Cricket, in the main, is about scoring runs and taking wickets. It hardly matters how the runs or the wickets come, only that they come quickly enough, and in sufficient quantities to overcome the opposition.

But is efficiency the sole aim of the great game? Shouldn’t there be considerations beyond mere runs and wickets? What of art, for example? Do aesthetics not also matter in cricket, and in sport? Runs and wickets win matches but there can be no doubt that style adds value to the game as a spectacle.

Production may be most important, but what cricket fan does not appreciate the exquisite cover-drive which sends the ball rocketing to the boundary with little apparent effort; the kind played by the likes of Zaheer Abbas, Babar Azam, Hashim Amla, and Marlon Samuels, to name a few.

Which true fan would frown upon viewing the smooth, silent approach and picture-perfect side-on action of Michael Holding or look askance as Shane Warne unveils his repertoire of leg-breaks and sliders and googleys and flippers? In addition to being highly productive performers, the above-mentioned were also amongst the game’s supreme artistes, players who were effective as well as pleasing to watch.

But one need not be a great gatherer of runs and capturer of wickets to charm your way into the hearts of the public. Richard Staple, who played for Jamaica in the late 80s and early 90s, was one of the most elegant stroke-makers one could ever hope to see. He never made many, but he was always a joy to behold, whether he made seven or 70 (he never managed to score a first-class century). His timing was such that what seemed like a simple forward defensive tap would often send the ball speeding to the boundary as if shot from a gun. Commentator Bobbie Fray said Staple’s attractive batting would “one day cause pandemonium at a cricket ground”. That day never came and he ended up migrating to the United States and was even made captain of his adopted country.

We are often intrigued by the narrative of the flawed genius. The underachieving player with aesthetic appeal usually attracts a legion of diehard supporters who will willingly overlook his shortcomings. It is beyond dispute, for example, that Don Bradman was the greatest batter who ever drew breath, as the saying goes. Nobody who ever wielded a blade was more likely to make a mountain of runs than the batting genius from Bowral.

Yet there was someone, nowhere near as productive, who was unapologetically preferred by a host of Australian fans. His name was Victor Trumper. Writing in The Immortal Victor Trumper, Jack Fingleton, Australian Test batter of Bradman’s era, offered this: “For me, Trumper remains the greatest batsman who ever lived. Bradman could rightly be advanced against him, but whereas Bradman, in the early stages of his career, operated on bowlers like a butcher at the abattoirs, wading deep in their agony and frustration, Trumper was like a surgeon, deftly and classically dissecting everything that was offered against him.”

England’s David Gower was a batter of elegance and ease. But he was also viewed as careless, a man as likely to stylishly dismember some of the game’s best attacks as he was to get caught in the cordon for few, casually edging a drive. “It’s hard work making batting look easy,” he said in response to those accusing him of not making full use of his gifts.

If you lived in Jamaica during the 1970s and 80s you’d have known of Lawrence Rowe. The right-hander, who made his Test debut against New Zealand in 1972 scoring 214 and 100 not out, was a gluttonous run-gatherer in his early days. And yet it was the grandeur of his batting that endeared him to the cricket-loving public, making him one of the most popular sports stars in the country. Many Jamaicans, Michael Holding among them, think Rowe was the best they had seen and were not reluctant to sing his praises.

Batting at the highest level is a very difficult job that relatively few people do well. Those of us who like to think we are able to spot talent often rely on the appearance of effortlessness as a marker of ability. Smoothness is often considered an indication of aptitude, and those who make batting look the easiest profession in the world are often seen as possessing the capacity to excel. Gower’s comfort at the crease gave the impression of an outsized talent.

The same was felt about West Indies batter Carl Hooper. “Oh, Carl!” was West Indies Captain Richie Richardson’s cry of exasperation from the other end as Hooper, once again, nonchalantly gifted his wicket during a Test in Australia. The Guyanese right-hander elicited much frustration, especially earlier in his career. Though a multitude of fans felt he was a player from the top drawer, his performances only rarely matched the expectations thrusted upon his shoulders.

Cricket followers struggled to find reasons for the gap between promise and production. During his Kent days one pundit offered that Hooper had so much time to play and possessed such a wide variety of shots that he was frequently caught in at least two minds. Another, this time in Australia during the 1992-93 West Indies visit, opined, simply, that Hooper had a “gift of movement”.

We perceive some performers as exceptionally gifted simply because they move more smoothly than others. This, in turn, goads us into demanding more from them and to castigate them whenever we think they are frittering their talent away. Yet while we dislike the inconsistency, there are times when the stars align and the magic appears. The resulting show is always spellbinding, going beyond the mere numbers.

Nobody who saw VVS Laxman’s 281 against Australia at the Eden Gardens in Calcutta in 2001 will ever forget it. And it’s not just because of the runs he scored either, as there have been larger innings that have been largely forgotten. The innings stays with us because of the situation of the game and the sheer exquisiteness of Laxman’s batting. He worked a miracle to dig his country out of a gaping hole, and not only did he do it against one of the best attacks in the game; he also did it with aplomb.

Brian Lara’s 277 in Sydney in 1992 came in a match that went nowhere, yet the innings is still remembered for the majesty and the precision of the Trinidadian’s strokeplay. It was Lara’s first Test hundred, and it was a signal to the cricket community that here was a batter out of the ordinary, a genius performer destined to provide hours of delight.

The aforementioned gift of movement is given to bowlers as well. Hear, for example, John Arlott on England fast bowler of the 1920s, Maurice Tate: “You would hardly have called Maurice Tate’s physique graceful, yet his bowling remains, and not only for me, as lovely piece of movement as even cricket has ever produced. He had strong but sloping shoulders; a broad chest; fairly long arms and essential to the pace bowler, broad feet to take the jolt of the delivery stride; and wide hips to cushion it. His run-in, eight accelerating and lengthening strides, had a hint of scramble about it at the beginning, but, by the eighth stride and well before his final leap, it seemed as if his limbs were gathered together in one glorious, wheeling unity.”

“If JS Bach had seen Ray Lindwall run up to bowl,” wrote Fred Trueman in Arlott & Trueman On Cricket, “he would have rewritten one of his Brandenberg Concertos – or perhaps started an entirely new composition to match the perfect mathematical rhythm of that approach.” Many would have said similarly of Holding’s run-up.

Will anyone who witnessed the great West Indian’s long, silent, graceful approach to the wicket ever forget it? It is as much a part of his allure as a fast bowler as the 249 Test wickets that he took. He was more than just a fast bowler. With ball in hand, facing down an opponent, he was a performing artiste of the highest calibre.

Players like Rowe, Gower, Trumper, Abbas, Laxman, Holding, Lindwall, Lillee, and Steyn stole the hearts of fans, not only by their high production levels but also because they were elite artistes. Their more epic performances were extraordinary partially because of the panache with which they carried them out. We are appreciative of the magnitude of the performance but are bewitched by its style.

“Cricket,” wrote cricket historian CLR James in Beyond A Boundary, “is first and foremost a dramatic spectacle. It belongs with the theatre, ballet, opera, and dance.” He was right.

Garfield Robinson is a Jamaican living in the US who writes on cricket for a few Indian and English publications. Send comments to the Jamaica Observer or garfield.v.robinson@gmail.com.

Carl Hooper.

Michael Holding

Lawrence Rowe

Brian Lara