It used to be said that when England needed a fast bowler, all it had to do was head to a Nottinghamshire coal mine and dig one up

IT USED to be said that when England needed a fast bowler, all it had to do was whistle down a Nottinghamshire coal mine. Harold Larwood (pictured), the most fearsome bowler of his generation, was destined for a life in the pits before he was spotted while playing for his village team and offered a contract by Nottinghamshire in 1923. Nuncargate, the tiny mining village in which he was born, unearthed four further England cricketers, including Bill Voce, who shared the new ball with Larwood during the 1932-33 bodyline tour of Australia. England’s great batsmen, too, often came from humble beginnings. Jack Hobbs, one of the country’s most revered players, grew up in poverty in Cambridge. Herbert Sutcliffe’s father was a pub landlord in Yorkshire. Indeed, from Fred Trueman, the first bowler to take 300 Test wickets, whose father spent time in the coal mines, to Ian Botham and Freddie Flintoff, working-class heroes have always bestrode the game. This is not to say that English cricket has not been subject to class division. On the contrary, it is enshrined in its history. The first recorded games, in the 17th and 18th centuries, were often between teams playing under the patronage of the landed gentry, such as the Second Duke of Richmond, who employed local farm hands in fixtures convened for toffs to bet on. Until 1962, England’s first-class cricketers were formally divided into two categories, gentlemen and players—the nobs who could afford to play cricket as amateurs, versus working-class professionals who needed to be paid. At Lord’s, the home of the game, teammates entered the field through separate gates dependent on this distinction. There was even an annual fixture between the two which was, for a while, the highlight of the domestic season (and in which the professionals usually prevailed). It was not until 1952 that a non-gentleman, Len Hutton, captained the Test side. Class is even enshrined in the game’s aesthetic. Some shots—particularly front foot drives—are to this day considered more elegant, to be purred over by purists. This may be because they are also associated with the upper classes. In “More Tales from a Long Room”, a satire of the game, Peter Tinniswood relates the story of an aristocrat who undertakes “a missionary crusade to the dourlands of the north to preach to the working classes his fervent belief that the cover drive, the late cut and the wristy leg glance were not the sole province of the upper classes.” In contrast, brutal, clubbing back foot shots, such as pulls and cuts, were considered professionals’ shots, born of those who cared little about art and much about efficacy.

Yet if there was once a class battle in cricket, it is on the verge of being conceded. Today, fewer working-class players reach the top of the English game than probably at any time in the sport’s history. If one takes a very broad measure of class—whether a player attended a state or private school—the majority of England’s Test cricketers since the second world war could be said to have come from relatively modest backgrounds (see chart). In 1993, nine of the starting XI who played in the first Test against Australia had been to a state school. By the 2009 series, only half did (one, Monty Panesar, attended both types). In the last Test match England played, against New Zealand last week, that proportion had gone down to a third. Furthermore, the situation is likely to become even more entrenched. England’s up-and-comers tend to be of a similar background. Of the four young batsmen who have emerged as the most likely to become the next generation of established players in the side (Joe Root, Jonny Bairstow, James Taylor and Joss Buttler) all were privately educated. The simple reason why cricket has collapsed as a working-class sport is that the number of state schools that play competitive cricket has fallen. In 2010, a survey by Chance To Shine, a charity that promotes the game in schools, found that less than 10% played “meaningful cricket”—at least five competitive matches a year. The organisation is working hard to increase that number. But while it has had success at the primary level, particularly by linking schools to local cricket clubs that offer facilities and coaching, it says that getting cricket back into secondary schools is much more challenging. Sticky wicket

One reason for the decline is that some schools sold their playing fields in the 1980s and 1990s to save money. Many more are now badly maintained, which is a particular problem for a sport which relies on a decent playing surface. And cricket is an expensive game to offer, both in terms of playing facilities and the equipment needed.

There is also pressure from other parts of the curriculum. Today’s schools, obsessed with academic league tables, prefer to concentrate on more scholarly subjects. This means shunning cricket, which is seen as taking too long to play compared with other sports. Finally, cricket has also fallen victim to the ubiquity of football, which now dominates the sports media and is the primary sporting obsession for most youngsters.

This has led to a vicious circle. As fewer people play the game, there are fewer new teachers competent at coaching it. While most physical education teachers feel comfortable overseeing a football kickabout, cricket requires them to impart more technical skills. If they do not have them, they are more likely to turn to a simpler sport such as rounders to fulfil the “striking/fielding” requirement of the national curriculum.

Wasim Khan, an ex-professional cricketer and the chief executive of Chance to Shine, says that the decline is reversible, but that there is no point in harking back to a time when cricket was the de facto summer sport for most English kids. Instead, he says that schools must start attracting kids from scratch. This means introducing faster, less technical formats of the game, such as tapeball, for first-time players.

He also says it is now unrealistic to expect the state-school system to produce Test match cricketers in the way that private ones do, because they lack their peers’ resources. Private schools can afford to pay for lavish cricket facilities and specialist coaches, which means that some of their students go straight into professional sides. But, says Mr Khan, if more state schools re-introduce the game, more poor kids will be inspired to join local clubs. This is a well-trodden alternative route to the top. Although there will be an inevitable time lag, meaning the proportion of Test players from such backgrounds will continue to fall for the time being, Mr Khan is “absolutely confident that this will be the catalyst for getting more state school kids to the elite level.”

Let’s hope so. The game is better for having its working-class heroes. Particularly as selectors no longer have much chance of unearthing a miner. Last week, yet another British pit was closed. Only three now remain.