A conspiracy of conditions and skill shaped Old Trafford’s unforgettable Test

In 1956, 70 years ago this year, England’s Jim Laker took 19 wickets in a Test against Australia. As a record it is unlikely to be bettered, though other bowlers, such as Sri Lanka’s Muttiah Muralitharan, with 16, have come close.

It is unlikely to be bettered because the conditions of the Test will never be repeated. The Old Trafford Test, the fourth of the series, was cloaked in rain and drizzle. The wicket was uncovered, with a handsome covering of grass. It was not only Laker’s match, it was his series. Across the five Tests he took 46 wickets.

There was something in the air in the 1950s. World War 2 had given men and women permission to dream ― and to strive. Two years before, in 1954, Roger Bannister, a medical intern at St Mary’s hospital in London’s Paddington, had broken the four-minute mile at Iffley Road in Oxford.

Taking 20 wickets in a Test match didn’t loom as large in the cricket or public consciousness as the breaking of the four-minute mile did. Running the mile was considered an impenetrable barrier, a physical constraint. Laker’s barrier ― if a barrier at all ― didn’t rise off the plains of the unlikely in quite the same way, perhaps because the very thought of taking 20 wickets in a Test was faintly ludicrous.

When the teams arrived at Old Trafford for the fourth Test, the series was deadlocked at one-all. The first Test, a dull affair at Trent Bridge, had been drawn; Australia spruced themselves up for the second — a visit to Lord’s. It was a cagey, low-scoring affair with the debonair all-rounder Keith Miller, who’d flown Mosquitoes in the war, taking 10 wickets to give his team victory by 185 runs.

England posted 325 batting first at Headingley in the third, Peter May scoring a century. Australia followed on in reply and England took the match ― to square the series ― by an innings.

Laker had taken 10 wickets when playing for Surrey against the Australians. He might conceivably have had as strong a hold on them as he had on his ball, which he spun viciously to attacking fields. To Aussie left-handers such as Neil Harvey, he often ― coming over the wicket ― bowled to two slips and two gullies. Laker had a peerless command of length. The ball dipped as it reached you, further complicating matters. Facing him was like trying to swat a fly with your feet stuck in treacle.

Watching the highlights on YouTube, it’s difficult to know where exactly Laker’s truth lies. He had a neat, four or five step clip to the crease and didn’t get particularly close to the nonstriker’s stumps. His delivery was round-arm rather than conventionally “high” and up past his right ear.

Part of Laker’s secret, I think, was in the speed of his bowling arm; watch carefully and you’ll notice it came through surprisingly quickly. He bowled at a pace that kept the batter in his crease. With that established, half the battle was won.

The grainy black and white images of Laker’s 19 wickets are a feast in themselves. Everything is genteel. There is no vociferous appeal. The only hint of petulance from Laker when an umpire is making up his mind about a catch is to plant his hands on his hips. There are no high-fives, no back-slapping, no unmanly celebration. Laker seems untroubled by this all. Occasionally he claps his hands together to celebrate a wicket, an undemonstrative way to express satisfaction.

Physical affection between men was troubled terrain back then. Richie Benaud captained the Aussies in the series. He was also a bowler, a leg-spinner, and images from the highlight reels show him sprinting down the pitch after a teammate has taken a catch. Once he reaches the teammate to congratulate him, he doesn’t quite know how to behave. The result is awkward, and so touching, as if Benaud is a stranger to his hands.

That wasn’t a problem for Laker. He gripped the seam of the ball between his index and middle finger and spun his way into our collective memory, the angel of cricket history.