by Arunabha Sengupta
The magnificent cover drives had not rung out for over a decade and a half. The once handsome face was prematurely lined with age. The once supreme athlete had put on a bit more than his share of mortal flesh.
His departure to South Africa with Sybil, his beauty-queen second wife, had turned out less than fortunate. Denham Motors had not sold as many cars as they used to and by the end of the 1950s he had been out of work. He had been acutely subject to the moods which were his life-long companion since the Caribbean misadventure of the 1920s. His sulking interludes on his armchair had turned longer and darker.
Relief had arrived in the form of Natal University’s noted economist and future Cabinet minister Professor Owen Horwood. Someone who had idolised him in his pre-War days of glorious batsmanship. Horwood had arranged a job for him at the university, as sports administrator. But in the whisper-net of the unkind English cricketing circuit, which had long treated him as an outcast, vague second-hand speculations had made rounds, “Wally’s ended up as a bloody groundsman. He’s out there cutting grass at some university.”
The truth had been more comfortable. Wally Hammond had a responsible, if largely undefined, position for planning and implementing sports facilities in the campus.
Then suddenly, in February 1960, there had been that close shave with death. His car had spun out of control and tumbled onto its roof a couple of times after colliding with a lorry near Camperdown. A police car, on its way to another crash, had taken a brief look and left, presuming he was dead. The lucky arrival of a passing doctor had saved his life. That and the incredible robustness of his constitution.
While he had recovered, Bristol Evening Post had posted tributes gearing up to a pre-obituary. Publications in every cricket playing nation were hunting down contemporaries for comments about the greatest all-round Test cricketer England had known.
Wally Hammond had recovered. He had made his way back to the University and carried on his duties. He had taken charge of the cricket team. But he had deteriorated rapidly—physically and mentally. The 7249 runs, 22 hundreds, 110 catches and 83 wickets had seemed long long away.
And then, in late 1964, the call had come.
It was the idea of cricket writer and tour organiser Ron Roberts. The actual call was made by Donald Carr. The current manager of the England side had met Hammond during the immortal Victory Tests to mark the end of the War, in which the latter had led England in five splendid matches against Australian Services. Now Carr’s halting voice spoke to Hammond on the phone. MJK Smith’s English side was visiting South Africa. The first Test was at Durban. Would Mr Hammond like to join the MCC players for a day’s cricket and a drink or two?
Hammond was hesitant. He could not hide his apprehension that no one remembered him. And perhaps no one wanted to see him either. “The team will love to have you along,” reassured Carr.
Hammond at first agreed to a drink and a chat with Smith and Carr. They were somewhat shocked by his worn-out appearance, but MJK was charming. It was hard to tell, but Carr left with the feeling that Hammond had enjoyed the meeting.
He did turn up for the Test match. Self-conscious, ill at ease, slightly confused. And then he was surprised to find the awe with which the players greeted him. They did not just know his name. They thought he was a cricketing deity.
Hammond, plagued by doubts that the cricketing establishment had rejected him, was left with precious private pleasure. With each day of the Test match he grew relaxed. David Allen, who as a Bristol schoolboy in 1946 had seen Hammond score a double hundred against Somerset, took seven wickets. England won by an innings. Hammond enjoyed himself immensely.
Before the final Test at Port Elizabeth, the general feeling in the England party was that Hammond should be there in the team’s inner sanctum. But he lived in Durban and was far from well-off.
A spontaneous whip-around was organised to pay for his journey and hotel. Hammond arrived, his troubled soul eager with anticipation.
David Allen remembered: “He would arrive at 10.30 every morning and hang his coat on the same peg. Then he’d shake hands with all of us as he left in the evening. In his way he was so obviously enjoying himself.”
He even spoke about his assessment of Smith of Dexter….
And then came the huge surprise. Was it the magic of Ron Roberts again?
Hammond got into his pristine-white, freshly ironed flannels for one last time, playing for Durban Press at Richmond. The 61-year-old took field in the relaxed match, with Carr, Roberts, and also Denis Compton who was there covering the tour. He got a few runs and stood at first slip. The hard new ball once went straight into his hands and straight out again. No one worried. Just having him there was magical.
He walked out of the ground for the last time, eyes wet and watery.
On the first day of July that year he died. A troubled life, glorious cricketing days tempered by chronic depression, most of his last years plagued by financial troubles and mental unrest.
But, he did enjoy his cricket during that final season.
Wally Hammond was born on 19 June 1903.