Adulatory thud. A thrilling clunk. Scratch-scratch… gobbledygook. It is difficult to describe the boom created by James Anderson’s scudding explosion of Dean Elgar’s off-stump on the third morning at Old Trafford. Believe me, I’ve tried. Thud clop whomps whump tunk bonk clonk… clink This was roughly 900 words of onomatopoeic praise for a single sound. There is something about the acoustics of a ball slamming on a stump that gives me the chills and ignites my senses.
The particular combination of a five-and-a-half-ounce leather ball thwonking, yes thwonking, into 28 inches of tubular English ash affects me. I’m not sure what it is, and I probably shouldn’t delve too deeply into it, but there’s something about the sound of a leather ball thwonking, yes thwonking, into tubular English
I am not alone. As soon as Elgar’s evicted stump was recovered and reconnected with bail and ground, the dismissal was “clipped up” and uploaded online, eliciting a chorus of applause. Individual fans and official accounts enthusiastically disseminated the five-second clip, urging others to view and, more importantly, listen.
“Turn up the volume on this!” pleaded one placard on the wicket. “A genre classic,” exclaimed another. Still, the phrases “Love that stump noise!” and “Get your cochleas around this” persisted.
One of these is decorated just. “The Sound of Elgar’s Stump Flying Can Become Your Text Notification Noise,” which sounded like the title of a new Arctic Monkeys song, was also a thought-provoking remark. Another person was moved to just write “Ear Porn” after viewing or listening. No chance I’m Googling that one.
Such passages of play like the Anderson vs. Elgar wicket have a musical quality; they touch something within us and stir the spirit. The stump mic at the non-end striker’s picks up the duff-duff thumping of feet and screech of the bowler’s delivery stride, producing a few notes of crescendo before the reward.
It is the cricketing equivalent of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5’s introduction, or if you prefer, the Jaws theme. Have a listen. It is tempting to refer to it as Anderson’s ball on a G-string, but it may be going too far. Let’s settle for Elgar’s sorrow.
Cricket is a sensory delight. As anyone who has savored a handmade cricket tea, unscrewed a container of linseed oil, or unzipped a kitbag after a long winter will attest, the game also has its tastes and odors. The cricket generates its sonic environment.
The sound of the bat striking the ball is ingrained in cricket legend. Whether it is the sweetly soothing plock-thwock of a pleasant village match or the bull-whip crrrrrack of a professional’s buttery soft five-star pressed blade scything the ball into a stadium filled with spectators. Perhaps a favorite musician does it for you. The vicious crack of a Robin Smith cut shot or the disdainful crunch of a Rohit Sharma swivel-pull?
Sound on the playing field is crucial to the outcome of a game. Did the bowler, fielders, or most importantly the umpire hear the bat hitting the ball with a staccato sound? A woody tkkkkkk followed by an eager exclamation of Owizeaaaaaa?! Or was it a mediocre piece of bat-hitting pad? A baseball umpire has a few seconds to evaluate what they have observed and make a call. Frequently, what they have heard plays a crucial part in their decisions.
This auditory tapestry exceeds the limit. The courteous wave of applause, the ooohs and aaahs of an audience that can quickly transform into leery chants, guttural roars, and occasionally even mock boos. Much is said about the genteel chatter and hum that surrounds Lord’s on the morning of a Test match, a form of snobbish chatter and hum. They claim that it is a frequency exclusive to the Home of Cricket, but I am skeptical.
On the morning of a game, every stadium has an agitated buzz. Perhaps what distinguishes Lord’s is that the good vibes are likely to be punctuated by the popping of champagne corks, the screech of film being pulled back on a punnet of nocellara olives, or, unfortunately, the braying refrain of the plum chino and sockless loafer brigade “carving up” the Nursery ground. Even the most enchanting and gorgeous orchestra is capable of the occasional off-note.
Resuming play with a refrain. Anderson’s firing of Elgar immediately evoked a dismissal on the same grounds 17 years ago on a bright August afternoon. The resemblance between Anderson’s stump scud and Simon Jones’ reverse-swinging poleaxing of Pup (Australian batsman Michael Clarke) during the 2005 Ashes was not lost on the England and Wales Cricket Board’s social media bods nor Jones himself.
“Strangely, both incidents occurred at Old Trafford,” remarked the former fast bowler. “I believe that whenever a stump ‘disappears’ it is exciting to watch… and hear!” I pointed out to him that his dismissal of Clarke was marginally more satisfying than Anderson’s, but he remained magnificently polite. “My other favorite loss was to [Virender] Sehwag on debut [at Lord’s in 2002] – that was a cracker and it was good to beat him on all fronts, he’s a hell of a player.”
While we’re conversing, I search it up and re-experience the sensation. Jones’s rejection of Sehwag is a work of art. Stump was abruptly shifted as if a grocery cart had been thrown in front of a bullet train, accompanied by a satisfying smack.
Surely the Sehwag and Clarke ejections are the sounds he periodically replays when he rests his head on his pillow. “Well, certainly, but the nicest sound a cricket player can hear is the roar of the fans; it’s the greatest sensation ever.” The mere thought of that causes my hair to stand on end. Such a tremendous buzz… and impossible to reproduce — you don’t get it in the workplace!”
Cricket is becoming surrounded by a cacophony of commentary regarding its projected purpose, its existence, its future, and its past, ranging from screaming proclamations of doom to low grumblings of discontent. Even taking pleasure in the game’s most basic components is a refreshing experience. To tune out, tune in and hit the replay button. Gudd-unk!
