Strong-backed, flint-eyed, spurred on
At lunch by beer and Top Mill snuff,
(And, in the brutal heat of Brisbane,
Dry-mouthed slurps of cold champagne),
He was England’s secret weapon,
Jardine’s pick to smack Bradman’s
Unbruised arse. The ascetic captain’s
‘Leg theory’ required something beyond
The ordinary – run-of-the-mill medium
Would not do; instead, it must be searing pace,
Plus forensic accuracy, someone who could
Put the ball where it would hurt the most,
Ball by ball, over by over, day by day.
‘Larwood, you’ll open, downhill,
Downwind, and remember what we said:
The Don will flinch and step away
If you’re fast enough and unforgiving.’
Without cricket, where might Harold Larwood’s
Life have taken him? Instead of confinement
In the pit’s foul air, he was transported
To the greenest of fields, garbed in cricket
Whites and boots, the colliery quite forgotten.
His was a speed unparalleled, a thing of
Grace and beauty, a kind of poetry, all
Belying the stark brutality of his intent,
The humbling of the lonely man facing him.
Unnerved, batsmen padded themselves with towels
To dull the pain, ducked and dived, all
Too aware that their precious heads
Were unprotected, bar baggy caps and Brylcreem.
There was no answer to Larwood’s onslaught,
Australia outplayed in a flurry of shattered
Stumps and discarded bats, haunted by
Images of batsmen poleaxed by another
Larwood thunderbolt. Jardine’s Ashes
Quest was won. The price? A sullen fury
Down under, a diplomatic froideur,
And a search for a scapegoat. Well,
Look no further than Harold Larwood!
He must be told, in no uncertain terms,
‘I’m afraid, Larwood (no matey ‘Harold’ now),
You will have to apologise
For the damage done.’ It was as
Brutal as Bodyline itself, this apportioning
Of blame, Harold shunned like a pariah by
The powers that be, oily men, suited by
Savile Row and shod in expensive brogues
For whom Larwood was one more
Humble subaltern who should just be
Blindly grateful for what cricket had,
All too briefly, given him.