Two years ago, this very fixture played out an encounter that still rates as my most satisfying day as a captain, a day when absolutely everything fell into place for us. I remember a bright, sunny day and winning the toss, and for once - despite serious misgivings - I chose to bat first. An Aussie bloke called Will was playing just his second Merton game, and proceeded to stroke the best century I've seen on a Sunday to help us post 201-2. Going into the last over, he needed fifteen runs for his ton and we needed fifteen for two hundred; both milestones were reached off the last ball, sparking some joyous celebrations from the rest of us outside the clubhouse. Will is ridiculously laid-back; it took him a while to realise he'd actually scored a hundred! We didn't have a lot of bowling that day, but what we did have in the attack was pretty special; Atul bowled ten unplayable overs and took 3-6, James Hurst 4-35. Young Johnathan announced himself to the club by taking an absolute rocket of a catch at midwicket, and then surviving when Arjun - who'd bowled the ball - jumped up and down all over him in celebration. Eventually, after a late rally, we bowled them out for 167 and won by thirty-four runs. At the risk of sounding like I've stolen my fellow captain James P's joke book, they had players called Mackrell and Fish and we'd reeled them in. Last year's fixture, by contrast, was a damp squib for us; we bowled well enough but let them score too many, then started a run-chase in first gear and never got out of it; a constipated three runs per over on average saw us limp to 120-odd for five and a 50-run defeat.
For the 2018 fixture, I'd already decided to bat first; in fact, I made the decision at around 6pm on the following Sunday. Our batting against Morden, on a very good batting track, had been dogged but also, crucially, hadn't been blown away easily; quite the opposite. As I've said before, I always prefer to field first to give everyone a game, but there comes a time when you get fed up of taking the hottest of the day's heat and giving the oppo first use of what are regularly becoming batting tracks. All I needed to do was wait seven days and win the toss..
Before that, and after selecting a very balanced side, came a couple of injury scares to potentially derail my plans; Richard, the Earl of Merton and our esteemed Chairman, had injured his foot climbing over a stile in the countryside during a Bank Holiday walk, and then Sam E woke up one morning to find he couldn't open one of his eyes due to picking up a massive stye. Thankfully, Sam was good to go on the morning of the match, despite looking like he'd been watching Britain's Got Talent and had tried to scoop out his eye with a spoon at the horror of it all. Richard's place was taken by Sahir, who had hit the winning runs in a League match the previous day, and so my nerves fluttered happily away. What hadn't helped my frame of mind was listening to my two daughters indulging in what I call 'bitch-fits', and as it had been half-term all week, it had gone a little something like this:-
Daughter #1: "The sky is blue today."
Daughter #2: "No, it isn't!!!!!" (It was blue, by the way)
Daughter #1: "Go away and leave me alone."
Daughter #2: "Why are you being horrible to me? DAD! TELL HER! Get me a drink! I'm hungry! I'm tired! I'm bored! You're a mean father!"
ad infinitum
Half-term is code for "hostage situation"; the nine days' break between school days feels, for me, roughly the same length of time as it was for Terry Waite between 1986 and 1991. On the day they go to back to school, I actually feel like Terry Waite must've done the day his five years in captivity came to and end: relief, that it was finally all over. During these weeks, Sunday's game is something I cling to like a favourite teddy at bedtime; I'll even repetitively babble "roll on cricket, roll on cricket" while I wait for sleep to overwhelm me, and dream of opening the batting at The Oval...
The Ducksmen arrived for the 2pm start, Robin Mackrell - skipper for the day - called incorrectly at the toss (something I haven't lost yet this season) and I had no hesitation in saying those four magic words: "We'll have a bat". The Earl had recovered sufficiently from his country stile attack to come down for the day, and soon assumed the mantle of scorebook meister (and what a great job he did as well). Young Johnathan, 'The Steriliser", opened the batting with me on what looked a really good batting strip; oddly, there was a foot-wide green strip that ran the length of the pitch from leg stump to leg stump (for a left-hander), similar to the one used in ball-tracking replays, and we wondered what the bounce would be like if the bowlers got the ball to hit it. Grenville and Mackrell took the new ball and, after bowling a couple of wide ones, began to find their range, getting the kind of pace and bounce our home pitches had lacked all season; I hooked one good-length ball from Grenville - that flew off the afore-mentioned green strip - off the tip of my nose for a couple of runs. After a couple of singles, the same bowler got one to hold its line to Johnathan and cleaned him up, bringing Sam to the crease. Twenty-five runs later, and with Sam looking very comfortable batting at 3, Grenville got one to really pop up and balloon off his bat, dropping nicely into gully's hands. We were rattling along at four an over; Alex M came in and played very sensibly; he's getting to grips with batting, and was leaving anything alone outside off that he might have slashed at in previous weeks. He picked up a couple of singles, but then perished to a beauty from the Ducksmen's best bowler, Chris Fish. I'd put him over long-on for four in his first over; over his entire eight-over spell, there were only five more scoring shots off his bowling. His ball to Alex pitched slightly outside off, turned and bounced, and took the top of off. Aleem came in and helped me rotate the strike; I'd hit a few fours but then got a bit bogged down as Philpot came on to bowl from the Clubhouse End and had me on toast trying to cut him outside off. The field by now had spread right out, with two men on either boundary and one at long-on, and most of our shots were going straight to them for one run at a time. Philpot then got Aleem out with the same jaffa-ball Fish had dismissed Alex with, and Sahir joined me. After surviving an early caught-and-bowled Sahir gradually found his form, taking singles and hitting the bad ball for four. I pulled a six over the midwicket boundary off Singh and then, finally, brought up my fifty with four off Grenville. Moments later I perished in what is becoming a frustratingly familiar style, punching Singh straight down mid-off's throat. Out came the Bawn Accelerator; a man who can always be relied upon to be positive and attacking. He and Sahir found the gaps well and 46 runs came from the next 42 balls, including two crunching sixes from Sahir's bat - one of them nearly decapitating Atul as he was receiving some throw-downs near the clubhouse. Ian then got out in the penultimate over, selflessly trying to hit out, and together Gopy and Sahir (39 not out) saw the Boars to 169-6. I was very pleased with that; we were in the game, especially after Fish and Philpot had bowled so well to slow us down between 15 and 30 overs. Fish finished with 1-12; I checked the scorecards from the previous two years, and out of his last 24 overs bowled at John Innes against us, thirteen of them have been maidens. Miser.
The Ducksmen began their reply at 5pm, with Rory Thomas and Wade opening the batting. Atul and Killer opened the bowling and were immediately in their stride, also getting good pace and bounce from the wicket. Rory, though, was looking dangerous; anything over-pitched was smacked hard to the long-off and long-on boundaries. After fourteen overs had been bowled - and Rory surviving a sharp chance at first slip off Killer - they were 54 without loss, but then Jatin struck in his fourth over from the Clubhouse End. He got one to hold its line and pierce Rory's defence, and the death rattle rang out around John Innes. The relief was palpable. Four balls later, after being hit for four by Denis, Jatin pinned him to the crease with a ball that remained ankle-high; the umpire's finger went up and Jatin had struck twice in one over. The Boars were up and running and I looked to where Jatin's mum, a lovely lady who had come down with him to watch the cricket, was sitting. She had a look on her face as if to say "And about time too, son. I'm not impressed"...it's always the mums who are the hardest to please.
Drinks came and went, as did the sunshine, and the Boars attacked the fielding once more. J Fish and Wade, who'd been farming singles excellently, went for one risky run too many; a throw from Sahir was expertly received by Aleem, the stumps were broken, and Wade was on his way. We were now applying our own scoreboard pressure; Sam, back to his fiery best after a couple of weeks of injury, was steaming in from one end - perhaps mildly irked by the batsman's choice of a straw hat for headgear - while Gopy Singh, making his Boars debut, came on to bowl spin from the Kingston Road End and had the batsmen in knots. On another day he'd have taken five or six to himself; I was at short-ish cover, and I could actually heard the ball fizzing and whistling as it travelled from Gopy's hand to the batsman. He had to wait until his fifth over for his first wicket, bamboozling Singh with one that finally hit the stumps. Sam's serious pace finally got him his reward; Straw Hat Man - after being made to dance a couple of times - had his stumps shattered, and they were 95-5. With thirteen overs to go we were halfway towards our Holy Grail of a Boars win. Straw Hat Man had looked like a character from "The Wicker Man" (not the rubbish Nicolas Cage version, the original Christopher Lee one) when batting against Sam; at this point, I'd have happily sacrificed a Scottish police officer and a truckload of farmyard animals inside a giant wicker effigy if it'd guaranteed my lads a win.
It got even better; Gopy wrapped up his spell with yet another bowled victim, and three overs later the returning Atul picked up a deserved wicket to leave them 121-7. They were eight down an over later as The Steriliser entered the attack, got Grenville to heave across the line and hit the stumps. Only two wickets to go, but they needed less than a run a ball, and - crucially - Atul, Jatin and Gopy were all bowled out. It was now getting darker too; I was reticent to bowl Sam again because of the gloom, but gave him one more. Robin Mackrell and Chris Fish were now returning the reeling-in of 2016; their batting was everything you'd want at the tail-end of an exciting run-chase. They were calm and assured, and were now finding the gaps for ones and twos. Then, with just sixteen balls left and requiring sixteen to win, Fish spooned a skier to where I was standing at short midwicket. Having spilled every single one of these that have come my way over the years, I yelled with relief when the ball dropped into my waiting hands instead of hitting my breasts and tumbling to the floor. One wicket left; surely this was the moment. Surely?
The last over began. The Ducksmen were 157-9. Thirteen required off six balls, and the poisoned chalice of 'death bowler' was passed to Ian. But Mackrell was still there, playing a captain's innings; four runs came off the first two balls. Then, the fatal blow; a four down to the square leg boundary, piercing the gap between two fielders. The margin for error had gone. Four more runs came off the next two balls, to leave the scores tied with just one ball to come. Encased in gloom, and the wrong side of 7;30pm, the whole field swooped inside the circle. Ian bowled, Mackrell pushed forward and, as all the fielders scrambled towards the ball, both batsmen set off...and made their ground. The Ducksmen had won the game by one wicket, off the final ball of the match.
The Boars were devastated; more than one of us sunk to the turf. We'd given absolutely everything we had, and come up short by the narrowest margin you can get in cricket. For a moment I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole; I felt responsible for my team not getting over the line, as none of them deserved to be on the losing side. Then I remembered my responsibilities as captain, shook the hands of the batsmen, and congratulated them on their win. Both teams shook hands warmly as we left the field, but we were slightly more muted than usual - you could tell how much it had meant to us. And when you get so, so close to winning and don't make it, the thought starts to whirr around your head: "Will we ever win a game this season?"
Oddly enough, my head had cleared after about twenty minutes - the reason being that, if you have to lose, you lose like this. I can regale you for hours with tales of heavy beatings by cocky teams stuffed with ringers, horrendous mismatches that leave you feeling punch-drunk and in danger of diminishing your enthusiasm for the game. This was not one of those days. I was far moodier after the Morden game the previous Sunday, because of the two guys we'd run into. This week, we'd lost to a fantastic bunch of blokes who play the game we do and celebrated their win in a classy manner with a few beers afterwards. My team will come again, I'm sure of that; we've now proved to ourselves that, regardless of who is representing the Boars on a Sunday, we're a competitive outfit who will give anyone a game. On a happier note for Ian, the foul-smelling insect repellent he'd smeared all over his legs had saved his calves from receiving the same feasting the midges had had the previous week.
On a Sunday evening, we do a very Millennial thing of putting on the TV to listen to the radio. It's always the nice, mellow stuff from days gone by; none of us of a certain age need to be listening to German techno at nine o'clock at night. As I was maintaining my daughters' healthy living standards by microwaving them burger and chips, "Wicked Game" by Chris Isaak filtered into the clubhouse. As I listened to the lyrics, it hit me: the song must have been written about cricket, and about days like this:-
"What a wicked game you play, to make me feel this way,
What a wicked thing to do, to make me dream of you..."
All week, I'd formulated plans to beat the Flying Ducksmen; I'd dreamed of it, and with seven overs left I could almost touch it. Then, cricket showed its cruel streak by snatching it from my hands. Is this what Chris Isaak had in mind when he wrote this song, and not - as the music video suggested - Helena Christensen dancing around a beach wearing only half of a two-piece bikini? All in all, I hope there's a different tune playing next week after we entertain Southfields; "Heroes" by David Bowie or "Celebration Day" by Led Zeppelin would be lovely.
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