thin-spun. His bat is charmed, and most of us, being
> reasonable, do not believe in charms. There is a miracle
> happening on every cricket field when Woolley stays in two or
> three hours; an innings by him is almost too unsubstantial for
> this world. His cricket has no bastions; it is poised
> precariously---at any rate, that is how the rational mind
> perceives it. But, for that matter, all the loveliness of the
> world seems no more lasting than the dew on the grass, seems
> no more than the perfume and suppliance of a minute. Yet the
> miracle of renewal goes on, and all the east winds in the
> world may blow in vain. So with Woolley's cricket; the lease
> of it is in the hands of the special Providence which looks
> after things that do not look after themselves.
> His batsmanship, like all fine art, can be enjoyed by
> everybody, because it is fresh and natural, and, at bottom,
> as simple as it is modest. Other cricketers need
> sophistication to praise them. Their point of view must be
> understood. The state of the game, or the wicket, has to be
> looked into. `I simply must play so-and-so,'`Why, look at
> the bowling!---you simply cannot play a long-lengthed hit
> against that kind of spin.'`The pitch is getting drier; the
> ball's turning.' We have to attend to these esoteric points
> before we can get to the quality of the latest innings by
> Bloggs of Blankshire---one hundred and six in four hours and
> a quarter, without a chance, without a risk. No child,
> knowing nothing of cricket but bat and ball, could understand the
> game as Bloggs plays it. But innocence itself will open eyes of
> understanding when they look upon an innings by Woolley. Here,
> indeed, is true, unspoiled cricket; bat and ball, indeed, and
> little else, save the touch of an artist---a cricketer who is as
> much a weaverof beauty's spells as any Kreisler who ever lived.
> The score-board does not get anywhere near the secret of
> Woolley. It can tell us only about Bloggs; for him runs and
> results are the one justification. To add up the runs made by
> Woolley---why, it is as though you were to add up the crochets
> and quavers written by Mozart. An innings by Woolley begins from
> the raw material of cricket, and goes far beyond. We remember it
> flong after we have forgotten the competitive occasion which
> prompted the making of it; it remains in the mind; an evocative
> memory which stirs in us a sense of a bygone day's poise and
> fragrance, of a mood and a delectable shape seen quickly, but for
> good and all. Some of Woolley's innings stay with us until they
> become like poetry which can be told over again and again; we see
> the shapeliness of his cricket with our minds and we feel its
> beauty with our hearts. I can think of cricket by Woolley which
> has inexplicably found me murmuring to myself (that I might get
> the best out of it)
> Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping
> Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star.
> I admit, O reader, that an innings by Woolley has nothing to
> do with owls and dusk and starlight. I am trying to describe an
> experience of the fancy; I am talking of cadences, of dying falls
> common to all the beauty of the world. My argument, in a word, is
> concerned not with Wolley the Kent cricketer, but that essence of
> his batsmanship which will live on, after his cricket is done
> with, after his runs and averages have been totted up and found
> to be much the same as those of many other players. He has made
> music for cricket in all places---muted music, for never is
> Woolley's cricket assertive, strident. He is the soul of
> courtesy, of porportion, as he drives his boundaries. He will hit
> a bowler for four fours in an over and not give him reason to
> feel bruised or affronted. It is all done so quietly, so
> modestly. The game's hard combativenss is put out of sight, out
> of all one's senses, when Woolley bats. Even the bowlers may
> well be deceived, and think that they are not Woolley's
> adversaries at all, but, at his own sweet pleasure, his
> fellows-in-bliss, glad followers of him along an enchanted way.

On Monday, 17 April 2023 at 14:14:59 UTC+1, DAVID SADLIER wrote:
> On Monday, 10 January 1994 at 09:58:27 UTC, Uday Rajan wrote:
> > This is a re-post of Cardus' essay on Woolley, first posted about a year
> > ago, with apologies to Sadiq for the delay.
> > -------------------------------------------------------------------------
> > FRANK WOOLLEY, by Neville Cardus
> > (from "Good Days", 1934)
> > During the quarter of a century that is Woolley's career so
> > far, the game has gone through many changes. Bowling has had its
> > fashions. Fast break-backs; slow and medium spin, now from the
> > off, now from the leg; swerve and googly; this theory and the
> > other---Woolley has had acquaintance with the lot of them. And
> > while other batsmen have compromised some virtue of their style
> > so that they might do the proper and expedient thing, Woolley
> > has gone his ways undisturbed, as though unaware of the
> > ambuscades about him. Other and more suspicious men have looked
> > ahead. `Ah!' they have told themselves, `here are gins and
> > snares of a strange new invention. here are googlies and swerves.
> > I must borrow the latest specifics. Fatal to trust to the ancient
> > counters. The straight bat, the clean drive---why, these would
> > lead me to disaster were I to use them to stop the modern
> > bowling. I must hold the bat down, watch the ball all the way,
> > keep my legs in front. Yes, I must be modern in the presence
> > of modern bowling.'
> > Since 1919, few batsmen have dared to drive a cricket ball
> > hard and straight; fewer still have dared to cut past point. They
> > have, most of them, got back on their wickets, watched the spin
> > and the swerve to the last fraction of a second. The delayed
> > stroke, supposedly safe, is bound to be cribbed and confined,
> > unfree and unbeautiful. Even Hobbs has suffered a change in his
> > play; his bat no longer moves where the master would have it go;
> > it has for years now been weighted by circumspection, a doubting,
> > empirical bat. Woolley on the eve of his forty-seventh birthday
> > made runs as felicitously as he made them for us nearly thirty
> > years ago. Never has he compelled a crowd to ask whether cricket
> > is as good as it used to be; never has he made the pavilion clock
> > go round with slow, tedious fingers. No other cricketer living
> > has served the meadow game as happily and faithfully as Woolley
> > has done, summer after summer. No other living cricketer has
> > moved cricket crowds to the happiness which has been felt
> > whenever and wherever Woolley has batted, north, south, east,
> > or west, green and pleasant Mote Park or grim and sulphurous
> > Bramall Lane.
> > Cricket belongs entirely to summer every time that Woolley
> > bats an innings. His cricket is compounded of soft airs and
> > fresh flavours. The bloom of the year is on it, making for
> > sweetness. And the very brevity of summer is in it too, making
> > for loveliness. Woolley, so the statisticians tell us, often
> > plays a long innings. But Time's a cheat, as the old song
> > sings. Fleeter he seems in his stay than in his flight. The
> > brevity in Woolley's batting is a thing of pulse or spirit,
> > not to be checked by clocks, but only to be apprehended by
> > imagination. He is always about to lose his wicket; his
> > runs are thin-spun. His bat is charmed, and most of us, being
> > reasonable, do not believe in charms. There is a miracle
> > happening on every cricket field when Woolley stays in two or
> > three hours; an innings by him is almost too unsubstantial for
> > this world. His cricket has no bastions; it is poised
> > precariously---at any rate, that is how the rational mind
> > perceives it. But, for that matter, all the loveliness of the
> > world seems no more lasting than the dew on the grass, seems
> > no more than the perfume and suppliance of a minute. Yet the
> > miracle of renewal goes on, and all the east winds in the
> > world may blow in vain. So with Woolley's cricket; the lease
> > of it is in the hands of the special Providence which looks
> > after things that do not look after themselves.
> > His batsmanship, like all fine art, can be enjoyed by
> > everybody, because it is fresh and natural, and, at bottom,
> > as simple as it is modest. Other cricketers need
> > sophistication to praise them. Their point of view must be
> > understood. The state of the game, or the wicket, has to be
> > looked into. `I simply must play so-and-so,'`Why, look at
> > the bowling!---you simply cannot play a long-lengthed hit
> > against that kind of spin.'`The pitch is getting drier; the
> > ball's turning.' We have to attend to these esoteric points
> > before we can get to the quality of the latest innings by
> > Bloggs of Blankshire---one hundred and six in four hours and
> > a quarter, without a chance, without a risk. No child,
> > knowing nothing of cricket but bat and ball, could understand the
> > game as Bloggs plays it. But innocence itself will open eyes of
> > understanding when they look upon an innings by Woolley. Here,
> > indeed, is true, unspoiled cricket; bat and ball, indeed, and
> > little else, save the touch of an artist---a cricketer who is as
> > much a weaverof beauty's spells as any Kreisler who ever lived.
> > The score-board does not get anywhere near the secret of
> > Woolley. It can tell us only about Bloggs; for him runs and
> > results are the one justification. To add up the runs made by
> > Woolley---why, it is as though you were to add up the crochets
> > and quavers written by Mozart. An innings by Woolley begins from
> > the raw material of cricket, and goes far beyond. We remember it
> > flong after we have forgotten the competitive occasion which
> > prompted the making of it; it remains in the mind; an evocative
> > memory which stirs in us a sense of a bygone day's poise and
> > fragrance, of a mood and a delectable shape seen quickly, but for
> > good and all. Some of Woolley's innings stay with us until they
> > become like poetry which can be told over again and again; we see
> > the shapeliness of his cricket with our minds and we feel its
> > beauty with our hearts. I can think of cricket by Woolley which
> > has inexplicably found me murmuring to myself (that I might get
> > the best out of it)
> > Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping
> > Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star.
> > I admit, O reader, that an innings by Woolley has nothing to
> > do with owls and dusk and starlight. I am trying to describe an
> > experience of the fancy; I am talking of cadences, of dying falls
> > common to all the beauty of the world. My argument, in a word, is
> > concerned not with Wolley the Kent cricketer, but that essence of
> > his batsmanship which will live on, after his cricket is done
> > with, after his runs and averages have been totted up and found
> > to be much the same as those of many other players. He has made
> > music for cricket in all places---muted music, for never is
> > Woolley's cricket assertive, strident. He is the soul of
> > courtesy, of porportion, as he drives his boundaries. He will hit
> > a bowler for four fours in an over and not give him reason to
> > feel bruised or affronted. It is all done so quietly, so
> > modestly. The game's hard combativenss is put out of sight, out
> > of all one's senses, when Woolley bats. Even the bowlers may
> > well be deceived, and think that they are not Woolley's
> > adversaries at all, but, at his own sweet pleasure, his
> > fellows-in-bliss, glad followers of him along an enchanted way.

In message <3a67dff6-7ca0-462e-a242-0debb4f3e902n@googlegroups.com>,
DAVID SADLIER <derails1932@gmail.com> writes
>On Monday, 10 January 1994 at 09:58:27 UTC, Uday Rajan wrote:
>> This is a re-post of Cardus' essay on Woolley, first posted about a year
>> ago, with apologies to Sadiq for the delay.
<p>

Thanks for the repost. I wonder if you realised it's been 19 years since
Uday Rajan posted it.
--
John Hall "[It was] so steep that at intervals the street broke into steps,
like a person breaking into giggles or hiccups, and then resumed
its sober climb, until it had another fit of steps."
Ursula K Le Guin "The Beginning Place"

On Monday, April 17, 2023 at 11:32:05 AM UTC-4, John Hall wrote:
> In message <3a67dff6-7ca0-462e...@googlegroups.com>,
> DAVID SADLIER <derai...@gmail.com> writes
> >On Monday, 10 January 1994 at 09:58:27 UTC, Uday Rajan wrote:
> >> This is a re-post of Cardus' essay on Woolley, first posted about a year
> >> ago, with apologies to Sadiq for the delay.
> <p>
>
> Thanks for the repost. I wonder if you realised it's been 19 years since
> Uday Rajan posted it.
> --
> John Hall "[It was] so steep that at intervals the street broke into steps,
> like a person breaking into giggles or hiccups, and then resumed
> its sober climb, until it had another fit of steps."
> Ursula K Le Guin "The Beginning Place"

What happened to all the Indians posting here, one was a real moron!

In message <3391f797-1d22-4fda-a001-443b19028985n@googlegroups.com>,
Dryes <dryes1617@gmail.com> writes
>On Monday, April 17, 2023 at 11:32:050 >> In message <3a67dff6-7ca0-462e...@googlegroups.com>,
>> DAVID SADLIER <derai...@gmail.com> writes
>> >On Monday, 10 January 1994 at 09:58:27 UTC, Uday Rajan wrote:
>> >> This is a re-post of Cardus' essay on Woolley, first posted about a year
>> >> ago, with apologies to Sadiq for the delay.
>> <p>
>>
>> Thanks for the repost. I wonder if you realised it's been 19 years since
>> Uday Rajan posted it.
>
>What happened to all the Indians posting here, one was a real moron!

Considering there must have been 20 or more, if only one was a real
moron they were doing pretty well. I suppose they all went first to web
forums and then to Twitter when that came along. (As was also the case
with most of the non-Indian posters too.)
--
John Hall "[It was] so steep that at intervals the street broke into steps,
like a person breaking into giggles or hiccups, and then resumed
its sober climb, until it had another fit of steps."
Ursula K Le Guin "The Beginning Place"

On Tuesday, April 18, 2023 at 1:32:05 AM UTC+10, John Hall wrote:
> In message <3a67dff6-7ca0-462e...@googlegroups.com>,
> DAVID SADLIER <derai...@gmail.com> writes
> >On Monday, 10 January 1994 at 09:58:27 UTC, Uday Rajan wrote:
> >> This is a re-post of Cardus' essay on Woolley, first posted about a year
> >> ago, with apologies to Sadiq for the delay.
> <p>
>
> Thanks for the repost. I wonder if you realised it's been 19 years since
> Uday Rajan posted it.

29. I don't think that's the longest time I've seen between posts in a usenet threads, but I reckon it'd be close.

-Moriarty

In message <13179ab2-2ab4-4358-9e07-1139ed71a919n@googlegroups.com>,
Moriarty <blues95@ivillage.com> writes
>On Tuesday, April 18, 2023 at 1:32:050 >> In message <3a67dff6-7ca0-462e...@googlegroups.com>,
>> DAVID SADLIER <derai...@gmail.com> writes
>> >On Monday, 10 January 1994 at 09:58:27 UTC, Uday Rajan wrote:
>> >> This is a re-post of Cardus' essay on Woolley, first posted about a year
>> >> ago, with apologies to Sadiq for the delay.
>> <p>
>>
>> Thanks for the repost. I wonder if you realised it's been 19 years since
>> Uday Rajan posted it.
>
>29. I don't think that's the longest time I've seen between posts in a
>usenet threads, but I reckon it'd be close.
>
>-Moriarty

Oops! How did I fail in a basic piece of subtraction?
--
John Hall "[It was] so steep that at intervals the street broke into steps,
like a person breaking into giggles or hiccups, and then resumed
its sober climb, until it had another fit of steps."
Ursula K Le Guin "The Beginning Place"

On 19 Apr 2023 at 08:40:55, John Hall <john_nospam@jhall.co.uk> wrote:
> In message <13179ab2-2ab4-4358-9e07-1139ed71a919n@googlegroups.com>,
> Moriarty <blues95@ivillage.com> writes
>>On Tuesday, April 18, 2023 at 1:32:050 >> In message <3a67dff6-7ca0-462e...@googlegroups.com>,
>>> DAVID SADLIER <derai...@gmail.com> writes
>>> >On Monday, 10 January 1994 at 09:58:27 UTC, Uday Rajan wrote:
>>> >> This is a re-post of Cardus' essay on Woolley, first posted about a year
>>> >> ago, with apologies to Sadiq for the delay.
>>> <p>
>>>
>>> Thanks for the repost. I wonder if you realised it's been 19 years since
>>> Uday Rajan posted it.
>>
>>29. I don't think that's the longest time I've seen between posts in a
>>usenet threads, but I reckon it'd be close.
>>
>>-Moriarty
>
> Oops! How did I fail in a basic piece of subtraction?

Don't apologise.
19, 29, 39 years, Neville Cardus is never unwelcome.
I enjoyed it.

On Thursday, April 20, 2023 at 2:46:12 AM UTC-4, Bob Martin wrote:
> On 19 Apr 2023 at 08:40:55, John Hall <john_...@jhall.co.uk> wrote:
> > In message <13179ab2-2ab4-4358...@googlegroups.com>,
> > Moriarty <blu...@ivillage.com> writes
> >>On Tuesday, April 18, 2023 at 1:32:050 >> In message <3a67dff6-7ca0-462e...@googlegroups.com>,
> >>> DAVID SADLIER <derai...@gmail.com> writes
> >>> >On Monday, 10 January 1994 at 09:58:27 UTC, Uday Rajan wrote:
> >>> >> This is a re-post of Cardus' essay on Woolley, first posted about a year
> >>> >> ago, with apologies to Sadiq for the delay.
> >>> <p>
> >>>
> >>> Thanks for the repost. I wonder if you realised it's been 19 years since
> >>> Uday Rajan posted it.
> >>
> >>29. I don't think that's the longest time I've seen between posts in a
> >>usenet threads, but I reckon it'd be close.
> >>
> >>-Moriarty
> >
> > Oops! How did I fail in a basic piece of subtraction?
> Don't apologise.
> 19, 29, 39 years, Neville Cardus is never unwelcome.
> I enjoyed it.

We had a trove of Cardus stuff here once - at https://groups.google.com/g/rec.sport.cricket/c/yiAZZ39_P9o/m/BO9uSILiI2gJ.