Michael Henderson (3)

When Denis Healey died, one word that appeared in a lot of the obituaries and tributes was ‘hinterland’, in that context conveying the breadth of his life beyond the contentious world of politics for which he was principally known. Much was made of his interests in literature and music, as well as photography, in which he was especially accomplished, to the extent that he might have made a living from it if he had not succumbed instead to the political life.

In this marvellous book, Michael Henderson, known primarily for his years as cricket correspondent writing in most of the leading newspapers at one time or another, displays his own extensive hinterland. In addition to a cornucopia of glorious cricketing memories, he takes the reader along with him in tangential forays into opera, literature, art and history.

In his regular articles on cricket, Henderson was seldom reluctant to express an opinion, caring little for established conventions if he felt they needed to be challenged. Yet even when I found myself disagreeing with him (which, I now realise, happened far less frequently than I might have expected), I was always impressed with what Sir Humphrey might have termed his ‘refreshing directness’. I could always follow his reasoning, too.

In this book, any residual reluctance to express his views has evaporated entirely, and he bemoans the impact of the relentless search for popularism on the noble game of cricket. It is easy to dismiss naysayers to new forms of cricket simply as knee-jerk reactionaries, opposed to change as a matter of principle. More than most sorts, cricket has a bedrock of Adullamites, constantly looking to a Corinthian past largely of their own imagining, and impervious to any hint of change. I don’t think that Henderson’s dismay falls into that category. He certainly makes no secret of his dislike, even scorn, at the recent trends in cricket, such as the predomination of the T20 format, which has almost driven out the long-established first class county game in England, or, even worse, the hullaballoo surrounding the imminent introduction of ‘The Hundred’ (still some way off in the future at the time Henderson was writing, but now launched). He does, however, offer soundly constructed arguments as to why he believes that these are dangerous developments.

Although a lifelong lover of the game, I am not sufficiently qualified to offer a worthwhile opinion as to whether he is right (although I strongly suspect he is). I can, however, expand on the joy of reading this book. I bought it for his insights and memories about cricket, but cherished it for far more. In between his reminiscences prompted by his last tour of the country as a working cricket correspondent, he weaves rich tapestries about a wealth of other subjects. And what a diverse selection!

In different chapters we are given a whistle-stop tour of the multifarious glories of Vienna; a potted biography of Robert Peel, who as Home Secretary founded the police force, before going on to form the modern Conservative Party; marvellous depictions of most of the great cricket grounds around the country, and a wonderful homage to Nobel laureate and famed cricket lover, Harold Pinter.

As a professional journalist of long standing, Henderson conveys all this was a wonderful economy of prose, with not a word wasted or without impact. I bought this as a cricket lover, but it is really a paean to British and European culture.… (altro)

The previous owner had the irritating habit of turning page corners over. He or she did this on pages 29, 89,105 and 137 and then either gave up or read right through to the end on page 296. This bad habit summarises the book for me. It is a curate's egg. Cricket is at risk of tumbling into mediocrity and the race to the bottom. The author gets this message across loud and clear and looks ahead to the soulless, meaningless, money orientated 'The Hundred Competition' with utter dread. Coronavirus has of course delayed it. Mixing cricket with music, classical and pop, literature and theatre, he seems to be doing something a la Cardus. He takes us through some lovely grounds and reminiscences and explains just why cricket gets into the heart and soul of those who love the spirit of the game. I liked the chapter on the festivals: Scarborough, Chesterfield and Cheltenham and on his views of Scarborough the town today, so far removed from the values of the real game of cricket. Back to Coronavirus, the joy of these festivals is so well captured, it just brings sadness that not rain but a great pandemic has eliminated these treats for us this year. What I did not like was the name dropping. You can enjoy cricket without being a buddy of Harold Pinter, 'without talking once to Stephen Sondheim,' without 'sitting with actor friends in front of the old Tavern...a few rows away' from Peter O'Toole and without having been to Repton or having a chip on one's shoulder about all of the above. I read it to the end in the sunshine and enjoyed most of it.… (altro)