Bird has written in his book about how he gave Gavaskar a haircut in the middle of a Test when he complained his hair was falling over his eyes

Umpire’ derives from the French noumpere (‘oumpere’ in Middle English). It means “without peer or equal”, which neatly describes umpire Harold Dennis Bird—‘Dickie’ was a nickname from school—who has died at 92. Cricket is a wide church welcoming characters of all hues, making national heroes of umpires and spectators too. The famous barracker Yabba (Stephen Gascoigne) has a statue at the Sydney Cricket Ground. There’s one of Bird at Barnsley, where he was born. 

Dickie Bird loved cricket, and cricket loved him back. Of few can this be said honestly. As the broadcaster Michael Parkinson put it, “Like a tree bent and moulded by the prevailing wind, so the curve in Bird’s spine, the hunch of his shoulders, and the crinkled eyes as he inspected the world have been sculpted through a lifetime’s dedication to cricket…”

What made Bird stand out, apart from being one of the best umpires—even if he was characterised as a ‘non-hanging’ judge when it came to leg-before decisions—was his legendary worrying. This, too, is well captured by Parkinson, with whom he played club cricket (as he did with Geoff Boycott, his colleague at Barnsley and Yorkshire).

“He is adept at inventing worry,” wrote Parkinson, “about getting to Heathrow to catch his flight to the West Indies on time. Having arrived at the airport, he will worry about the pilot being able to find the West Indies. When he is in the air, he will worry about whether he left the gas on at home… He used to sit in the pavilion at Barnsley and chew his fingernails through his batting gloves while waiting for his turn at the wicket.”

The stories of Bird arriving for a lunch with the Queen at Buckingham Palace four hours early (he worried about cutting the grapes and squirting the Queen with them) or scaling the wall at the Oval because he had arrived five hours ahead of the game are to the Bird legend what statistics are to the professional players. Anecdotes reveal character more readily than averages. 

Once the game began, though, he was, in his own words, “calm and focused”. Which meant that, for example, when England batter Allan Lamb walked in to bat in a Test match and handed him his phone, Bird accepted it like he would a bowler’s sweater or cap and put it in his pocket. He worried that the phone might ring, and it did, of course. It was Ian Botham calling. “Tell that bloody Lamb to either play a few shots or get out.” Such stories were publicised by Bird himself, many in his autobiography, one of the highest-selling sports books in Britain.

Bird, for whom the word ‘trusted’ meant more as umpire than any other—and it was a word associated with his work by the great players of his day, from Dennis Lillee and Garry Sobers to David Gower—has written in his book about how he gave Sunil Gavaskar a haircut in the middle of a Test when the batter complained his hair was falling over his eyes. “I gave him a good old-fashioned short back and sides,” said Bird proudly, acting beyond the call of duty. “I won’t have to go to the barber’s again this summer,” was Gavaskar’s response.

But it wasn’t all fun and games. Umpiring is hard work, and in the days before DRS and third umpires, the men on the field had to get it right each time, aware of the finality implied by the raised index finger. Bird retired in 1996 before external aids exposing umpiring errors came into use internationally. He was no fan of the change, claiming, like many a nostalgist, that not allowing the on-field umpire to make the decisions was a loss to cricket. He once gave Chris Cowdrey out caught behind; the batter was halfway to the pavilion when Bird decided the ball had come off his forearm and recalled him. This was double bravery in action. To admit a mistake and to deprive fiery fast bowler Curtley Ambrose of a wicket.

The English off spinner, Jim Laker, once criticised Bird for hogging the limelight, saying, “The best umpires are seldom noticed, and I cannot believe it was purely coincidental that every incident in this Test match (against the West Indies) seemed to involve him.” But the cliché may not actually be true. The best of them, like Frank Chester, the one-armed umpire (he lost his right arm in WWI), who began the custom of bending low over the stumps as the bowler approached, was popular as much for his wit and dramatics as for his sharp decisions. 

He was considered by Donald Bradman as the finest of his time. Alec Skelding, a part-time poet who wrote thus of the umpire: ‘Most of the time he stands to be shot at, / An immobile creature for mankind to pot at,’ was another. India’s Srinivas Venkatraghavan, who belongs in that company, could be dangerously funny if an appeal was frivolous. Simon Taufel, the modern great, is probably the exception.

I have heard of nerds trying to check out past decisions on the DRS. Was Sunil Gavaskar really leg before there, or was Viv Richards stumped? It won’t matter for Dickie Bird, who “didn’t just umpire the game; he owned it with heart, wit and class.” That tribute by Anil Kumble should be carved on his gravestone.