He should study the commonest hits to his place, learning the curves and breaks which the ball will most frequently show.
He must be alert. Let me here quote Mr. Edward Lyttelton’s excellent remarks:—“Unless strong measures are taken, the school-fieldsmen will stand on their heels, while the ball is being hit; and this is generally the cause of that heart-sickening want of life—that imperturbable middle-aged decorum which is so often to be noticed among boy-cricketers of seventeen, eighteen, nineteen years of age, and is enough, when seen, to make old cricketers weep. But not to stand on the heels requires effort and stimulus; and it is astonishing how often you may make the effort and reap no reward; the ball doesn’t come. But when it does, what a change! The leap, the determination that the batsman shall not score, the racing after the ball, are all part of the same dash which must begin from the toes, not from the heel. Now some of these early principles can be taught to a boy by taking him singly, and throwing or hitting the ball, not too hard, either at him or to one side just within his utmost reach; and, by constant encouragement and exhortation, the trainer may induce him again and again to do violence to his propriety, in the first place, and then to stretch his sinews and curve his backbone till he finds himself capable of a brilliancy which he never before suspected. The exercise is terrific, and ten minutes per diem are amply sufficient. It is best to take only one at a time. No one can guess the improvement that is sure to ensue if this régime is faithfully observed.... A deep field is standing with his whole body ready to jump in any direction that may be required. There comes a catch, but it is very doubtful if he can get to it; only because he was ready to start he does so, and perhaps the best bat on the side walks home; or, owing to the same fact, he again and again saves a ball from going to the boundary. Now, if this is the case with a deep field, how much more with cover-point and other ‘save one’ fields!”
He must notice and practice several waiting-positions, taking good fielders as his models. Whichever he decides to use, he must not stand on his heels. Fielders refuse to learn the art of readiness; so does our nation in its daily life. It is the prompt readiness not to go in one direction only, but to go in any direction, perhaps backwards, without loss of poise and self-control—for the hands must be prepared to be extended anywhere, and at the end of the extension to grasp securely. So far from such an alertness being a common sight, an inalienable possession of most players, it is as rare as open-mindedness. There is only one thing rarer in fielding, and this is the custom of anticipating strokes, though heaven knows that similar strokes have been repeated often enough to be observed and remembered! But “education” does not encourage observation.
In addition to the readiness to get at the ball, there must be the readiness to back up.
The fielder must follow each ball. If he finds this dull, let him pretend that he is the fielder to whom the ball has been sent; let him field it in his imagination.
In a bedroom or elsewhere he may practice stoopings and extensions (as in Photograph XXVIII. of Hirst), a yielding of the hands and a rapidly closed grip at the end of the extensions. All the common attitudes and movements for stopping and receiving balls may be acquired outside the field. The muscles must be familiarised with their future work; for, as Mr. Lyttelton says, “If every field picked up and threw in as quickly as his knee joints and the state of his arm allowed him, a very considerable percentage of the runs usually scored would be saved.”
Catching may be learnt with a soft ball against a wall or in games of catch. The hands should be held not too far apart nor too far from the body. Both hands should be used, if possible. The difficulty is to judge the flight, to time the instant to draw back just enough—for “he must learn to let the ball come into his hands as into an Aunt Sally’s mouth. It is entirely wrong to grab or snap at it”—and then to hold tight. There are brought into play the senses of sight, of hearing—different sounds accompany different hits, and in Racquets I get much help from what my ear tells me—and of touch, as well as of other faculties.
As practice for stopping balls, wicket-keeping