The absence of leather on willow

In these confined days in late spring, as the Covid-19 pandemic continues to shut down life as we once knew it, there is one thing in particular that is missing from life: the sound of leather on willow. I speak, of course, of the game of cricket.

For the uninitiated, ‘the sound of leather on willow’ is an idiom for the noise produced by a batter hitting the leather-covered ball. For those fully immersed in the joys of cricket, broadly speaking, the expression conjures idyllic images of a village cricket green; summery blue skies with wispy cirrus clouds high above; the rumbling of stomachs as tea draws closer; the intermittent yelps from the bowler and the rest of the fielding team in their pursuit of bowling out the opposition; the inevitable sound of pints being poured in the pavilion as the evening light fades; and once the match is over, the participants discussing their performances, of what could have been if they had just got into a better position when facing that one fateful delivery

Idyllic images aside, ‘the sound of leather on willow’ will have its own connotations for each and every one of us cricketing enthusiasts, whether a professional or casual player, or, as I am, merely an observer and fan of the sport. For me, thinking about the sound of cricket brings back fond memories of playing the odd game or two for my then local village cricket club in Gloucestershire during the twilight of my teenage years. It was an opportunity to spend time with friends and stretch the legs, doing our very best to uphold the honour of the 2nd XI team whilst keeping down the contents of our somewhat sensitive stomachs after the previous night’s drinking session.

For many, I suspect, and myself included, the sound of cricket also evokes listening to the dulcet tones of Jonathan Agnew, Henry Blofeld, Vic Marks, Isa Guha, Phil Tufnell and the rest of the team from BBC’s Test Match Special radio programme. I have always preferred listening to the cricket on the radio as opposed to watching it on television. Whether I’m working at my desk, out and about running errands or, ideally, lounging by a pool whilst on holiday, my day is always made all the better for hearing that intermittent sound of leather on willow between the chatter, banter, bickering and muttering of the TMS team (much to my French wife’s amusement).

In fact, for the England national team matches, where a commentator from the opposing nation often joins the TMS team, listening to the cricket is like a sonic holiday in itself; and when the Aussies are giving us Poms an absolute thumping, as they like to do, and my compatriots on the TMS team have, like me, given up all hope, it’s only the quick wit and all-round brilliance of Australia’s esteemed commentator Jim Maxwell that steers me from completely losing the plot (I also take great enjoyment from his apparent fascination with The Shipping Forecast).

For me, the sound of cricket is a perfect mix of expectation and nostalgia: memories of waking up early on a Saturday morning, throwing lots of padded apparel into a stupidly big bag, then lugging said bag to a cricket field. It’s the sound of standing in the field for hours, alternating between clapping after a delivery and then admiring the sonance of birdsong and a combine harvester at work in a distant field (or car alarm, if like me, you’re now a city dweller and former country bumpkin). It’s the sound of attaching velcro-strapped padding to your body, as the sickening realisation dawns on you that, once again, you will have to go out in the middle and try to hit a really, really hard ball with a piece of wood, with not one iota of technique to your name.

Cricket never fails to deliver moments of drama, and the impact of those moments is so fantastically long-lasting, particularly when communicated through the sonic medium of radio. From the moment the radio is switched on and the wonderful piano in Booker T & The MG’s ‘Soul Limbo’ kicks in (the TMS theme tune), it is the very combination of expectation and unknowing of what the day’s play will bring to a Test match that really seizes your attention.

Whilst ‘the sound of leather on willow’ has come to symbolise many things, it is primarily the contest of bat on ball; bowler against batter in a tête-à-tête to determine who will take the spoils of victory. Second to this, it is the soundtrack of countless summers with friends and more moments of anguish and delirium than you could shake a stick of rhubarb at.