After this labour of love has been ineffectually bestowed he proceeds to mark the creases. And what marvellous works of art they are when finished! Long crooked lines, some three or four inches in thickness, suggest that straightness and neatness have been sacrificed to the desire of using as much whitening as possible. When it is time for the match to begin, he marches solemnly to the wicket, with a bat over his shoulder, chaffing and joking with the players as he goes. Then, what numerous appeals are made to him! Catches at the wicket, l.b.w., runs out, all follow one another in quick succession. His decisions are always given with deliberation and evident doubt, and often are preceded by questions to the batsman, such as, ‘Did yer ‘it it, Jack?’ or, ‘Whereabouts did it touch ye?’ Thus the length of a man’s innings is often in the same ratio as his moral obliquity in concealing or perverting the truth. However, there is wonderfully little disputing, the good-natured batsmen being quite willing to abide by the fiat of the great authority; and if decisions are given rather more against than for them, they are induced to keep quiet by the knowledge that they have their own village judge at the other end, who, when the time comes, will do his best to equalise matters.
One of the most primitive rustic matches we ever saw was on a village common in Hampshire. We always look back to that match as one which produced more real fun than any we have ever taken part in. The village umpire there, a jolly good-natured old man, but absolutely ignorant of the laws of cricket, caused us the greatest merriment during the whole day. In addition to his official post as umpire, he was the village caterer at all public entertainments, and consequently supplied luncheon at all the matches. It was evident his thoughts in the field were divided between the responsibilities of his two duties—at least we inferred so by his occasionally allowing the bowler to bowl as much as ten or more balls in an over, and giving as his reason, ‘If Mr.—— doant have a bit o’ exercise, he woant relish my steak pie. O’im vaamous for steak pies, yer know, sir,’ he added by way of apology for introducing the subject. This worthy old umpire gave certainly the most astonishing decision we ever saw. A man was batting at one end who was evidently one of the swells of his side. Owing to the roughness and slope of the ground, the slow bowling that he had to play was going about in all directions. Now a ball, pitching nearly a wide to leg, would twist in and pass the wicket on the off side, and then one pitched wide on the off would hit or pass the legs of the batsman, who, after many wild and futile attempts to strike this, to him, peculiar style of bowling, determined, as a last resource, to treat it with supreme contempt. He therefore, whenever the ball pitched wide, got in front of his stumps, turned round, and presented the back portion of his person to the bowler. The umpire watched these proceedings with a somewhat perplexed smile on his broad good-humoured face, but said nothing. Shortly, a ball that pitched a couple of feet on the leg side, twisted in, and struck the batsman on the seat of his trousers. This caused some laughter amongst the lookers-on, and when the mirth had subsided the umpire walked slowly a few yards down the pitch and addressed the batsman thus: ‘Why, Jack, that ain’t cricket. O’im a pretty favourable umpire as a rule, you know, Jack: but when a man stops the ball with that, he must be out. You must go, Jack.’ Nothing would induce the injured batsman to remain; we implored him to stay, but no; he had been given out and was going out; and for the rest of the day he enjoyed the importance of being an injured man—an importance enhanced by the opinions of his admirers that, had he not suffered an injustice, the village scorers would have had on that occasion anything but a holiday.
‘You must go, Jack.’
The well-known crack player who now and then plays in village cricket matches usually enjoys perfect immunity from the vagaries of the village umpire; in fact, he runs only a very slight chance of ever being out at all, unless he is palpably caught or his stumps knocked down. The old style of umpire that we have attempted to describe is immensely delighted at the prospect of seeing what he calls ‘real cricket,’ and whether the ‘swell’ is on his side or against it, he fully makes up his mind that it will be no fault of his if spectators are not treated to an exhibition of the real article. The bowlers may be hoarse with appealing, but the umpire remains obdurate, and it is with real sorrow he at last sees the great man go.
We remember on one occasion coming across a strange umpire in Scotland. It was in a country (very country) match. The writer was batting, and his co-partner at the other end was a well-known sporting baronet. The latter was the continual cause of appeals both from the bowler and wicket-keeper for l.b.w.’s and catches at the wicket. All were answered in the batsman’s favour, much to the disgust of the fielders. Thinking that the latter were really being treated rather badly, the writer ventured humbly to ask the umpire whether the last appeal (an enormous thigh right in front of all three stumps to a straight one) had not been a very near thing. ‘Lor bless you, sir,’ was the reply, ‘I have been his valet for fifteen years, and I dussn’t give him out; he gets awful wild at times.’
A little knowledge is a dangerous thing to umpires as well as everyone else. A ball in a country match hit the batsman’s leg, skied up in the air, and was caught by point. ‘How’s that for leg before wicket?’ shouted the bowler. ‘How’s that for a catch?’ said point. The bewildered umpire had not an idea what it was, but no doubt he thought such loud appeals meant something, and so said, ‘Out.’ ‘What for?’ said the batsman; ‘it didn’t pitch anything like straight, wouldn’t have hit the wicket, and what’s more, never touched it.’ ‘Out,’ said the nonplussed umpire; ‘it hit you below the wrist.’ This story, although told of an ignorant umpire, illustrates a principle which the best umpires should have in mind, but which many of them seem never to have learnt, or else to have forgotten, and that is, never give your reasons for a decision. This is a golden rule for all umpires. An umpire is engaged to say ‘Out’ or ‘Not out’ when appealed to, and not to state the reasons which have induced his verdict. When a man adds to his decision, ‘It didn’t pitch straight,’ ‘Your toe was up in the air,’ ‘Your bat was over the crease but not on the ground,’ it has a tendency to create useless discussion and waste of time. Besides, an umpire may occasionally be right in his verdict, but may be brought to grief by explaining his reasons. For instance, suppose an appeal for a l.b.w., and the umpire says ‘Not out.’ The wicket-keeper and the bowler may know that the point for decision is whether the ball pitched straight or not; the umpire adds, for example, ‘The ball would have gone over the wicket.’ Well, this may be so, but both the wicket-keeper and the bowler think not; if the verdict had been a decided ‘Not out,’ both of these two would have been satisfied—a doubtful point had been given against them, no one was to blame for it, better luck next time, &c. &c. But since the umpire has been guilty of stating reasons, which, according to them, are not satisfactory, he has branded himself with a bad decision in the eyes of the fielding side.
Some umpires—in fact, the majority of them—have a habit of putting their hand and arm in the air and pointing to the skies when they give a man out. A verdict propitious to the batsman is given by a solemn ‘Not out,’ but one adverse by an annoying silence and a most inappropriate wave of the arm in the air. It would be far more to the purpose if the finger were pointed downwards instead of upwards, as the batsman’s hopes are shattered. We never like to leave the wickets till the umpire’s voice is heard. The arm may go in the air involuntarily, or the umpire be surprised into a spasmodic upward arm-jerk; but a good honest ‘Out’ can never be doubted.
With regard to the qualifications that a man should possess before he can hope to perform satisfactorily to himself and others the duties of an umpire, the first essential is that he must have been at one time a good cricketer. By good we do not mean first-class, or that he must have had his name amongst the list of the best players of his time; but he must have been fairly proficient in the game, and must have had a large practical experience. The qualifications of a good judge are, no doubt, of a different nature from those for a good advocate, but before a man can sit on the Bench he must have passed through the wear and tear of the bar, and had, when there, varied experiences in the practice of law. So with an umpire; it does not absolutely follow that a first-rate player will make a good umpire, but it does follow that a man who has had great practical experience in the game will be better qualified to decide the nice points that arise than one who has only made cricket a theoretical study. Assuming that a man has sufficient knowledge of the game to stand as umpire, he must possess quick and keen sight, a good sense of hearing, powers of rapid decision, and last, but not least, he must be very fond of cricket. The necessity of the first two of these qualifications for good umpiring is apparent. For most decisions a good power of sight only is required, but in appeals for catches at the wicket an umpire has both to be guided by his eyes and his ears. Many cases occur where the ball and the bat pass each other with such rapidity that it is impossible for an umpire to be certain from his eyes alone that they have touched one another, and he must then, to a great extent, be guided by what he has heard. Both sight and sound must help him to come to his conclusion, and he must give no decision if it is inconsistent with the effect of either of these senses on his mind.