The 1930s were the twilight of an era in cricket — the age of timeless Tests. It was a time when matches were not bound by clocks or calendars, stretching on until a definite result was produced, no matter how long that demanded. In Australia, such matches had always been a staple of Ashes contests. In England, they were rarer, generally reserved for the final match of the series, a practice beginning only in 1912.
Yet by the close of that decade, the very notion of timeless
Tests was showing signs of rot. Nowhere was this more glaring than at The Oval
in August 1938, in the final Test before the storm of the Second World War
swept everything away.
A Stage Prepared for
Batsmen’s Glory
Cricket has always danced to the groundsman’s tune. In those
days, preparing a surface that could endure was almost an art of geological
manipulation. Austin “Bosser” Martin, custodian of The Oval, was famed for
pitches of serene docility, sculpted by his legion of assistants dragging a
four-ton roller, nicknamed “Bosser’s Pet,” across the square from dawn to dusk.
According to young John Woodcock, who watched that infamous match as a boy,
Martin’s potion of choice included liquid manure — pungent enough to greet
passengers at Oval station.
Such engineering guaranteed a pitch that would last not mere
days, but weeks. But longevity came at the cost of excitement. Bowlers found
little to hope for on these sterile plains, and batting could become a slow,
joyless siege.
The Build-Up: Stakes
and Setbacks
By the time teams gathered at The Oval, Australia had
already ensured retention of the Ashes with a win at Leeds, alongside two drawn
Tests and a rain-ruined affair at Old Trafford. Yet England could still claw a
share of the series.
They suffered a blow when Les Ames, the lynchpin
wicketkeeper-batsman, aggravated a finger injury. In a scene ripe for Edwardian
farce, Arthur Wood — nearly 40 and uncapped — was summoned from Nottingham,
making the journey by taxi when he couldn’t catch a train. Such was the stage
set: timeless cricket, an ageing debutant behind the stumps, and a pitch primed
to bury bowlers’ spirits.
Day One: A Procession
of Runs
The match commenced on Saturday, August 20, before 30,000
spectators. Hammond won the toss for the fourth consecutive time, and England’s
batsmen set about their work with grim determination. By stumps, they had
amassed 347 for 1, with Hutton and Leyland cruising to majestic, unbeaten
centuries.
The Times was distinctly unimpressed, dismissing the
spectacle as little more than “a run-making competition,” with bowlers serving
merely as ornamental adjuncts. It was cricket stripped of its tension, reduced
to numerical excess.
Day Two and Beyond: A
Record Forged in Monotony
Monday offered more of the same. England closed on 634 for
5, Hutton serenely unbeaten on 300. A bizarre interlude saw Hammond, Paynter,
and Compton fall within nine runs of each other — Compton’s bowled dismissal
described as “bordering on the miraculous” given the torpid pitch.
On the third day, Hutton’s innings stretched from monumental
to historic. Passing Bradman’s Ashes record of 334, then Hammond’s 336, and
finally Bobby Abel’s Oval mark of 357, he endured for 13 hours and 20 minutes
before falling for 364, having faced 847 balls. Drinks were served by silver
tray on the outfield to mark milestones; a waiter in a Test match as much a curiosity
as the innings itself.
England’s eventual declaration at 903 for 7 set a new Test
record, and Arthur Wood — who contributed a jaunty 53 — quipped that he was
“always good in a crisis.” He even ribbed Bosser Martin about the only holes in
his pitch being those where the stumps were planted.
A Dark Twist:
Bradman’s Ankle and Australia’s Collapse
Late on day three, calamity struck. Bradman, bowling only
his third over, slipped in the cavernous footmarks left by O'Reilly and
fractured his ankle. Carried from the field, he would play no further part — a
blow so profound that O'Reilly later said the crowd reacted “as if it were an
aeroplane disaster.”
Bereft of Bradman and missing Fingleton to a torn muscle,
Australia’s batting proved spiritless. They folded for 201 and 123, the game
wrapped up before tea on the fourth day. England triumphed by an almost
grotesque margin: an innings and 579 runs.
A comic footnote saw Wood prematurely uproot the stumps for
souvenirs after a towering mis-hit by Fleetwood-Smith, only for the catch to be
dropped — the wickets had to be hastily replanted so the match could finally
conclude a few deliveries later.
The Aftermath: A Game
in Peril
England may have squared the series, but the verdict from
press and public alike was damning. Jack Hobbs confessed the match had changed
his view entirely; Pelham Warner warned that “the public will not stand for
timeless Tests.” Bob Wyatt railed against “easy-paced, doped wickets,” and
Wisden’s 1939 edition struck a sombre note: cricket risked losing its soul when
days were monopolised by two or three batsmen while others “loafed in the
pavilion.”
Even Bradman, convalescing, decried the lifeless pitches as
a blight on the game.
The Death of Timeless
Tests
The final nail came not in London but in Durban the following
March. There, after ten laborious days, England’s timeless Test against South
Africa was abandoned as a draw to allow players to catch their boat home. A
Times leader with crisp disdain declared such games “null and void of all the
natural elements that go to make cricket the enchanting game it is.”
When cricket resumed after the war, timeless Tests were
consigned to history — a relic of a world that had changed forever.
Thank You
Faisal Caesar
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