Umpires: The Men in White

Much of my meanderings down memory lane have explored the evolution of playing styles, formats and the spectator experience. However, I have also found myself going all misty eyed about a smaller band of men who are just as important to cricket as the batsman and bowler. I’m referring to the humble umpires.

I’m not aware of people flocking to a fixture, or tuning to Sky, just to watch Aleem Dar or Richard Kettleborough raise an index finger. When Nigel Llong takes his position at square leg, you rarely hear spectators shout a joyful “Nigel, Nigel, give us a wave!” And yet in my schooldays my anticipation of enjoyment would ratchet up a notch if I spotted the name of, say, HD Bird or W Alley on a scorecard.

In those days, of course, the umpires still wore the traditional long white coat, giving them an air of superannuated research chemists or bowls participants straying from the nearest rink. Even those in their thirties looked old, especially if donning a flat white cap a la ‘Dickie’ Bird. However, as long as their eyesight was good, their rapport with players affable and knowledge of the LBW laws of the day impeccable, it didn’t matter.

The umpire’s role was surely simpler in the Seventies. They often resembled clothes horses, collecting fielders’ discarded sun hats or sweaters, their pockets containing perhaps a tissue, light meter and six counters to help keep physical track of the over’s progress. Nowadays, an umpire resembles an officer in the NYPD or London parking attendant, bristling with gadgets. I don’t think they’re actually armed although, with some of the vicious ‘sledging’ taking place, perhaps waving an Uzi might make even Shannon Gabriel or David Warner keep their gobs tightly shut.

The book of signals has also expanded significantly with the advent of different formats and tinkerings. Powerplays, DRS and results thereof and run-out referrals have become commonplace. In my cricket watching infancy, the umpire’s word was final. Even slow-motion replays were sparingly deployed by the broadcasters, and even then without the intention of challenging a decision by the man in white. Not that they seemed to get many wrong, even those for which a request for TV assistance is nowadays considered a first, not last, resort.

So who have been my most memorable officials over the years? Investigating YouTube has thrown up a whole host of references to perceived biases by individuals towards different countries, but I suppose such discerned slights are inevitable given the array of camera angles and technological gizmos and the plethora of internationals in the modern cricketing calendar. I can’t comment on the relative quality, or consistency of the many officials I’ve watched; it’s more about the characters, their ideosyncrasies, aura even.

In the Seventies and Eighties international fixtures were far fewer, and English umpires dominated the landscape. I was brought up on ageing ex-players like Bill Alley and Tom Spencer, as well as the boater-wearing Ken Palmer and unflappable Barrie Meyer. Above all, on-pitch officialdom in England was dominated by one of those partnerships so beloved of cricket fans. Forget Hobbs and Sutcliffe, Lillee and Thomson or Hall and Griffiths: I’m talking about Bird and Constant. The ever-smart David Constant was elevated to the Test panel at the remarkably tender age of 29 and, when HD ‘Dickie’ Bird joined him in 1973, we had a new enduring pair in place.

Bird was eccentric, a professional Yorkshireman alongside his contemporaries Geoff Boycott and Michael Parkinson and one of the most wonderful cricket characters of my lifetime. He would stand for no nonsense, be it intimidatory fast bowling or truculent behaviour by MCC Members, yet he was beloved of players and spectators alike. I recall being at Lord’s in 1991 watching Dickie during a break in play borrowing a player’s bat and practising a few shadow strokes to the delight of the crowd. Would anyone else have done that?

In the Eighties and Nineties even Bird was eclipsed in popularity by the avuncular David Shepherd. I remember watching him on TV as a burly lower-order batsman for Gloucestershire but it was as an umpire that he became revered around the world. Whilst without the emotion and eccentricity of his Yorkie colleague, ‘Shep’ was famous for his little hop and jig whenever the scoreboard displayed 111 or any multiple thereof. I felt cheated if I inadvertently turned away or the cameras failed to capture the moment. It was the same if on, say, 221-4, the batsmen ran two instead of a safe one, thus depriving everyone of the Shepherd dance.

Another Westcountryman, Mervyn Kitchen, had played in the very first match I ever went to see in ‘75, so I was quite fond of him as a leading umpire in the Nineties. By then, the age of neutral umpires had begun, hastened by a range of controversies, many involving Pakistan. Constant had been criticised in the early Eighties, probably unjustly, but it was the infamous finger-wagging spat between England captain Mike Gatting and local umpire Shakoor Rana in 1987 which stirred the pot more vigorously. Rana was pilloried over here as a buffoon but in fact he had been perfectly correct to alert the batsman to surreptitious changes to field placings.

Nor was I a fan of Darryl Hair’s attitude either towards Muralitharan or Pakistan in the notorious ball-tampering affair at the Oval in 2006. Calling Murali’s action ‘diabolical’ did him no favours but, once the dust had settled, his decision to award the Pakistan match to England was adjudged to have been completely justified. In the past few decades, as my cricket viewing has turned more sporadic, I haven’t become so attached to the newer breed of ICC umpire. No offence to the likes of Aleem Dar, Nigel Llong or Rudi Koertzen but I just haven’t been sufficiently exposed to them to form the attachments I had with Bird, Constant or Shepherd.

Of the overseas contingent I do harbour fond memories of Steve Bucknor. Like so many West Indian players, he somehow simply exuded ‘cool’, and that white stripe of sunblock did lend an air of absurdity. In a good way. And then there was Billy Bowden’s crooked ‘finger of doom’ and the ideosyncratic way he signalled a six by instalments.

Domestic cricket features many more umpires, of course.  The games I’ve attended have tended to feature less well-known officials such as Tim Robinson or David Millns, and the only one with whom I’ve shared a conversation, during a depressingly dismal rain break at Taunton, is the affable son of Romford, Neil Bainton. Needless to say, he didn’t agree to my suggestion that the clouds were looking lighter – and he was proven right. That’s the thing about cricket umpires; for all their human foibles they don’t often make howlers.