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The Ten Best Cricketers Of All Time
- Thread starter Francis
- Start date
J.J.B.Lewis
Banned
SJS
Hall of Fame Member
I am afraid notNo Imran Khan?
shortpitched713
International Captain
Yeah, thought of you when I made that staement tbh.I thought of that a long time before anyone else thanks
shortpitched713
International Captain
At the risk of sounding extremely ignorant, wtf's Bart King?
nightprowler10
Global Moderator
archie mac
International Coach
Plum Warner (from the Warner stand at Lords) picked a best world team circa 1912 chose King in his best 11. I have this side somewhere if anyone would like to have a look
nightprowler10
Global Moderator
Maybe cricket wasn't his first priority?
Anyway, that was a gun story Neil told about King in the thread.
SJS
Hall of Fame Member
Bart King played for Philadelphia and in his time was one of the world's finest all rounders. He is a legend.
SJS
Hall of Fame Member
One of the finest articles on the 'over rated' Larwood
Frank Keating travels to Sydney to meet the delightful octogenarian who as a lad, not long out the pit, terrified Bradman with his pace and was a key player in the infamous bodyline series. He won't talk about it now, not unless you ask nicely and listen attentively
AN Australian cricket side arrives tomorrow to resume the ancient challenge. 1993 was a notorious jubilee year in Ashes legend. Sixty years ago today an England team was making the same journey from the Antipodes - homeward bound on the high seas and celebrating the cruel capture of the tiny urn at the end of still the most infamous rubber of the whole sequence: the bodyline tour. The shipboard celebrations took six weeks and the MCC team did not disembark from the Duchess of Atholl until May 6, 1933 at Greenock.
''Aye,'' remembers the still surviving chief protagonist of that whole infamous shooting-match, ''we got home on May 6 after near eight months away, had one night with our wives and then were off next day playing for Notts at Worcester or wherever.''
He was to play for Nottinghamshire for five more summers but after he had won, almost single-handedly and immortally, the Ashes in that bodyline series, the establishment turned their back on Harold Larwood, who was never again picked for England.
By gorgeous quirk of paradox, this now wizened elder - as small and sharp as a sparrow, blind and 90 next year - whose skills 60 years ago so stirred colonial passions and hatreds, has been settled happily in Australia for the past two-score years. Happily and almost anonymously, except that his surname more than any other remains an eponym for venemously hostile fast bowling.
Larwood lives with Lois, his devoted wife of 65 years, in a tidy trim Sydney street of splintery, sentry-neat colonial bungalows. You ring at the porch door. The bell plays an upbeat ''John Brown's Body''. The inside door opens a fraction. The eye which looks up at you may be blind but still manages a beady aggressiveness.
''I'm not talking cricket - and I'm certainly not talking bodyline,'' he says. The accent is still ripely Nottingham. It goes on: ''Ask me one question about either and you're out. I can't remember a thing about the old days, and can't see a thing, so I know nothing about the present.''
You plead softly: ''I only bring greetings from England, sir . ..''
The door opens wider. ''Don't 'sir' me, I'm plain Harold, one-time coal miner and one-time professional cricketer.'' '
'Sorry, sir.'' ''Well, I can tell you're from England all right. I suppose you'd better come in - but no cricket questions, mind, and certainly no bodyline.''
How can this tiny ancient have been the most feared in history - patron saint and forerunner to Lillee and Lindwall, Ambrose and Holding and Waqar? If he was scarcely 5ft 9in in his pomp, he is 5ft 6in in his dotage, but still proudly straight-backed. He and
Lois brought five bonny daughters to Australia; now they have 13 grandchildren and ''five or six, I think'' great-grandchildren.
The walls of his spotless little sitting-room are dotted with framed photographs - heroes in sepia. He hears you hum with pleasure and recognition, and you know he is suddenly glad that you do. Photos fade faster than fame. ''You can have a quick look
at my pictures if you want,'' he says.
He stands by each one, like a museum guide - which, in a way, he is. He cannot see them any more but he knows exactly which is which and, in detail, who is who. Percy Chapman's happy 1928-29 MCC team in Australia gaze confidently at the camera. Sixteen of the 17 are dead.
''Now Les [Ames] has gone, I'm the only one left. Me, Les and Wally [Hammond] were the babies on that trip. Les remained my best chum and dear pal. He asked me over, all expenses paid, for his 80th birthday. Couldn't go, of course. Wally was always a funny fellow. Moods, you know.
''On tours, us kids would knock about together. One day you'd say, 'coming out tonight, Wally' and he'd say, 'course I am', and be the life and soul. Next day we'd say, 'what about tonight, Wally?' and he wouldn't even answer you. Funny fellow, Wally. Hell of a bat, mind.''
The bright southern sun from the window illuminates the little shrine. The blind man is unaware of it as he steers you proudly to a framed, faded, official scroll. It marks a long-ago appreciation for his cricketing feats from fellow members of his Miners' Union at Nuncargate, the mining village in which he was born in 1904.
''I left school at 13, down the pit at 14, driving a pony. Oh yes, lots of crawling along them tunnels. 'Old Joe' Hardstaff lived in our village. When I was around 17, he said I should go down to Nottingham for a trial. I didn't want to go, I was quite happy mining. In the end my dad took me on the bus. They set me to bowl at Art Staples and Ben Lilley [two county pros]. After a bit I went over to dad and said, 'I'm no good at this lark, dad, let's go home'.
''Just then they sent over to say I was wanted in the committee room. Mr Dixon was the president. He owned half Nottingham, didn't he? He says, groundstaff at 32 shillings a week.'
''Outside, dad was fair livid I hadn't asked for more, especially when the secretary gave him a list as long as your arm for stuff I'd need like a bat, flannels, new boots and all. It came to pounds 9, a hell of a lot for us, and on the way home I said, 'Dad, if I make the grade I'll make it right with you.'''
Late one Friday night, in the midsummer of 1925, the 20-year-old received a telegram at home: ''Proceed to Sheffield. Be prepared to play - Carr.'' The county's long-time and autocratic captain was AW Carr.
''They put me at square leg and Yorkshire's Edgar Oldroyd kept playing the ball towards me and feinting to run, you know 'kidding the new kid' sort of thing, teasing me. ''Any road, he tries it a fifth time or so, and I'm in on it fast and lets fly - and knock all three down from square leg. He's out by a mile.
Mr Carr walks over slowly and says, 'Good throw, sonny, but never ever do that again.'
'Why not, sir,' I say, 'he's on his way, isn't he?'
it'll be four overthrows.' He were right, too.''
In that last half-summer of 1925 he took 73 wickets at 18 each, and word was around that a gale was blowing. The following June England blooded him at Lord's. His first Test wicket was Macartney's. For The Oval Test England recalled the 49-year old
Wilfred Rhodes.
The old man blindly shuffles a hand around in a drawer and pulls out a parchmenty old newspaper cutting. ''Is this the right one?'' he asks. It is - from a Sunday Express of August 1926, the headline exclaiming
Now he directs you to a framed scorecard on another wall - and back all of 67 years. Of the 22 he is the sole survivor, but what giants were comrades of this lovely old man - Hobbs, Sutcliffe, Woolley, Strudwick . . . the Ashes were clinched, Rhodes took six
in the match and so did young Larwood.
''Rhodes were pure genius. I got Woodfull for a duck and after a bit Rhodes came on. That Ponsford was a vicious cutter of the ball, vicious. I was at point but Rhodes keeps signalling me closer to the bat. Still fetching me up till I'm almost standing
on Ponsford's crease. Sure I'm a bit scared. Rhodes comes up, just two paces from behind umpire. But he stops dead, and stares at me.
''I'd involuntarily taken a pace back from Ponsford's crease. He fetches me in again. First ball nips through and smacks into Struddy's gloves. Second ball breaks back - and Ponsford, surprised, pops it up and I jump across and catch it left-handed.
Rhodes walks down the pitch to me and says softly, 'you can go back a bit now, sonny, we got him.'
On the mantelpiece is a small silver ashtray. I tap my pipe out on it. The old man hears the clink. ''I think you've just emptied your ash in my most treasured possession,'' he says, though without any trace of admonishment. >From a Grateful Skipper.''
The blind eyes mist over and stare at the wall in a reverie.
''Mr Jardine gave me that when we came back. His inscription still means an awful lot to me. He was a real leader of men. I'd bowl two or three overs for him on that tour and he'd come up and say, 'anything in this wicket for you, Harold?' and I'd perhaps
say, 'yes, quite lively, skipper.'
''Sometimes he might wait for Bradman to come in, then he'd clap his hands and everyone would move over and suddenly my field would be Les, at wicket standing back, not a slip, just a short gully to stop the sort of jump and jab, then a mid-off, and everyone of the rest in a leg-trap ring. I just used to watch Bradman's feet as I bowled. If he shuffled slightly to leg I'd follow him, if he moved across his stumps I'd follow him there.
No, the barrackers never got at me, just at Jardine. They detested him.
Larwood came into the final Test at Sydney, the Ashes already well won thanks to his 32 wickets at 19 apiece.
''Bradman comes in. At once my foot went and I'm collapsed in agony. Jardine picks me up and says I must finish the over.
'I can't, skipper, I'm finished.' He orders me. So I do, in terrible pain.
'''Can I go off now, skip?' I say.
'No,' he whispers, nodding towards Bradman, 'not until the little bastard's gone. Let him think you can come back for another spell any time. I want you to stand at short cover-point and just stare at him. So Hedley [Verity] comes on at my end and that's where Bradman loses his head, thinking to cash in while I was 'resting'.
''He dashes out at Hedley's second ball, head up, and it bowls him. At once Mr Jardine signals me off. He'd done the trick - and Bradman and I walk off beside one another and neither of us spoke a word.''
Larwood never played for England again. ''Well, I wasn't about to apologise, was I? I had nothing to apologise for, did I? To tell the truth, from the moment we got home from that tour I've been fed up to the back teeth with the word 'bodyline'. Still am all these years later. Vow never to talk about it - except for a little chat like this. Well, you're from England, aren't you? Not many from over there comes to see me now. Well, I'm totally forgotten now, aren't I?''
Frank Keating travels to Sydney to meet the delightful octogenarian who as a lad, not long out the pit, terrified Bradman with his pace and was a key player in the infamous bodyline series. He won't talk about it now, not unless you ask nicely and listen attentively
AN Australian cricket side arrives tomorrow to resume the ancient challenge. 1993 was a notorious jubilee year in Ashes legend. Sixty years ago today an England team was making the same journey from the Antipodes - homeward bound on the high seas and celebrating the cruel capture of the tiny urn at the end of still the most infamous rubber of the whole sequence: the bodyline tour. The shipboard celebrations took six weeks and the MCC team did not disembark from the Duchess of Atholl until May 6, 1933 at Greenock.
''Aye,'' remembers the still surviving chief protagonist of that whole infamous shooting-match, ''we got home on May 6 after near eight months away, had one night with our wives and then were off next day playing for Notts at Worcester or wherever.''
He was to play for Nottinghamshire for five more summers but after he had won, almost single-handedly and immortally, the Ashes in that bodyline series, the establishment turned their back on Harold Larwood, who was never again picked for England.
By gorgeous quirk of paradox, this now wizened elder - as small and sharp as a sparrow, blind and 90 next year - whose skills 60 years ago so stirred colonial passions and hatreds, has been settled happily in Australia for the past two-score years. Happily and almost anonymously, except that his surname more than any other remains an eponym for venemously hostile fast bowling.
Larwood lives with Lois, his devoted wife of 65 years, in a tidy trim Sydney street of splintery, sentry-neat colonial bungalows. You ring at the porch door. The bell plays an upbeat ''John Brown's Body''. The inside door opens a fraction. The eye which looks up at you may be blind but still manages a beady aggressiveness.
''I'm not talking cricket - and I'm certainly not talking bodyline,'' he says. The accent is still ripely Nottingham. It goes on: ''Ask me one question about either and you're out. I can't remember a thing about the old days, and can't see a thing, so I know nothing about the present.''
You plead softly: ''I only bring greetings from England, sir . ..''
The door opens wider. ''Don't 'sir' me, I'm plain Harold, one-time coal miner and one-time professional cricketer.'' '
'Sorry, sir.'' ''Well, I can tell you're from England all right. I suppose you'd better come in - but no cricket questions, mind, and certainly no bodyline.''
How can this tiny ancient have been the most feared in history - patron saint and forerunner to Lillee and Lindwall, Ambrose and Holding and Waqar? If he was scarcely 5ft 9in in his pomp, he is 5ft 6in in his dotage, but still proudly straight-backed. He and
Lois brought five bonny daughters to Australia; now they have 13 grandchildren and ''five or six, I think'' great-grandchildren.
The walls of his spotless little sitting-room are dotted with framed photographs - heroes in sepia. He hears you hum with pleasure and recognition, and you know he is suddenly glad that you do. Photos fade faster than fame. ''You can have a quick look
at my pictures if you want,'' he says.
He stands by each one, like a museum guide - which, in a way, he is. He cannot see them any more but he knows exactly which is which and, in detail, who is who. Percy Chapman's happy 1928-29 MCC team in Australia gaze confidently at the camera. Sixteen of the 17 are dead.
''Now Les [Ames] has gone, I'm the only one left. Me, Les and Wally [Hammond] were the babies on that trip. Les remained my best chum and dear pal. He asked me over, all expenses paid, for his 80th birthday. Couldn't go, of course. Wally was always a funny fellow. Moods, you know.
''On tours, us kids would knock about together. One day you'd say, 'coming out tonight, Wally' and he'd say, 'course I am', and be the life and soul. Next day we'd say, 'what about tonight, Wally?' and he wouldn't even answer you. Funny fellow, Wally. Hell of a bat, mind.''
The bright southern sun from the window illuminates the little shrine. The blind man is unaware of it as he steers you proudly to a framed, faded, official scroll. It marks a long-ago appreciation for his cricketing feats from fellow members of his Miners' Union at Nuncargate, the mining village in which he was born in 1904.
''I left school at 13, down the pit at 14, driving a pony. Oh yes, lots of crawling along them tunnels. 'Old Joe' Hardstaff lived in our village. When I was around 17, he said I should go down to Nottingham for a trial. I didn't want to go, I was quite happy mining. In the end my dad took me on the bus. They set me to bowl at Art Staples and Ben Lilley [two county pros]. After a bit I went over to dad and said, 'I'm no good at this lark, dad, let's go home'.
''Just then they sent over to say I was wanted in the committee room. Mr Dixon was the president. He owned half Nottingham, didn't he? He says, groundstaff at 32 shillings a week.'
''Outside, dad was fair livid I hadn't asked for more, especially when the secretary gave him a list as long as your arm for stuff I'd need like a bat, flannels, new boots and all. It came to pounds 9, a hell of a lot for us, and on the way home I said, 'Dad, if I make the grade I'll make it right with you.'''
Late one Friday night, in the midsummer of 1925, the 20-year-old received a telegram at home: ''Proceed to Sheffield. Be prepared to play - Carr.'' The county's long-time and autocratic captain was AW Carr.
''They put me at square leg and Yorkshire's Edgar Oldroyd kept playing the ball towards me and feinting to run, you know 'kidding the new kid' sort of thing, teasing me. ''Any road, he tries it a fifth time or so, and I'm in on it fast and lets fly - and knock all three down from square leg. He's out by a mile.
Mr Carr walks over slowly and says, 'Good throw, sonny, but never ever do that again.'
'Why not, sir,' I say, 'he's on his way, isn't he?'
it'll be four overthrows.' He were right, too.''
In that last half-summer of 1925 he took 73 wickets at 18 each, and word was around that a gale was blowing. The following June England blooded him at Lord's. His first Test wicket was Macartney's. For The Oval Test England recalled the 49-year old
Wilfred Rhodes.
The old man blindly shuffles a hand around in a drawer and pulls out a parchmenty old newspaper cutting. ''Is this the right one?'' he asks. It is - from a Sunday Express of August 1926, the headline exclaiming
Now he directs you to a framed scorecard on another wall - and back all of 67 years. Of the 22 he is the sole survivor, but what giants were comrades of this lovely old man - Hobbs, Sutcliffe, Woolley, Strudwick . . . the Ashes were clinched, Rhodes took six
in the match and so did young Larwood.
''Rhodes were pure genius. I got Woodfull for a duck and after a bit Rhodes came on. That Ponsford was a vicious cutter of the ball, vicious. I was at point but Rhodes keeps signalling me closer to the bat. Still fetching me up till I'm almost standing
on Ponsford's crease. Sure I'm a bit scared. Rhodes comes up, just two paces from behind umpire. But he stops dead, and stares at me.
''I'd involuntarily taken a pace back from Ponsford's crease. He fetches me in again. First ball nips through and smacks into Struddy's gloves. Second ball breaks back - and Ponsford, surprised, pops it up and I jump across and catch it left-handed.
Rhodes walks down the pitch to me and says softly, 'you can go back a bit now, sonny, we got him.'
On the mantelpiece is a small silver ashtray. I tap my pipe out on it. The old man hears the clink. ''I think you've just emptied your ash in my most treasured possession,'' he says, though without any trace of admonishment. >From a Grateful Skipper.''
The blind eyes mist over and stare at the wall in a reverie.
''Mr Jardine gave me that when we came back. His inscription still means an awful lot to me. He was a real leader of men. I'd bowl two or three overs for him on that tour and he'd come up and say, 'anything in this wicket for you, Harold?' and I'd perhaps
say, 'yes, quite lively, skipper.'
''Sometimes he might wait for Bradman to come in, then he'd clap his hands and everyone would move over and suddenly my field would be Les, at wicket standing back, not a slip, just a short gully to stop the sort of jump and jab, then a mid-off, and everyone of the rest in a leg-trap ring. I just used to watch Bradman's feet as I bowled. If he shuffled slightly to leg I'd follow him, if he moved across his stumps I'd follow him there.
No, the barrackers never got at me, just at Jardine. They detested him.
Larwood came into the final Test at Sydney, the Ashes already well won thanks to his 32 wickets at 19 apiece.
''Bradman comes in. At once my foot went and I'm collapsed in agony. Jardine picks me up and says I must finish the over.
'I can't, skipper, I'm finished.' He orders me. So I do, in terrible pain.
'''Can I go off now, skip?' I say.
'No,' he whispers, nodding towards Bradman, 'not until the little bastard's gone. Let him think you can come back for another spell any time. I want you to stand at short cover-point and just stare at him. So Hedley [Verity] comes on at my end and that's where Bradman loses his head, thinking to cash in while I was 'resting'.
''He dashes out at Hedley's second ball, head up, and it bowls him. At once Mr Jardine signals me off. He'd done the trick - and Bradman and I walk off beside one another and neither of us spoke a word.''
Larwood never played for England again. ''Well, I wasn't about to apologise, was I? I had nothing to apologise for, did I? To tell the truth, from the moment we got home from that tour I've been fed up to the back teeth with the word 'bodyline'. Still am all these years later. Vow never to talk about it - except for a little chat like this. Well, you're from England, aren't you? Not many from over there comes to see me now. Well, I'm totally forgotten now, aren't I?''
Last edited:
silentstriker
The Wheel is Forever
Fantastic stuff SJS.
Fusion
Global Moderator
I've enjoyed this thread a lot. Great to see the different lists and how people rank the players. Here are my two cents:
1. Don Bradman - No explanation needed.
2. Gary Sobers - Probably the most complete cricketer of all time.
3. Imran Khan - IMO, right behind Sobers in terms of being a complete player. If you add leadership/captaincy skills, then it adds to his value even more. As has been documented many times on this site, his peaks as a bowler and as an all-rounder are simply awesome.
4. IVA Richards - To me, Richards is the second greatest batsman of all time. He was devastating, awe-inspiring, and simply the coolest cricketer out there. Long live King Viv.
5. WG Grace- I hesitate to put older era players on my all-time lists, because they played in such a different environment and conditions that it's difficult to compare it with today's players. However, Grace's record is too great to ignore.
6. Malcolm Marshal - The best bowler ever IMO.
7. Shane Warne - What a champ! I can watch bowl all day and be amazed by every single deliver he bowls.
8. Muttiah Muralitharan - Wicket taking machine. Cops a lot of flak for his action, but seems to use that as motivation and performs even better.
9. Jack Hobbs
10. SR Tendulkar
1. Don Bradman - No explanation needed.
2. Gary Sobers - Probably the most complete cricketer of all time.
3. Imran Khan - IMO, right behind Sobers in terms of being a complete player. If you add leadership/captaincy skills, then it adds to his value even more. As has been documented many times on this site, his peaks as a bowler and as an all-rounder are simply awesome.
4. IVA Richards - To me, Richards is the second greatest batsman of all time. He was devastating, awe-inspiring, and simply the coolest cricketer out there. Long live King Viv.
5. WG Grace- I hesitate to put older era players on my all-time lists, because they played in such a different environment and conditions that it's difficult to compare it with today's players. However, Grace's record is too great to ignore.
6. Malcolm Marshal - The best bowler ever IMO.
7. Shane Warne - What a champ! I can watch bowl all day and be amazed by every single deliver he bowls.
8. Muttiah Muralitharan - Wicket taking machine. Cops a lot of flak for his action, but seems to use that as motivation and performs even better.
9. Jack Hobbs
10. SR Tendulkar
SJS
Hall of Fame Member
And the players I regret having to leave out.
1. Grimmett in place of Warne
2. George Headley and Hammond in place of Viv Richards and Tendulkar
I think I am neutral between these changes and might have been influenced by the younger crowd here to make the choices I did make.
I am disappinted at not finding a place for Lillee.
shortpitched713
International Captain
SJS
Hall of Fame Member
Larwood again....
Each of these quotes tells us something about this alltime great.
Each of these quotes tells us something about this alltime great.
He was, for a certainity, the only bowler who quelled Bradman; the only bowler who made Bradman lose his poise and balance, departing from his set path of easeful centuries into flurried and agitated movements.
- Jack Fingleton in Brightly Fades the Don
How he ever stood the strain of bowling at such terrific speed match after match after match I don't know. It was amazing.
- Don Bradman in My Cricketing Life
I used to give every new batsman four balls. One was a bouncer to check his courage, the second a fizzer to check his eyesight, the third was a slow one to try out his reflexes and the fourth ball a bender to see if he was a good cricketer. And if he took a single off each of the four balls, I knew I was in trouble.
- Harold Larwood