'god Bless Dear Old Maurice Tate'
Sun Herald
Sunday January 17, 1988
MUCH of the dignity of the dear old Sydney Cricket Ground has fled the arena since the first time I laid my eyes upon the gracious scene as I took up my five cents position close to the rickety old wooden scoreboard that stood at the top of The Hill in identically the same position as that concrete treasured creation now almost completely obliterated by the Doug Walters Stand.
The year was 1924. By some miracle of cash husbandry not peculiar to me or my fellow student mates then existing on a cash flow of Pound1/5/- a week from a scholarship guaranteed to see us graduate as loyal servants of the NSW Department of Public Instruction while boarding away from our country homes, I had managed to budget for the sixpence required to enter the Hill gates for the NSW encounter with Arthur Gilligan's English touring team.
Even now, 64 years later, I feel certain that I got my full money's worth.
Indeed, on further reflection I'm willing to bet I got a lot more for my dough than present-day kids are likely to get for theirs. Inspiration, it is commonly called.
First, right at my beck and call almost within touching distance was that beautiful scoreboard, hoary with age, sporting names and figures which were so big and clear in black on snow white backgrounds.
They were so easy to see, unlike the fancy technological stuff that makes one close to forgetting that the grand old ground keeps statistical records readily available even now for those who have learnt to read.
There was no play-back television to buttress up the arguing abilities of one who had inadvertently missed an important occurrence like a magnificent bowling delivery or an eye-opening catch while rummaging through his lunch bag for a bottle opener.
That I had to walk from Glebe to the SCG and back again detracted nothing from my memorable first day at a place which has since become my second home.
I saw Maurice Tate bowl for the first time on that precious morning.
More important, I can still see him running up from the Paddington end, his long arms flailing into the breeze and his splayed feet making identifiable marks on the incredible greenery of the grand surface.
Yes, he bowled into the wind _ even with the new ball. It was a curiosity which took time for me to assimilate. And his keeper, Strudwick, stood right up over the stumps.
I had read a lot about this particular young Sussex "up-and-comer" whose father, Fred, nicknamed "Chub", had played for England and had won the unenviable reputation of having lost the thrilling fourth Test at Old Trafford, Manchester, when he dropped Joe Darling, Australia's left-handed punishing batsman-captain on the square leg boundary off leg spinner Len Braund and followed that up by being clean bowled with only four runs to get to win by Australia's left-hander Saunders with an orthodox inswinger to which he failed to offer his bat.
I knew, too, that the impressive young man with the ball in his hand was the very same kid whom old "Chub" was referring to during his disconsolate trip back home from Manchester when he said: "I have a seven-year-old kid at home who will make up one day for all the damage I have done on this day."
Marvellous isn't it what an 18-year-old kid can carry in his head to the SCG, especially, perhaps, when his pockets carry little else but air and cobwebs.
I noticed that Tate took a relatively insignificant run to the wicket for a man handling a new ball.
He took seven walking paces and a final jump of four to five feet to mark his starting point with the savagery of a determined brute of a man attempting a crucial goal from the halfway line.
He was tall and loose-limbed, his face bore the ruddy complexion of a man used to spending his time outdoors, and his hair was inclined to straggle a little around his ears, at a time when the accustomed order given to barbers was: "Short around the neck and sides, please".
All these things taking my immediate notice were brushed aside once I saw him bring his arm over.
He ran up manfully in a well balanced stride, letting the ball go with a rhythm poetical enough to have done Henry Lawson, the bard from Grenfell, full justice.
In no time I realised that I was watching, for the very first time in my life, a bowling wizard who could make the ball swing according to his will.
And I wasn't the only one about the hallowed precincts who was fully aware of the same startling fact.
First, I presume, was Charlie Macartney, the batting wizard right-hander nicknamed "The Governor General" because of the imperious manner with which he dealt with his problems encountered in cricket and with cricketers as he went his brilliant way.
He was the first batting God to take his place in my personal register where he still holds a hallowed niche.
The strokes he played with such commanding force and ingenuity and his incredible deftness in destroying bowling opposition were world renowned.
Charlie was the first to face the Tate music.
He fouled up a beautiful fastish medium outswinger, planted right on the vital spot to give nuggety Patsy Hendren a brisk catch somewhere about second slip to have the veritable "owner of the bat" on his way home with a duck on his time sheet.
As if that were not enough for my money, Maurice proceeded to collect Tommy Andrews' and Alan Kippax's wickets with utter disrespect for the fabulous estimates I had conjured up in my mind about two of my special heroes.
Had they not both reacted nobly to the dangerous situation along with Dr Jimmy Bogle in the first Sydney Shield match against Victoria at the SCG after World War I when fast bowler Ted McDonald had literally left our local heroes high and dry.
And to round off an effort of which any bowler who ever lived would have been so justifiably proud that the going rate for his autograph would have trebled in a flash, he added Johnny Taylor, Jack Gregory, Bertie Oldfield -everyone of them a Test century-maker - and Dr Otto Nothling to his seven wickets for 74 runs bag.
Did I get my money's worth? Boy, oh boy, I ask you.
Later I got to know Tate very well indeed.
I told him, of course, of what he had done for me in opening my bowling eyes and giving me so much meat to think about in the years that followed.
I'm sure it was on that day in 1924 I realised the supreme importance of the first and second fingers of the bowling hand _ the longer the better _ in determining and controlling the art of swing.
As a companion Tate had the quietest voice I can remember - that is, of course, if I try to forget Sir Neville Cardus, who spoke almost in a whisper.
Facetiously I tried many times to get them in conversation during the days we spent together in the press boxes, but the satisfaction eluded me.
It would have been tremendous fun to watch the two of them bending their heads down and in to hear what the other was trying to say.
Too late, of course, now, but I can assure you that there was never much need for Maurice to speak loudly. His unique ability with the ball spoke volumes.
I still owe him a monstrous debt of gratitude that I otherwise was never given time to acknowledge fully.
Alan Kippax always spoke in the highest terms of admiration of Tate and whenever I dared recall that exalting moment when the man from Sussex by the Sea laid him low on the SCG, quite openly he would confess that he had been left for dead with an inswinger that haunted him throughout his career.
That particular sixpence and the fond memories of that remarkable lesson I learned as a result of putting it into circulation _ you've often wondered where the money came from to produce the present-day SCG _ went almost all the way to convince me that all the coaches in the world can hardly compare with the rewards to be gleaned from watching a highly skilled tradesman sailing wholeheartedly into his work.
For me it will ever be a case of "God Bless dear old Maurice Tate".
© 1988 Sun Herald