Death Of A Sporting Hero (20 November)

A rare thing for this blog, but for once something that has nothing to do with Spain or Mallorca.

Basil D’Oliveira has died.

Why, among other deaths, should D’Oliveira’s passing demand that I indulge in a spot of obituary writing? He wasn’t, after all, that great a cricketer. He was a good one but no more than that. The reason lies in his story and in the way it affected me.

A South African Cape coloured, D’Oliveira was denied the opportunity under South Africa’s apartheid system to play cricket at the highest levels. He came to England, took British citizenship and qualified for the test team. His inclusion in the England side set off two momentums – one was the later selection of other South Africans but without the same moral justification; the second was the eventual abandonment of apartheid.

As a nine-year-old, I didn’t appreciate what apartheid meant, but it was as a nine-year-old that I first saw D’Oliveira play. It was the Hastings festival match against the touring Australians, and he was in a team – A.E.R. Gilligan’s XI – with another South African (Eddie Barlow, who was to become a fierce critic of apartheid) as well as a Pakistani, Mushtaq Mohammad.

What stood out from this match was the fact that, in the days when six-hitting was a rarity, D’Oliveira hit two, both out of the ground. For a nine-year-old, he was an exciting and unusual player; only Gary Sobers or Colin Milburn hit sixes.

It was my great uncle, who took me to the match, who explained the situation with D’Oliveira. I’m not sure he particularly approved of “Dolly” possibly playing for England, but for me it was hard to get my head around why he couldn’t play for South Africa. But when he first appeared for England, two years later, I was ecstatic. I had, in my own small way, discovered D’Oliveira at the Hastings match; he was “my” player.

It was a further two years on when the full implications of D’Oliveira’s England test place were to surface. He hadn’t had a particularly good season, but he was chosen for the final test of the summer when Roger Prideaux was declared unfit. I was at that Oval match, one famous for its storm and Derek Underwood bowling England to victory against Australia on a badly rain-affected wicket.

D’Oliveira scored a hundred. 158 to be precise. There seemed to me no reason why he wouldn’t now be selected for the winter tour. To South Africa.

I recall my shock when listening eagerly to the radio as the tour squad was announced. D’Oliveira wasn’t in it. Tom Cartwright, a better bowler but not in D’Oliveira’s league as a batsman, was chosen ahead of him. There could only have been one explanation, as far as I was concerned: politics.

What happened next was either fortunate or unfortunate, depending on your point of view. Cartwright developed an injury, couldn’t tour and so D’Oliveira replaced him. It was then that all hell broke out. The South African government claimed it was a political selection, which was a bit rich, the tour was called off, South Africa’s own tour of England in 1970 was cancelled, and eventually sporting sanctions were imposed which did have a profound impact on finally ending apartheid.

What wasn’t known, but now is, was the part that the English cricketing establishment had played in seeking to keep D’Oliveira out of the squad. The journalist and commentator E.W. Swanton was to the fore in doing so, as was Colin Cowdrey, the England captain at the time. On purely cricketing grounds, Cowdrey might have had a reasonable argument, while it also came to be known that Dolly did like a drink. But the politics had initially overriden both D’Oliveira’s credentials as a player and any question as to his fitness.

A further two years on, I sat my English O Level. The exam included the option to write an essay on a sporting hero. Afterwards, I asked a friend, who I knew would have taken the sporting option, who his subject had been: Tommie Smith, the American sprinter who had given the black-gloved fist salute at the 1968 Olympics. I had written about D’Oliveira.

From different sports, we had both come to write about similar things. Through sport, in addition to music of the time as well as the not infrequent news of race issues in America, we had been exposed to the injustice and absurdity of racism. Our education was not that of the classroom but of the sports arena. It was the lesson as to the grotesqueness of racism and apartheid and the effect it could have on one man, not a great cricketer but a good cricketer, that affected me, and one I have never forgotten.

Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Football: It’s not cricket

At five minutes past four local time yesterday afternoon Luis Suarez missed a penalty for Liverpool. It would have signalled the first cries of exasperation and the first curses of the new Premier League season in Bar Brits the length and breadth of Mallorca. The footy was back, the Saint Mick was flowing and the tills were alive with the sound of euros.

In a multi-screen Bar Brit would have been a corner of a bar in a foreign land that was forever, or at least on Saturday afternoon, England. An England that once was. Cheers there would have been, but they would have been a momentary distraction for the bellydom bemoaning Suarez’s miss. At five minutes past four local time Kevin Pietersen caught Sree Sreesanth. England had thrashed India, had claimed the number one spot in the world test cricket rankings and had restored the order of Empire.

During the lunchtime interval before the confirmation of England’s newly acquired status, there was an interview on “Test Match Special”. It was with Dan Stevens who plays Matthew Crawley in “Downton Abbey”, a period drama set at a time when Empire was starting its decline but when civility was encapsulated by the village green and a gentlemanly ethos of cricketing fair play and values.

Stevens went to Tonbridge School. Its annual fee of over 31,000 pounds is greater than the national average wage and, so, far greater than that earned by inhabitants of inner cities, assuming they earn at all.

Cricket is still a sport of the public school. As it always has been. Yet it was, until around the fifties and sixties, a game of the people as much as football was. It is popular now, but not to the extent it once was. The downturn in its popularity and the supremacy that football assumed coincided with the irreversible changes to English society from the sixties onwards.

Football reigned through the wasteland years of the seventies, the brutality of the eighties and into the newly aspirational nineties, the Premier League being born out of clubs’ demands for ever more television money. So started the golden era of English football, golden in terms of the sheer amount of cash the game could generate. It became unquestionably the people’s game.

Yet this people’s game, at least in its Premier League manifestation, is far removed from the people. They have been taken in, exploited and made complete fools of. But they still lap it up. They still flock to the Bar Brits, donning their replica shirts.

The richness of the sport, the attitudes that surround the game and the exposure of the wealth and misbehaviour of players are the stuff of constant media fascination, fed to a fanaticised public incapable of discerning the degree to which it is being manipulated and driven by the game’s marketing. Despite the cost of football, be it that of a Sky subscription or the cost of attendance and travel, the public refuses to turn its back on a sport which has lost any sense of moral compass. The most sickening word in the football vocabulary is a four-letter word – “scum”. Teams are scum, other fans are scum. It is a filthy word that sums up the attitudinal wrongs of a sport that in its playing is the preserve of the filthy rich.

Cricket has acquired its own wealth, its own disposability, its own attitudinal failures. It is still played on the playing fields of the public schools, attended by the sons of bankers who can afford thirty thousand a year fees. Yet despite its wealth and a history redolent of Empire and the public school, it is more of a people’s game in that it has not lost sight of its core values. It comes close to doing so, but somehow manages to pull back from the brink. Fair play just about prevails.

It fails, though, to capture the following of those who inhabit a Bar Brit and who have been sold and continue to be sold a game that is as socially divisive as bankers earning huge bonuses. Football constantly searches for role models, as though this quest were an admission that the game has no core values. And who does it throw up? Terry, Cole, Rooney. Millionaires all.

The Bar Brit football fan who bleats about the criminal avarice of rioters fails to appreciate that what’s on a plasma screen on a Saturday afternoon is avarice gone mad. Football is a game lacking a sense of fair play. It is one dominated by its “scum” attitudes and its glamorisation of those of questionable intelligence and personal values. This, not cricket, is what you mainly get on a plasma screen. So why should anyone be surprised when someone smashes a shop window and helps himself to his own screen?

Any comments to andrew@thealcudiaguide.com please.

Divine Cricket

Around the time that the first test match between England and South Africa got underway yesterday, the national radio station RNE3 offered something of a cricketing tribute. Not, one imagines, that they for one moment knew anything about the game at Centurion. Nevertheless, there it was – on this most eclectic of Spanish music stations – a song from the “Duckworth Lewis Method” album by the group of the same name (Neil Hannon, The Divine Comedy), with references to getting your pads on and the like.

How big, do you suppose, does a song about cricket play with a Spanish audience? Not very, one would think, especially as the lyrics are of course in English and obscure to any – even to English speakers – who might not understand the cricketing motifs in the song, after which the presenter explained that it came from a concept album about cricket, a sport that no Spaniard would have a clue about. What would have been better, would have been if the presenter had tried to explain the Duckworth Lewis Method to a Spanish audience.