The Art Of Batting

My first hundred in cricket was an accident. It sounds like a humblebrag, but it’s more about the tortured psychology of batting.

In junior cricket, where I played, you had to retire at 50. So I’d slog to my half-century occasionally, raise my bat, and walk off—job done. But when I graduated to the next level, where you could bat as long as you liked. Six times in a row I got to 50 and got out without adding another run. I was like Pavlov’s cricketing dog—the sound of applause meant it was time to leave.

Then one day, I opened the batting in a game where we were chasing about 100. I didn’t think I’d made many runs, but I pulled a bouncer to the fence and the team cheered. I assumed we’d won. Next ball, I did the same—another cheer. I was confused. But I batted on until I glanced at the scoreboard: we were on 140. I did the maths. It was obvious I was well past 50. A short while later, I made my first hundred.

That’s batting: high-functioning hand-eye coordination, balletic artistry and mental minefield. There’s no single technique, no ideal body type, no correct way to make runs. Some players hold the bat like a tennis racquet, others live by the coaching manual. There is no right way, only runs.

I was never good at batting. But I’ve been obsessed with it my whole life. My dad, Peter, couldn’t bat either—he was a No. 11 with one career fifty—but he wanted me to take the art seriously.

He wanted a son who batted like Geoffrey Boycott, not Viv Richards. I failed him in every way. So from the time I was in the womb (my mother was the scorer at the club) until now batting’s been the background music of my life. I once nearly got thrown out of a backpackers’ hostel in Chicago after a 3am debate/screaming match over Adam Gilchrist’s average. I’ve talked about batting for hours with coaches, taxi drivers, teachers, teammates, strangers. As a kid, I slept with three different bats in my bed.

That obsession turned into a book. I wanted to talk to great batters—and those who worked really hard to be very good—about what batting really is. The idea began with a simple framework: ranking the 50 greatest Test batters, inspired by something the Thinking Basketball podcast had done. But really, it was just an excuse to keep talking about the art form I love.

I spoke to David “Bumble” Lloyd, Ross Taylor, Ian Chappell, Mark Butcher, Bryan Stott, Bob “Knocker” White, Nasser Hussain, Chris Rogers, Barry Richards, Mark Waugh, and Jimmy Adams—players who weren’t just good, but who understood batting as a craft. And I got lucky: Kumar Sangakkara, Brian Lara, Suzie Bates, AB de Villiers, and Rahul Dravid all gave their time too. They talked about mental skills, seam position, eyesight, backlifts, courage—everything.

This book tells batting’s story through their voices. Because while runs are counted like numbers in a ledger, the way they’re made is visual poetry.

I know what it’s like to make runs, and to fail. I did something most club cricketers never manage: I made a pair. I knew I was doomed before I reached the middle, so I thought I’d show I wasn’t afraid and took guard a metre outside the crease to show intent. First ball was rubbish down the leg side. I flicked and missed.

Behind me: screaming and laughter. The keeper had come up to the stumps, but I was too broken to notice. It was a trap. I didn’t even walk into it—I stood still while they built it around me. In that match I faced three deliveries. I was 15, and I learned batting is hard, so every run is precious. This book tries to honour that. 

The Art of Batting By Jarrod Kimber out 8th May RRP £20 (Bloomsbury Sport)