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20
June, 1945
do mean. Nor could they explain in detail if asked, although the general idea seems to be that the forthright Aussies play the game strictly for blood, their terrific fire-ball bowlers displaying a most ungentlemanly preoccupation with winning. And their own freely-given opinion of English cricketers is not for the U. S. mails.
The great imponderable of cricket is the tradition that one must "play the game," displaying at all times good breeding and form, which ' is to the British a way of life as well as a sporting mean. Thus, for example, when a jittery fielder muffs an easy catch at a crucial time, the bowler must not scream, "You thick-witted dolt!" and
slam the ball on the ground in a fit of pique. Rather he returns stoutly to the task, with grim expression and stiff upper lip. Similarly, a denizen of Brooklyn, lost in a cricket pavilion, who might brashly shout, "T'row d' big bum out!" at some hapless player, would experience the greatest chill since the continental glacier receded. Though an American may find cricket incomprehensible, yea, even dull, beside his beloved baseball, he should try to appreciate the game from the British viewpoint. Just try explaining the niceties of the infield fly rule to a Briton sometime, or selling him on a sport where the teams only score a picayune four or five runs a game. That's not cricket.
By J ETTA CARLETON
HE'S blonde and lean and has that wonderfully scrubbed look of little boys on Sunday, and the whitest teeth you ever saw. In the Calcutta Statesman they wrote of him last fall: "To rediscover India in Sergeant Peterson's lively company is a tonic for frayed nerves and the ennui that comes with years of staying put in the old peace-time job . . . it's the Sarge's gift of seeing the funny side of things, and sharing it. that makes him such excellent company."