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A bumping pitch and a blinding light,

An hour to play, and the last man in.

And it’s not for the sake of a ribboned coat,

Or the selfish hope of a season’s fame,

But his captain’s hand on his shoulder smote –

‘Play up! Play up! And play the game!’

The sand of the desert is sodden red –

Red with the wreck of a square that broke;

The Gatling’s jammed and the colonel dead,

And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.

The river of death has brimmed its banks,

And England’s far, and Honour a name,

But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks –

‘Play up! Play up! And play the game!’

The poem has spent much of the century since its composition being lampooned.* Yet it would be hard to exaggerate the importance of sport in the creation of an imperial spirit. It was coincidence that the empire grew at the very time that, at home, the rules of so many sports – soccer, rugby, cricket, tennis, golf, for example – were either invented or codified and their first national championships created. But the cult of sport was made for the cult of empire. It was more than the creation of a healthy officer class. There was something in the conventions of a game – loyalty to the team, obedience to the rules, unquestioning respect for the authority of the referee – which spoke of the imperial design.† Cricket, in particular, was more than a game: its customs were believed to be civilizing in themselves. The empire may have been built by mavericks. But it was held by those who played by the rules.

And there were numerous genuine testimonials to the moral benefits of sport, sometimes from unlikely sources. The Trinidadian writer and radical C. L. R. James, for example, felt the improving influence of the sport when he was sent to Queen’s Royal College before the First World War. It was the most prestigious school on the island, where cricket featured prominently. ‘Rapidly we learned to obey the umpire’s decision without question, however irrational it was,’ he recalled.

We learned to play with the team, which meant subordinating your personal inclinations, and even interests, to the good of the whole. We kept a stiff upper lip in that we did not complain about ill fortune. We did not denounce failures, but ‘Well tried’ or ‘Hard luck’ came easily to our lips. We were generous to opponents and congratulated them on victories, even when we knew they did not deserve it. I knew what was done and what was not done.

Which was precisely what cricket was intended to teach.

It was not, of course, the only game taken around the world, for by the late nineteenth century the British had become sport-obsessed. When Lord Cromer arrived in Cairo to take up his post running Egypt, less than a year after the 1882 battle of Tel el Kebir, he discovered that ‘every department of the Administration was in a state of the utmost confusion. Nevertheless a race-course had already been laid out and a grandstand erected.’ By then, tracks had been created all over the world, from Africa to India, Hong Kong to New Zealand. Eustace Miles, the proprietor of a cranky health-food shop on the King’s Road, Chelsea, was one of the greatest apostles for the imperial benefits of sport. He observed that when the British took some new place ‘we do not merely rule people with the rule of iron, but we admit them to our own life; we do not treat them like slaves, but we say to them, for example, “Come and play Football”, or “Have a try at Cricket”. This is surely one way to their respect and also to their affection and loyalty. We bring them something which is not only useful, but also pleasant.’ And at the Gezira Sporting Club founded by the British in Cairo, they continue to take him at his word. You can still watch horse-racing and play golf, croquet, hockey, lawn tennis, table tennis, squash and cricket.

The image of the men who graduated from the playing fields of England to run the empire has never really recovered from Sanders of the River, the colonial officer created by that master of the potboiler,