In Affectionate Remembrance of Test Cricket

A year or two ago I watched the film ‘Death of a Gentleman’, about the parlous state of modern international cricket. At the time, I thought its case was overstated. Despite the creation of a wonderful pantomime villain in Giles Clarke, the film wasn’t the dramatic exposé it promised to be. The game needs to evolve, and T20 cricket, pink-ball day/night tests, four-day test matches, DRS and the overt dominance of the ‘big three’ test playing nations were an inevitability of the development of the sport and the market forces at work within. Or so I thought at the time.

I love test cricket because it is more than just a sport. It is a game with Laws rather than rules. The spirit of the game is as important as the result, and history and tradition transcend what is occurring on the field of play. Words and phrases like Bodyline and The Golden Age are woven into the fabric of cricket, and giants of the game like Bradman, Hobbs, Richards and Imran Khan straddle eras in which the brand of cricket played reflects the times. The dour austerity of 1950s or the carefree abandon of the early part of the Twentieth Century were each epitomised by the nature of the cricket being played.

Test cricket is a novel, and T20 is a pamphlet. T20 has no history and no culture to fall back on. The colours, mascots and walk-on music were designed in a meeting room by faceless executives. As a sport, you get exactly what it says on the tin. Bowlers possess more varieties than Heinz’s famed ‘57’ and batsmen try to plonk every ball into the crowd. There is no significant pressure associated with the format: bowlers accept they may be flogged on any given day, and a batsman might squirt a catch to cover point in the first over, but there’s always another chance tomorrow. In test cricket, pressure is what makes the game. There is pressure on the opening batsman who goes out on a pair in fading light, or the spin bowler tasked with skittling the opposition on a final day ‘bunsen’.

T20 mirrors modern living – quicker, louder, faster, with partial attention paid until something shinier comes along. T20 is disposable. Multiple players move between franchises in the off-season. The concepts of loyalty, building a career or genuine team spirit are anathema to T20, being less important than brash musical interludes, cheerleaders and placing KFC buckets on our heads. Kieron Pollard becomes a star only in this form of the game. We are no longer content to play the role of spectators, watching on the edge of our seats as the drama unfolds. We are now part of the action, actively involved from our armchairs or the stands. This is cricket as reality TV, where players are mic’d up on the field of play, cameramen on Segways chase incoming batsmen for close-up shots and members of the crowd don orange tabards for the chance to win thousands with a crowd catch.

The role and authority of the umpires has been eroded over time. If players don’t agree with decisions, they can have them overturned on replay, with garish neon screens proclaiming to everyone that the custodian of the game is wrong, undermined by the available technology. Where catches used to be claimed and the word of an opponent trusted, we now rely on endless and probably unreliable replays to tell us that the player is lying and the ball really did touch the turf. Umpires have had their horns sanded down, though thankfully not by a mixture of yellow tape and pitch-side dirt.

There are obvious parallels to be drawn with education, where teacher authority and the delivery of a communal academic curriculum plays second fiddle to student choice, engaging activities and personalised learning. We champion the quick and easy route to success (revision booklets and pre-test tests, drafted assignments and the Khan (though not Imran) Academy). We want immediate success and demonstration of ‘progress’ on a lesson by lesson basis rather than the slow and steady build-up of knowledge, skills and expertise. Raucous external stimuli have bred limited patience and if one thing doesn’t pique our interest, something else will be along in a moment. Two of the subjects that have been marginalised most in the curriculum (music and languages) are distinctly hierarchical rather than cumulative, and require dedication over years, perhaps decades, to master. We should relish this learning challenge, where the more we know, the more we realise lies unknown, where embracing both depth and breadth leads to complete immersion. Education is about means as well as ends, just as test cricket is about more than winning or losing.

CLR James, in his seminal text Beyond a Boundary, wrote ‘What do they know of cricket who only cricket know’. Today, we might ask what The KFC Buckethead Army care for the future of test cricket, but we probably already know the answer.

Educational Jenga

Over the last few months, a man has been building a house two doors down from our property. Almost single-handedly, one man has built a house. Every day of the week, from early until late, he has been on-site, building a house from scratch.

It has been interesting to watch, given that I have performed two major renovations in my adult life. One was when I put up a mirror in the dining room, and the other was when I painted the same room the following year. The former took me a few minutes but the latter task took four days. We had a small dining room, but using a roller about two inches in length (it looked more like a toothbrush) significantly lengthened the process.

Despite knowing little about solo house-building, the order in which the property has appeared seems logical. The site was levelled, the foundations developed, the house was built from the ground up, and we’ve now reached the external cladding stage. [I use the word cladding to make it sound like I know my terminology, but I’m willing to entertain the possibility I may be wrong].

It would be hard to justify another order in which the house could have been built – I might have offered some advice had I noticed the chap building a tiled roof on the freshly levelled earth, or attempting to hoist a piano into an as-yet unformed second floor. There are two areas of education currently en vogue that are analogous to this.


Jenga is a bad way to build a house. As the house gets taller, it becomes ever more apparent that the foundations are shaky, many essential support materials are missing and eventually (and inevitably) the whole edifice collapses.

Project-based learning is educational Jenga. Instead of concentrating on building solid foundations through a common core curriculum, PBL follows the individual interests of children, assuming that essential knowledge and skills will be gathered along the way.

Individual pupils may become a relative expert on whatever niche real-life project they are following, but it is inevitable that certain gaps will be left. The longer this approach goes on, the more gaps will appear, until the gaps outnumber solid blocks of understanding. Of course, this is of less concern to people when it isn’t them required to pick up the pieces and rebuild.


I do not believe it is possible to teach aspects of good character in an explicit manner, and certainly not independent of supporting ‘content’. I do think a key driver of Schools should be to develop people of excellent character, but it is best done through adherence to a rigorous academic curriculum, where desirable aspects such as resilience, grit, leadership, self-management, goal-setting etc are developed through what we teach. Without content, one is left with hypothetical situations and ‘what-ifs?’ Does anyone actually believe Donald Trump would wade into mass-shooting, even without a gun?

If we attempt to deliver/teach these desirable ‘extras’ separately from the core curriculum, we have moved beyond the teaching of knowledge and skills into more ephemeral areas. We should not be looking to build buttresses, turrets and carved gargoyles before the main house is complete. Even their necessity could be a matter for discussion. ‘Learning to learn’, for example, is an unhelpful phrase – you have either learned something, or you haven’t; this mythical skill is a phrase of extreme glibness.

Another problem with these accoutrements is the contradictory nature of them. Sacre-Coeur in Montmarte is built as a bizarre Romano-Byzantine structure, with some features detracting, and even clashing, with others. It is difficult to blend aspects of architecture that are incongruous and it is similar with education. Pushing the concept of grit and resilience in the absence of content is hard enough, but doing so whilst channelling a narrative of it’s ok to not be ok, linking high academic expectations with increased mental health concerns and focusing on the ‘culture of the self’ means a careful path needs to be trod to avoid giving messages clearly at odds with each other.

Our current house was built in 2014 and we’re moving to a more traditional, turn of the century, colonial town house. Maybe this is coincidence, but I think there’s an element of symbolism too.