1971 Cricket 1955 Team at Lords with Peter the Cat - 1-Page Article

Yes we combine shipping for most multiple item purchases.Add multiple items to your cart and the combined shipping total will automatically be calculated.1971 Cricket 1955 Team at Lords with Peter the Cat - 1-Page ArticleOriginal, vintage magazine articlePage Size: Approx 9" x 12 1/2" (23 cm x 31 cm)Condition: Good<AMONG a wealth of cricket literature,very little is to be discovered about theelusive pavilion cat that Andrew Lang,admittedly in parody, considered indispens-able:I am the batsman and the bat,I am the bowler and the ball,The umpire, the pavilion cat,The pitch, the roller, stumps and. all.Regarded by some partisans as a meresymbol or cipher, the pavilion cat really doesexist this side of fairyland, but remainsundetected in the same way as Chesterton'spostman, whom nobody, except Father Brown,suspected as being implicated in a certaincrime because his presence was taken so muchfor granted. There is also a tendency for catsto gravitate towards antiquated institutionswhere their participation does not arouseundue comment. Take, for instance, thatbland tabby, Mike, who, for noless than 19 years acted as a self-appointed doorkeeper at theBritish Museum.By the same token cats have,since time immemorial, patronisedcricket. Their patronage, how-ever, has been so unobtrusive thatlittle information can now begleaned even of that proud lineageof cricket-loving cats, domiciledfor decades at the Ship Hotel, anerstwhile Tudor inn that over-looks the Thornbury ground,Gloucestershire, once the scene oftriumph of a youthful W. G.Grace. Nor do the older clienteleof the Barley Mow, it seems, anylonger discuss the exploits of theirfamous Persian cat of indubitablecricketing instinct who, duringthe course of play on the adjacentTilford ground, used to rub him-self cosily against fielders in thedeep, purring the while.Not many miles from Tilford,of course, lies Broad HalfpennyDown and the Bat and Ball Inn,where Richard Nyren used todispense to Hambledon men astrong rum punch, which thechronicler describes as “fit tomake a cat talk". Paintings ofthat and later periods sometimesdepict cat or dog among onlookersat local matches and it seemsappropriate, in retrospect, thatthe deeds of Felix, Pilch andMynn were often relished by someharmless necessary cat. As therules and conventions of cricket-multiplied so the attendance of membersof the cat family at matches has, regret-tably, declined. They are preponderantlyof a non-conformist outlook and prefer impro-visation. to tactics of safety first.To cats, as Kipling observed, all placesare alike. Thus their visitations are notconfined to those parochial matches betweenneighbouring clubs but have infiltrated count}'grounds, even Lord’s itself, that Mecca ofFelis catus, where no dog is permitted and catsare perfectly understood. For cat loverscongregate in the vicinity of St. John’s Woodpossibly more than anywhere else in the world.It is, therefore, meet and right that themost remarkable of modern cats should havedwelt at Lord's. His name was Peter and hewas elegan t, sleek and black. He came there asa kitten, and during the 12 years from 1952 to1964 he settled in the Tavern in preference tothe august pavilion, for he relished livelycompany and Rabelaisian humour. TheTavern also was more conveniently situated,being equi-distant from the Harris MemorialGarden, which was his morning rendezvous,and the Nursery ground, where there was netpractice to inspect during an evening prowl.Peter was notable not only for a propensityfor appreciating good cricket but also for aflair for publicity, which he sometimes courtedopenly. When in search of the limelight, heshowed an uncanny knack of projecting him-self within range of almost any camera. It wasafter this manner that he insinuated himselfinto an official photograph of the England XIfor the Lord’s Test of 1955 and, during Testmatches, occasionally allowed himself to beseen on television by millions of viewers.Peter was, from all accounts, an MCC,rather than a Middlesex, cat. For he wasdiscriminating in his attendance at countymatches and at schools cricket, while Testmatches he adored for their atmosphere,crowds and entertainment. It is fitting,therefore, that the most vivid recollection ofPeter should be reflected against the back-A CAT AMONG THE CRICKETERS. The 1955 English team at Lords, with Peterground of a Test against the West Indies.The ground was full to overflowing, andthe weather perfect, when at ten minutes pastfour o’clock Peter strolled, with studiedRIVER“He who carries a god upon his backInvites happiness.''This river, darkly slowWith her serene cargo of swansIlluminesThe old phrase.But follow her to that sourceFrom which she rose,Bubbling out of the mossJust large enough for lips to touch her coolMagic.Does she know her destiny?Up thereOnly the dipper flecks her shallows,Moorhens make journeysAnd, solitary always,A lonely heron forks among her reeds.Jean Ken wardunconcern, along the outside of the boundaryboards in front of "L”, "M” and “N” stands.Urbane, modest, dignified, he pro-ceeded on his way, pausing occasionally tokeep check on the score. He halted momen-tarily on overhearing some reference to thedistinguished name of Hammond. The glancehe bestowed on the speaker could not havebeen more comprehending. “Ah,” it plainlysaid, “there was a cricketer for you. Made thegame look easy. Not much work for catsthough when he was at the wicket. Pigeonswould take flight as soon as he took guard.”Peter, having made his point, departed. Hemade his way, aloof and thoughtful, towardsthe gap between the stands at the Nursery endand slowly disappeared.After tea the thoughts of one spectatorstrayed often to cats, their perfect assuranceand equanimity. He recalled the flight of thegods into Egypt, where they assumed variousguises, the sister of Apollo wearing the likenessof a cat. Was it drowsy fantasy on his part toimagine some mystical feline quality enteringthe soul of cricket long ago and manifestingitself thereafter in the grace of the moststylish batsmen, the extra-sensory perceptionof those wily spinners, the dextrous stumpingsof the swiftest 'keepers? Reverie was inter-rupted as Trueman bowled Worrell for nought.But, when it seemed inevitable that theincoming batsman, Derryck Murray, wouldplay out time, his thoughts reverted to Peter.Had that seraphic being returned to thepavilion by some alternative route? Ofttimeshe scanned balcony and stands through hisbinoculars but always in vain. Yet patiencewas ultimately rewarded for, when stumpswere drawn, he caught a fleeting but unmis-takable glimpse of his quarry at the pro-fessionals’ gate, contemplating, it seemed,whether to saunter unconcernedly in theplayers’ wake as the television camerasfollowed them in. But a slanting sun hadcast the pavilion in deep shadow and, when helooked again, Peter was nowhere to be seen.14079-AL-710930-72