L Trumper
State Regular
Ah! Dexter great call
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Most aesthetically pleasing batsmen
- Thread starter Red
- Start date
benchmark00
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Has anyone nominated Stan McCabe yet?
flibbertyjibber
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Mark Waugh is my favourite of all time to watch, granted I only go back as far as the early 80's but he was just dreamy.
Other bases are covered with Gower, Lara, Bell, MoYo, Crowe and Martyn.
Other bases are covered with Gower, Lara, Bell, MoYo, Crowe and Martyn.
Red
The normal awards that everyone else has
Do you know of any footage of McCabe batting online?
benchmark00
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Yeah I was watching some the other day. Was an interview with Bradman and he was talking about an innings that McCabe played that was the best he's ever seen, and he couldn't imagine anyone playing better. Showed footage of him playing. Graceful footwork and great wrists.
Just found it:
Bradman on the pre-war years :: The largest library of cricket videos
It's towards the back end of that from memory, but the whole video is gold.
benchmark00
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Go to about 16.20 in to that video to see McCabe footage.
Red
The normal awards that everyone else has
Gold. Thanks mate. Jack Egan has done some great working compiling and editing a lot of that old footage.
burr
State Vice-Captain
This is vintage Roebuck (1987!) that I have which discusses the aesthetics of cricket - with a shout-out to Gower. Thought people may like it. I know it's long - sorry. I bolded some of my favourite parts. The reference to suicide is extremely poignant in light of what happened.
Courtesy Sydney Morning Herald, January 9, 1987
A GAME TO INSPIRE POETS AND PAINTERS; THE ART OF CRICKET
How odd to be asked to write an article on the art of cricket on a day when black men dressed in red clothes and white men dressed in blue clothes are doing battle for a silver cup on a green pitch with floodlights blazing and sight screens blackened so that the white ball can be seen by batsmen wearing cages on their head. A subdued sport of green and white has erupted into a wildness of brilliant colour. A game of sheltered upbringing has exploded into the bright lights and sinuous temptations of the modern world.
The art of cricket? What could this mean? Had Summer Agenda taken leave of its senses? Then, dimly through the mists of time, remembrance returned, a remembrance of Sobers and Graveney, of Greg Chappell and Graeme Pollock, mesmeric cricketers one and all. And a remembrance, too, of words catching the grace of Hobbs and Kippax, and the kindness of Oldsfield and Ranjitsinghi.
Yes, cricket is artistic, the most artistic of all games. Oh, it is played by dullards at times and, occasionally, reading about it, you'd think it was as artistic as a nest of ****roaches eating their supper, but Cardus, Ray Robinson, Arlott, Pinter and Betjeman and so many other men of sensitivity have understood it, sympathised with its victims and written about it. So many men have found a peculiar satisfaction in the game.
However it might seem, sitting glumly in a press box, surrounded by the clacking of word processors and contemplating the compulsory excitement of this week's cup final, cricket is a loved and beautiful game. Has this art survived the move into the marketplace? Can a game in the hands of hard-headed financiers nevertheless be called artistic? It can.
The essence of the game has not changed. A rose is a rose for all that. Cricket is a difficult, frustrating and frequently witless game, but though the rules have been changed it has not lost its smattering of breathtaking moments nor its occasional geniuses who, scarcely realising it, follow a tradition and give immense pleasure to their audience not so much by their achievements as by their methods.
No other sport rivals cricket's instinctive art. Others are more spine-tingling, rugged, fascinating, disciplined, fast and tense. In comparison, cricket is a route march which occasionally passes through leafy lanes and majestic forests. As a competition between teams it is frequently disappointing, can be spoilt by rain and ruined by the players. It can last five days and still end without resolution, for it is a ridiculous game, absurdly long and ludicrously indecisive.
It survives because of the enduring appeal of its vignettes, because of the singular way in which character and beauty find expression within its confines. No moderately sane person could consider it satisfactory as a whole. It is a deceitful, hypnotic, treacherous game which has appalling faults and extraordinary qualities.
All-in wrestling might be more fun, but it is not poetic. Rugby is an invigorating game, but it does not inspire paintings. Musicians are not moved to compose as a golfer strikes a ball on to the green.
Bodies thudding to the floor to be trapped in arm locks, a prop forward driving to the line and a chip creeping to the flag - these are tense, telling moments which are cheered by spectators caught in the drama of the competition. They are skilful and courageous reactions to tension and the players deserve the applause for their temporary triumphs. But wrestling, rugby and golf crowds do not blink at the beauty of their sports; they do not contemplate them in this way. They are not games of wonder; rather they are contests between rivals.
Cricket is the most beautiful of games, which is why it is celebrated in verse, on canvas and in music. On the field, some of the players are able to move as if in a ballet without losing their effectiveness. Players dressed in white (well, usually anyhow) move into neat gymnastic positions against a back cloth of grass and a kaleidoscope of colour and cacophony of noise blaring behind the fence. It is a bizarre medieval scene, a mixture of ritual, entertainment, sport and art. And it has not lost its appeal, and cannot do so, for it is intrinsic and beyond the everchanging laws.
Nothing is more graceful in this or any other game than an off drive played by David Gower. A rhythmic drift towards the ball is followed by a smooth sweep through a straight line which sends the ball scorching across the turf. A Gower drive is a mixture of delicate, unobtrusive footwork and a fluent swing which ends in a comforting thump as wood and leather meet.
This game is satisfying because it is a game of straight lines. Cricket demands them of its players and those who defy it risk failure. Ugly angles and jagged lines are rejected by the classical technique required in those without genius. As if by accident, cricket pleases the eye as well as the mathematical and aesthetic mind.
Nor are the graceful and classical movements on the field the only ingredients in cricket's appeal. Is anything in sport more tantalising than a duel between a spinner and a batsman prepared to use his feet? When Edmonds bowls to Dean Jones, then occurs an enthralling battle of wits, one man stepping forward boldly, ready to strike and determined to dictate to his rival, who, full of cunning, is using flight and guile in an effort to sneak one past the bat.
These exchanges are secret, private to the cognoscenti who alone can understand the peculiar duel. Cricketers and spectators are in constant conversation as the movement of the players reveals to the audience their plans, worries, hopes and fears. The uninformed will not grasp the significance of these strange events, will not understand what Edmonds is endeavouring to do nor why Jones is dancing with such vigour as the cat and mouse do battle.
And, because the game stops and starts so often, because a day's play consists of 540 separate and yet dependent incidents, students can swap opinions, comment upon the action to their friends, and predict the course of events to follow.
Cricket is a game that asks much of its followers; it expects them to join in. A good crowd recognises mastery and beauty and applauds them irrespective of whether a run has been scored, a wicket taken or the game advanced in any way. Cricket catches the eye and satisfies the wit. And at best it is full of pleasing movements and ideas.
But this is not a nice game. It is a temptress, a Cleopatra of a game. Herein lies its greatest appeal. Its art is elusive. Cricket cannot be mastered. Like a seductress it moves away, ****ing a finger, asking you to follow and yet warning you as to the consequences. On the field tragedy follows hard upon triumph, ease and discomfort sit side by side.
Cricket is dangerous and not to be trusted. One minute it is enticing, rhythmic and charming and the next it betrays you. This is a fragile game which treats its players unkindly. So many cricketers are insecure, lured by taste occasionally experienced and then let down by it. This game gives its players hope in a moment and then chastises them, throwing them back onto the heap. For a moment it is in your grasp and then it has escaped. Hardly anyone who has played the game has not, even if only once, done something artistic, something upon which Trumper and Bedi could scarcely improve. A late cut dashes to the boundary and at once the batsman realises he has got it right, his body fulfilling the idea in his mind. This illusion, these sweet moments, are part of the game's trap; the dreadfulness usually follows.
This is why the poets and the writers came to the game. They recognised its wickedness and its bloodymindedness as well as its beauty. So many cricketers, their careers behind them, have committed suicide. Bored by ordinariness, unable to find a new refuge or simply despairing of the future, they choose their moment and put an end to it all.
A long list could be drawn of cricketers who have taken their lives. It is not a coincidence but a terrible revelation about cricket and cricketers. The game does not break them, rather they are drawn by temperament to it, finding in it an expression of their precarious characters. They play the game, try to master it and occasionally succeed, joining a fraternity of men no less frustrated and no less in search of a reliable method. They try to find an answer where there is none. Try to find a stone where there is only sand.
Cricket is a game played on the edges of nerves. It requires men of stoical and stout temperament yet attracts players with artistic yearnings who hover around it as a moth hovers around a flame. Spectators sense this vulnerability. A man who scored 100 yesterday falls for a duck, and a cricketer invincible one year fails the next. They sense that cricket is a prickly game which hurls misfortune and joy at its players without warning and expects them to bear each with fortitude. Spectators understand too that some men of artistic temperament are peculiarly tempted towards the game and yet are uniquely unsuited to its changes.
These are the arts and the attractions of cricket, some of them obvious to a casual follower, some of them hidden and apparent only to those who have tried themselves. Tomorrow's match at the SCG is not merely a competition between two international teams. It is an occasion on which men will be stretched and tested, it is a game of sudden movements, and a game of a beauty that endures despite the odd things done to it.
Courtesy Sydney Morning Herald, January 9, 1987
A GAME TO INSPIRE POETS AND PAINTERS; THE ART OF CRICKET
How odd to be asked to write an article on the art of cricket on a day when black men dressed in red clothes and white men dressed in blue clothes are doing battle for a silver cup on a green pitch with floodlights blazing and sight screens blackened so that the white ball can be seen by batsmen wearing cages on their head. A subdued sport of green and white has erupted into a wildness of brilliant colour. A game of sheltered upbringing has exploded into the bright lights and sinuous temptations of the modern world.
The art of cricket? What could this mean? Had Summer Agenda taken leave of its senses? Then, dimly through the mists of time, remembrance returned, a remembrance of Sobers and Graveney, of Greg Chappell and Graeme Pollock, mesmeric cricketers one and all. And a remembrance, too, of words catching the grace of Hobbs and Kippax, and the kindness of Oldsfield and Ranjitsinghi.
Yes, cricket is artistic, the most artistic of all games. Oh, it is played by dullards at times and, occasionally, reading about it, you'd think it was as artistic as a nest of ****roaches eating their supper, but Cardus, Ray Robinson, Arlott, Pinter and Betjeman and so many other men of sensitivity have understood it, sympathised with its victims and written about it. So many men have found a peculiar satisfaction in the game.
However it might seem, sitting glumly in a press box, surrounded by the clacking of word processors and contemplating the compulsory excitement of this week's cup final, cricket is a loved and beautiful game. Has this art survived the move into the marketplace? Can a game in the hands of hard-headed financiers nevertheless be called artistic? It can.
The essence of the game has not changed. A rose is a rose for all that. Cricket is a difficult, frustrating and frequently witless game, but though the rules have been changed it has not lost its smattering of breathtaking moments nor its occasional geniuses who, scarcely realising it, follow a tradition and give immense pleasure to their audience not so much by their achievements as by their methods.
No other sport rivals cricket's instinctive art. Others are more spine-tingling, rugged, fascinating, disciplined, fast and tense. In comparison, cricket is a route march which occasionally passes through leafy lanes and majestic forests. As a competition between teams it is frequently disappointing, can be spoilt by rain and ruined by the players. It can last five days and still end without resolution, for it is a ridiculous game, absurdly long and ludicrously indecisive.
It survives because of the enduring appeal of its vignettes, because of the singular way in which character and beauty find expression within its confines. No moderately sane person could consider it satisfactory as a whole. It is a deceitful, hypnotic, treacherous game which has appalling faults and extraordinary qualities.
All-in wrestling might be more fun, but it is not poetic. Rugby is an invigorating game, but it does not inspire paintings. Musicians are not moved to compose as a golfer strikes a ball on to the green.
Bodies thudding to the floor to be trapped in arm locks, a prop forward driving to the line and a chip creeping to the flag - these are tense, telling moments which are cheered by spectators caught in the drama of the competition. They are skilful and courageous reactions to tension and the players deserve the applause for their temporary triumphs. But wrestling, rugby and golf crowds do not blink at the beauty of their sports; they do not contemplate them in this way. They are not games of wonder; rather they are contests between rivals.
Cricket is the most beautiful of games, which is why it is celebrated in verse, on canvas and in music. On the field, some of the players are able to move as if in a ballet without losing their effectiveness. Players dressed in white (well, usually anyhow) move into neat gymnastic positions against a back cloth of grass and a kaleidoscope of colour and cacophony of noise blaring behind the fence. It is a bizarre medieval scene, a mixture of ritual, entertainment, sport and art. And it has not lost its appeal, and cannot do so, for it is intrinsic and beyond the everchanging laws.
Nothing is more graceful in this or any other game than an off drive played by David Gower. A rhythmic drift towards the ball is followed by a smooth sweep through a straight line which sends the ball scorching across the turf. A Gower drive is a mixture of delicate, unobtrusive footwork and a fluent swing which ends in a comforting thump as wood and leather meet.
This game is satisfying because it is a game of straight lines. Cricket demands them of its players and those who defy it risk failure. Ugly angles and jagged lines are rejected by the classical technique required in those without genius. As if by accident, cricket pleases the eye as well as the mathematical and aesthetic mind.
Nor are the graceful and classical movements on the field the only ingredients in cricket's appeal. Is anything in sport more tantalising than a duel between a spinner and a batsman prepared to use his feet? When Edmonds bowls to Dean Jones, then occurs an enthralling battle of wits, one man stepping forward boldly, ready to strike and determined to dictate to his rival, who, full of cunning, is using flight and guile in an effort to sneak one past the bat.
These exchanges are secret, private to the cognoscenti who alone can understand the peculiar duel. Cricketers and spectators are in constant conversation as the movement of the players reveals to the audience their plans, worries, hopes and fears. The uninformed will not grasp the significance of these strange events, will not understand what Edmonds is endeavouring to do nor why Jones is dancing with such vigour as the cat and mouse do battle.
And, because the game stops and starts so often, because a day's play consists of 540 separate and yet dependent incidents, students can swap opinions, comment upon the action to their friends, and predict the course of events to follow.
Cricket is a game that asks much of its followers; it expects them to join in. A good crowd recognises mastery and beauty and applauds them irrespective of whether a run has been scored, a wicket taken or the game advanced in any way. Cricket catches the eye and satisfies the wit. And at best it is full of pleasing movements and ideas.
But this is not a nice game. It is a temptress, a Cleopatra of a game. Herein lies its greatest appeal. Its art is elusive. Cricket cannot be mastered. Like a seductress it moves away, ****ing a finger, asking you to follow and yet warning you as to the consequences. On the field tragedy follows hard upon triumph, ease and discomfort sit side by side.
Cricket is dangerous and not to be trusted. One minute it is enticing, rhythmic and charming and the next it betrays you. This is a fragile game which treats its players unkindly. So many cricketers are insecure, lured by taste occasionally experienced and then let down by it. This game gives its players hope in a moment and then chastises them, throwing them back onto the heap. For a moment it is in your grasp and then it has escaped. Hardly anyone who has played the game has not, even if only once, done something artistic, something upon which Trumper and Bedi could scarcely improve. A late cut dashes to the boundary and at once the batsman realises he has got it right, his body fulfilling the idea in his mind. This illusion, these sweet moments, are part of the game's trap; the dreadfulness usually follows.
This is why the poets and the writers came to the game. They recognised its wickedness and its bloodymindedness as well as its beauty. So many cricketers, their careers behind them, have committed suicide. Bored by ordinariness, unable to find a new refuge or simply despairing of the future, they choose their moment and put an end to it all.
A long list could be drawn of cricketers who have taken their lives. It is not a coincidence but a terrible revelation about cricket and cricketers. The game does not break them, rather they are drawn by temperament to it, finding in it an expression of their precarious characters. They play the game, try to master it and occasionally succeed, joining a fraternity of men no less frustrated and no less in search of a reliable method. They try to find an answer where there is none. Try to find a stone where there is only sand.
Cricket is a game played on the edges of nerves. It requires men of stoical and stout temperament yet attracts players with artistic yearnings who hover around it as a moth hovers around a flame. Spectators sense this vulnerability. A man who scored 100 yesterday falls for a duck, and a cricketer invincible one year fails the next. They sense that cricket is a prickly game which hurls misfortune and joy at its players without warning and expects them to bear each with fortitude. Spectators understand too that some men of artistic temperament are peculiarly tempted towards the game and yet are uniquely unsuited to its changes.
These are the arts and the attractions of cricket, some of them obvious to a casual follower, some of them hidden and apparent only to those who have tried themselves. Tomorrow's match at the SCG is not merely a competition between two international teams. It is an occasion on which men will be stretched and tested, it is a game of sudden movements, and a game of a beauty that endures despite the odd things done to it.
BoyBrumby
Englishman
If we're talking aesthetically pleasing in looks, gotta be Virat.
benchmark00
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Brumbeh coming out with the good visual posts today.
Just discovered G00gle images one feels.
Agent Nationaux
International Coach
Which one is more vomit worthy Brumby?
Jono's love for Kohli
or
Ajmal and Botha bowling in tandem
Jono's love for Kohli
or
Ajmal and Botha bowling in tandem
KungFu_Kallis
International 12th Man
Peter Kirsten in SA particularly in the 70's and 80's. Unseen by most. Similar height to Tendulkar, and not dissimilar in style. Consistently prolific scorer with grace and effortless timing all around the wicket.
If anyone knows of videos, please share, nothing much on youtube
If anyone knows of videos, please share, nothing much on youtube