THE LAST REFUGE...

It seems to me that one of the things this current crisis has thrown up is the almost total irrelevance of some aspects of sport.   I say some aspects but the truth for me at least is that football - and especially the parallel universe of the Premier League - really has become almost entirely forgettable, not merely of itself but also because I no longer have to concern myself whether Southampton are going to be relegated or survive for yet another season in the `top flight`.....or even worry about whether they are going to win a game, lose one or draw.

But that feeling of irrelevance does not extend to all sports and I am especially sad that the cricket season is under threat, for it exemplifies all the good things about summer.  Now of course even the beautiful game of cricket cannot be taken as seriously as it usually is, given the circumstances in which we find ourselves and whilst I should have more pressing matters on my mind I cannot help a feeling of sincere regret that the cricket season may not happen.

Now someone - it may even have been me - once said that sport is the last refuge of those who find it impossible to idle and so, given that visits to Canterbury are put on hold, I can at least avoid some idleness whilst looking back on glorious summer days gone by.   Most of those were spent playing the game - my teenage weekends were spent playing on the village greens of Kent in days when there were no league competitions, just friendly matches and where personal performances, whilst contributing to the team effort, were limited in their scope and ability;  the Basted double of scoring 100 runs and taking ten wickets in a season were the only personal goals we aimed for.

My first ever exposure to `proper cricket` was in 1949 when my parents took me to the Northlands Road ground in Southampton to watch Hampshire take on the visiting New Zealanders and, being just ten years old at the time, I was seduced into a lifelong romantic affection for the game.   In more recent times I have been fortunate to visit the St. Lawrence Ground in Canterbury to see Kent play.

Ah, Canterbury.   It`s now called the Spitfire Ground and the famous lime tree is long gone, new apartments decorate one side of the ground but on match days the ground and the game itself still have that timeless quality of calm refinement - reverence almost - which provides the perfect escape from life beyond the boundary.  Some of the traditions may have died away - I`m not sure the teatime ladies hat competition is still going; it may do but it has escaped my notice recently - but despite the ever growing need for commercial as well as sporting success a day at Canterbury still provides fascinating glimpses to bygone days. 

Stands named after heroes; Cowdrey, Ames and Woolley; whispered conversations recalling old time players like Underwood, Denness, Leary, Knott, Luckhurst, Woolmer and museum depictions of denizens of the past like Lord Harris and Jim Swanton, of whom it was said that his idea of democracy was to travel in the same car as his chauffeur.

So I guess that as well as the prospect of missing out on seeing some cricket this year I might also miss out on the chance to spend a little time being a ten year old again , falling in love with not only a game but also a way of life that has more to commend it than I ever realised.  If there is such a thing in this life as `normal service,` I hope it is resumed before it`s too late.