This piece is taken from Issue 3 of Wisden’s The Nightwatchman
I. Wilfred Rhodes (1877-1973)
Tha can’t put in what God left out.
Heaven sent, then, those few short strides,
an unwavering rhythm, and the loose, lovely arc
of the arm. A trajectory looping from Golden Age
to Bradman. And being White Rose born and bred,
never was a legacy better spent. Every ball an interrogation,
every over a conspiracy of art and science.
But land a ball on a sixpence?
Nay, lad, I can hit a newspaper, spread reight out
at that, and if the batsman thinks as I’m spinning it,
then I am.
