Boars v Banstead 3rds: Strife In The Slow Lane

It was the former Spurs and England player Jimmy Greaves who coined the phrase about football being a “funny old game”; cricket, at times, can be even funnier. If you’re on the right side of the funny, great; if you’re on the receiving end, the funny tends to be gallows humour, something fans of cricket – especially those of an English variety – have been excelling at for generations. Earlier this season, after a run of endless defeats at the hands of Sopwith Camels, we shot them out for 64 and recorded a most remarkable – and unexpected – win. On this day, against a Banstead 3^rd XI that weren’t showing that many changes from the team we beat by nine wickets exactly a year ago, it was us that copped a bit of a hiding. A funny old game, indeed.

Last year’s game, despite the end result, was anything but a stroll. Timed cricket was something this captain had precisely zero experience of; we bowled first, and I spent most of the Banstead innings scratching my head at slip, wondering what on earth was going on, when we were going to finish, who should bowl the longest, etc. We bowled well and we fielded tidily and restricted them to 211-7 from 41 overs, at which point they declared. Bowling with the older ball, nothing happened for their bowlers; Waleed Sajjid and I opened and racked up 94 in no time. When Waleed departed, in came Ian Bawn, and we didn’t lose another wicket. 213-1 was out end total off just 31 overs, to record the biggest win of my time as a Merton player. The following week, we batted first against Ewell and were bowled out for 40. A bloody funny old game.

Banstead Cricket Club is picturesque and laden with history and tradition, and has hosted cricket for 177 years. It’s near enough to the high street to enable you to pop to the shops, but far enough away to keep the scream of traffic insulated from cricketing ears, and when us Boars began to arrive we found to our happy surprise that we would be playing on the front pitch. Last year’s wonderful game was played on the back pitch, which was enjoyable enough, but there’s always something special about playing on a club’s “show” pitch. Ominously though, our Sunday Wolves team had been playing the Banstead 2nds on the front pitch at the same time we were putting their 3rds to the sword…and lost.

It was a fine day. The sky was blue and mostly cloudless, and a nice warmth embraced Banstead as James Harper, their skipper, and I went out for the toss. I called correctly yet again (oh, if only I won a grand every time I won the toss I wouldn’t have to shop at Sports Direct for my cricket boots), and had no hesitation in batting first; this season’s four wins have all been won when bowling second, and with Pranav Pandey returning for his second game after spinning his web around the Park Hill top order the previous week, the first part of the plan had, well, gone to plan – which was, bat first, get as near to 200 as possible, unleash Pranav and Ben from the start and tie their batters up in knots. Team-wise, we were – as always – much-changed. Andrew, Suj and Ben came back to the Boars after Rhinos duty; Rob was playing his first game in a month due to injury; Johnny “Steriliser” Milton was back in the ranks and we also welcomed a brand-new player, Azam Khan, who my fellow captain – Tom Allen – had reported, and I quote, “was a bit nippy in the nets”. Tom Allen also thinks Aston Villa are going to finish in the top four this season.

SUNDAY BOARS: Neil Simpson (capt, wkt); Aleem Sajjid; Andrew Counihan; Johnathan Milton; Dave Barber; Pranav Pandey; Azam Khan; Sujanan Romalojoseph; Bob Egan; Ben Drewett; Rob Turner.

As the clock above the changing rooms struck one, Aleem and I strode out to the wicket to open the innings. A good start was essential, I said; I’d made 92 not out in the win the previous year, but knew runs wouldn’t be easy to come by this time around. I wanted 180 on the board as a potentially winning total; it would be down to myself and Aleem to lay the foundations. The first ball of the innings, bowled by Bill Early, went a mile down leg side and bounced at ankle height. The second ball I can’t remember facing; the third ball pitched on leg stump, so I played forward…only for the ball to move late, beat the edge, and knock back my off-stump. If my head were a balloon, the sound of air screaming out of it would’ve deafened the locality; as it was, after a slow, doleful look at my shattered stumps, I was trooping off towards the pavilion for another duck. 1:02pm, and most of my day’s work was done. Ninety-two to zero in one year is reminiscent of the engine of a once-reliable car blowing up and spluttering to a crappy halt.

Andrew Counihan came out to bat, and discovered for himself that the ball to dismiss me was no fluke; every ball bowled was wicket to wicket, landing on a perfect length, and for those of us who can barely move our feet in the bath, let alone at the crease, a sort of torture had begun. Mustafa bowled the second over and was pacy, getting good bounce out of the wicket; neither Aleem or Andrew were being allowed to bat expansively, and we had eked out five runs from the first five overs. Andrew finally got our first boundary by edging Mustafa through an empty slip cordon, but after pulling him for four in his next over and taking a single, Mustafa claimed his first scalp. Of the three fielders positioned on the off-side, Aleem had the misfortune to pick out the middle one as he cracked a short-length ball with some ferocity; it went down Read’s throat, and we were 20-2.

The pitch was proving to be very slow; the bowling slower still. Local knowledge was paying dividends for Banstead. Johnathan joined Andrew; the scoring still resembled a person with chronic constipation in urgent need of a laxative. Surely they could find a way to collar Bill Early? No chance. Over after over he wheeled away; dot after dot, maiden after maiden. Runs were coming off Mustafa at the other end, but Early was saving the scorer a fortune in pencil lead by tying up our batsmen in all sorts of knots. Johnny and Andrew were finally able to exchange a couple of boundaries, as Mustafa made way for Neil Sunderland, who – naturally – was a slow bowler, and notched a maiden with his first over. Eight balls later, Andrew was cleaned up by Sunderland; he reached a little too far forward to play defensively…and the stumps were knocked back. 41-3 after 15 overs became 50-4 five balls after drinks; Johnathan was well dug-in, but Dave tried to get a bit of power into a lofted drive, miscued and scooped it up to the waiting Harper.

Pranav came out to bat; the two youngest players were now at the wicket. Alan Lester had replaced Bill Early, whose eleven overs had included six maidens and only yielded an unbelievable five scoring strokes; once he’d bowled his customary maiden first over, Lester struck. Johnathan by now had become strokeless; his feet weren’t moving and he was drawing nearer and nearer to playing across the line. When he eventually gave in to temptation, Lester’s delivery was far too straight, and for the third time in our innings the stumps had been broken. Johnny had played really well for his 21, showing great patience and power when he’d had to chance to break free from the shackles before frustration had overcome him.

Azam came in and looked to push the scoring on. He miraculously kept out a Lester yorker that was taking out middle stump until the bat edged it a cigarette paper’s-width past off-stump and down to third man for two, but in the next over he went the way of Aleem, seeing a perfectly good hit go straight to a fielder – Harper again – who doesn’t appear to drop anything. 64-6 in the 28^th over was at least forty short of where I wanted us to be; Banstead’s bowlers were on the kind of strangling spree that gets serialised and shown on Netflix, and my hopes of declaring with a reasonable score had evaporated. Someone had to go big; sadly, it wouldn’t be Suj. Only two more runs had been scored when he played all round a straight one from Lester, and I had no choice but to raise the finger. At least I wouldn’t be alone in the Duck Club; he was the 34^th Boar duck of the season, and we were 66-7.

Pranav was still battling away, showing great maturity for his young years, but he had been backed up well and truly into his scoring shell. Bob joined him and hit a great boundary, but then became the third batsman to pick a fielder with a good shot: this time it was Sunderland taking the catch off the bowling of Nick Hunt. Bob and Pranav’s 21-run partnership was the joint-highest of the innings, which couldn’t have told the tale of our innings more eloquently had Stephen Fry been reading it. Nearly 38 overs had been bowled, and we were barely getting the ball off the cut strip, let alone the square. An anxious glance at the clock saw the long hand dropping to 3:20pm; we didn’t have any batters left to go big, so we’d have to suck up our low score and try to defend it as stoutly as possible. I told myself that 3:45pm would be the cut-off point for our innings, regardless of where our score was. Besides, I’d remembered how nice the sandwiches had been the previous year; if we couldn’t attack their bowling, surely we’d do a better job getting stuck into the teas.

Ben came out and kept Pranav company; Pranav didn’t seem able to open his arms and get expansive, but he didn’t look like getting out, either. Naturally, we were keeping an eye on the England/Australia Test match at Old Trafford, and I reckoned one or two Pranav’s could’ve kept England in the game. Pranav clipped a lovely boundary off his legs and Ben pulled Hunt for four, but then Mustafa returned, refreshed and revitalised. Despite having done a load of bowling in the League the day before, he’d lost none of his pace, and the ball to dismiss Ben was a beauty; quick and straight, it clipped the off-stump with such force that the bail went skimming halfway towards the boundary and the ball ended up nestled against the sightscreen.

That was with 42.5 overs gone; Rob stepped out as the last man, and I confirmed our innings would end after the next over. That over, bowled by Hunt, was started but not finished, as Rob lunged forward and was stumped by Beaumont. He became member no.35 of the Boars 2019 Duck Club. We were all out for just 103 in 43.3 overs, or 262 balls (with one wide), in 165 minutes. Banstead had bowled an astonishing 15 maiden overs; almost a third of all overs we’d faced. We hadn’t done ourselves justice with the bat, but I did have seven bowlers to call on – bowlers who could exploit conditions of turn and bounce. To win from here would’ve been more of a miracle that anything Ben Stokes can do, or indeed ourselves a year earlier…but remember, cricket is a funny old game…

And the tea was as sumptuous as I’d hoped. Crab meat, pulled pork and sausage and brown sauce sandwiches. Deep fill. Having to open your mouth really wide, just to take a bite. Cookies as big as a munchkin’s face. Butterfly cakes. Onion rings. Chewable, easily digestable pizza. Such things are what dream teas are made of, and I made sure nobody – well, me really – went hungry. On the telly, England were sliding inexorably to an inevitable defeat, having done that horrible thing of raising all our hopes earlier in the day. Being shot out for 50 at about noon would’ve been better for us England fans to see; we could’ve just got on with the day and let the Aussies celebrate. To have them drag it out until the sun was going down is akin to cricket waterboarding. I’m sure our human rights are breached whenever England are chasing down Australian targets. Or maybe they’re all honorary Boars; after all, our team motto is “It’s the hope that kills you”. Only an English team could come up with a motto like that and keep smiling.

Back to our game, and the Boars bounded onto the ground, keen to make quick inroads and get a foothold in the game. For the third game running, I chose to open with our own slowies, Ben and Pranav, to bowl to openers Stott and Sultan, and we almost made the perfect start from the very first ball of the innings. Stott attempted to pull Ben square but it went to where Pranav was standing at leg gully; agonisingly, it missed his fingertips by mere centimetres. What a start that would’ve been! At the other end, Pranav was getting prodigious spin and beating Sultan’s outside edge, but Sultan had quick wrists and when Pranav dropped one just a fraction too short, he was on it like a flash to pull it powerfully for four.

It set the tone for the first ten overs; as they looked to score predominantly to leg, the batters were either flailing and missing or hitting the ball into the gaps, a problem exacerbated by the fact we’d been playing with only ten players since around 1:30pm. And the luck was with the batters: time and again, chips and edges went either side of fielders, or dropped behind them. I smiled ruefully from behind the wicket, as I remembered how well our batters had picked out their fielders with an accuracy the pre-shitstorm Tiger Woods would’ve been proud of.

And then, a breakthrough. After Pranav rapped Irfan on the pads for an unsuccessful lbw appeal, Ben struck at the other end. It was Stott pinned in front, and the umpire’s finger went up. 

The scoring rate was four an over but, with 39 on the board, we’d chalked up a wicket. The unlucky Pranav had been replaced for a debut bowl by Azam, and here’s where Tom’s “he’s a bit nippy” comment had us turning the air blue. Expecting him to move the ball around a little at slightly quicker than medium pace, slipper Bob and I positioned ourselves about fifteen paces behind the stumps and waited for his first delivery. It arrowed towards new batter Harper like a rocket; startled, Harper hung out his bat and got an edge that went past me like an 80 mph tracer bullet. Bob didn’t try and take the catch as much as put his hand in the way of the ball, shaking his hand vigorously and counting his fingers as he watched the ball sail on its way to Ben at third man. A bit nippy, Tom? Moves it around a bit? Azam is seriously, seriously quick, and his howitzers were either just about kept out or let go by the batter to thud heavily into my gloves. In the next over, shortly after Dave had had a shoulder injury scare, the same batter edged the same bowler through to Bob on the volley; it was so quick, I didn’t even see it fly past me, or the parry Bob got in to take the fire off the ball. All I saw was Bob sprawled on the floor, the appreciation of his team-mates (and his own swearing) filling his ears, wondering what on Earth was going on, hoping his hands would still be able to hold a pint glass at the end of the game. Meanwhile, the score had flown up to 78-1 in the 15^th over. Dave was next to cop a hand injury, as Harper cut a Ben delivery with such force it effectively hit Dave on the hand rather than Dave field the ball. A word beginning with the letter F hung loudly on his lips for an eternity as he screamed through the pain. Unbeknown to him, he’d also saved three runs.

Rob replaced the excellent Ben, and immediately blew away four weeks of injury misery by making a breakthrough. Firstly, Irfan brought up an excellent fifty; his innings had been full of power and precision, and rolling his wrists to put the ball where our fielders weren’t. But it was 50 and out when he tried to turn Rob’s third ball through leg gully, only to find Pranav standing and waiting to take a fearless, unflinching catch above his left shoulder. It had been a long time since we’d heard Rob’s celebratory pirate cry of “Aaaaaargh!”; it was great to hear it again. And there was more joy in the very next over; Azam finally got reward for his searing pace, getting an unplayable straight ball to rip through Harper’s defence and clatter violently into the stumps, reminiscent to this cricket viewer of a certain Steve Harmison (without the height or North-East accent). That made it 78-3, and drinks were taken; we’d put the brakes on their innings and the faintest nibble of a comeback was visible. Just twenty more maidens, and we’d win. Could we? Could we?

Rob couldn’t be got away, conceding just seven runs from the thirty balls he bowled and really tying up an end, but – with Read and Ives at the wicket – Banstead weren’t to be denied. As Suj came on for the last few overs, it was Ives who hit the winning runs, pulling a great shot for four in the 25^th over. At least we’d taken them as far as we could; the luck wasn’t with us in the field, but we’d paid the price for being at least fifty runs short in our own innings. A better performance with the bat would’ve made for a thrilling finish and undoubtedly a classic encounter, but it wasn’t to be our day. We’d squashed their hopes a year earlier, this time the roles were reversed. As Jimmy Greaves once said, it’s a funny old game.

And England had, indeed, lost; but at least we’d expected it. The beer at Banstead was great, the ground was bathed in that beautiful, slightly watery sunlight you only seem to get in September, and we’d had a good day. Back at the clubhouse, Joe Gun enthralled us with tales of his latest wonderful discovery; lettuce in a tuna sandwich. Christine, the Merton CC tea-lady, had provided this culinary marvel, and Joe had reacted to it like an African child seeing snow for the first time. We were lost for words; how could we tell the great man that Christine has been putting lettuce in sandwiches since, well, she started doing the teas? Joe, though, was in raptures. We expected tears of beatific joy to roll down his face at any moment, like a nun seeing a statue of the Madonna weep tears of blood.

He’s led a very sheltered life, has our Joe…

Boars v Park Hill: The Kids Are Alright

What a difference a fortnight makes, eh? And yes, I’m talking about the weather. This is a blog about English social/ friendly cricket played on a Sunday; of course I’m talking about the weather. A fortnight ago was the zenith of a mixed summer, when we started our game against Plastics XI on a damp pitch that seemed to sum up the season to date. Fast forward a fortnight and, after two weeks of mostly Mediterranean weather more akin to the heatwaves of the last two summers, we’re playing on a pitch so dry and hard, it could have been mistaken for a nun’s withering stare. Two weeks ago, it was “bowl first at any cost”; this week it was “bat first at any cost”.

The Boars were in good shape, despite having lost three or four regular players to our sister Sunday team, the Rhinos. Missing were Andrew Counihan’s Venus fly trap-like catching hands, Sujanan’s panther-like fielding and ability to swing the ball in at pace, and John Smither’s serial-killing habit of making Charles Manson look like a British Red Cross volunteer. Every year, our square seems to rise above the rest of the outfield by another inch; when it’s finally dug up, a few of us reckon the fruits of Killer’s labours will be found underneath.

Boars XI: Neil Simpson*, Andrew Suggitt, Aleem Sajjid, Ian Bawn, Oli Miller, Dave Barber, Pranav Pandey, Kosta Niskou, Bob Egan, Kaleem Sajjid, Dan Money

We welcomed a couple of new faces to the team, and welcomed back an old one; Pranav, formerly of Raynes Park Former Pupils, and Dan “hairstyle perilously close to a man bun” Money, described by his good friend (and Rhinos captain) Tom Allen as an off-spinner – which was news to Dan – were making their Boars debuts, while Suggs returned to the team for the first time since we’d played Hook earlier in the season. A brilliant slip fielder and possessing the ability to ricochet the ball 50 yards off his knees, his thrust forward whilst batting is also a joyful sight to behold, reminding one of a champion duellist curling out the words “En garde!” whilst lunging forward with epee in hand. I was slightly worried for Dave Barber, as he was playing his third 40-over game in three straight days: his first day was spent chasing leather against Old Ruts in 30-degree heat, his second was spent taking a catch, watching his fellow batsmen rack up a decent total and inventing “Cricket Dogging” in the bushes against Wimbledon Corinthians, and then today. Kosta, the 11 year-old who marked his debut with a fifth-ball wicket against Plastics, was also back in the team.

We were welcoming Park Hill CC. Sadly they were unable to host us earlier in the season due to availability issues, and when they arrived this time around they only had nine players. Up stepped my daughter Hannah to join their ranks for the day, and so they had at least ten. Ian, the Park Hill skipper, and I went out to the middle to do the toss, which I won again (I’ve lost about five in 32 now), and happily invited Park Hill to field first.

Aleem and I opened the innings, and as the cry of “Bowler’s name: Lawn” floated over to the scorer’s table, a flashback to last June exploded inside my head and I felt the colour drain from me somewhat. Lawn. Dave Lawn. Their opening bowler from last year…the one whose swing and seam bowling twisted and turned me in my crease for three balls before I outside-edged one into my off-stump; the one who dismissed four of us for a duck after I’d opted to bat first; the one who helped reduce Aleem to one scoring stroke off the bat in seventeen overs. He was taking the new ball, and part of me suddenly got a little jumpy. True enough, he was getting the new cherry to move from ball one, and I resigned myself to just seeing him off and hanging in there, but that meant we took our eye off the bowler at the other end, Claire Daniels. Our encounter with her last year was the first time any of us had played against a female player, and it produced a little mirth from one or two of the team who clearly weren’t used to such a sight; they weren’t laughing, however, when she took their wickets shortly afterwards. And today she was bowling from the John McCarthy End with good pace and eliciting good bounce; Aleem was taking care of anything over-pitched or a full-toss, but I couldn’t deal with her at first as she either hit me on the foot or got me to nibble outside off.

We settled down quickly, though, and runs began to flow. Aleem is in great form against the new ball these days and gets his first twenty runs at a rapid pace, whereas I have to scratch around for a couple of overs before scoring a little more freely. Aleem received a major scare when he played back to a ball from Lawn that kept straight and low and was rapped on the pads; Joel Wilson may have been the only other umpire in the world that wouldn’t have given it out. Survive he did, and we brought up our fifty partnership pretty quickly. But with the score on 71 in the 12^th over, a contentious moment occurred. Claire had been no-balled for a delivery above waist-high that I still can’t remember facing; three balls later came a full-toss quite wide of off-stump that I tried to hit through cover. Kaleem at square-leg called no-ball for over waist-high; Bob, the standing umpire, had no choice but to withdraw Claire from the attack. The law is the law, and to her huge credit Claire took the decision very well. To finish the over, on came Lush, a leftie: I joked to the keeper, Prem, that he was probably the man to get me out. First ball, it bounces once. It bounces twice. I lower my bat to defend the ball, but what I really needed was a broom; the ball goes under the bat, and I hear the unmistakeable death rattle as the stumps behind me are successfully rearranged. I’d been done by a pie man. I looked up after about five seconds of staring at the ground to see a Pukka Pies wrapper floating in the air towards cow corner, and wondered if it was the one Lush had just taken the ball out of. I felt sorry for Claire; all that bowling, that toil and hard work, had been for nothing but softening me up for a pie man to take a wicket she deserved more. If she hadn’t been no-balled the second time, would that wicket have been taken? A truly “Sliding Doors” moment, if I ever saw one. 71-1.

Andrew “Suggs” Suggitt took my place, and to my chagrin Lush was taken out of the attack after just two balls. Still the runs flowed; Aleem and Andrew were swapping boundaries, but on the stroke of drinks, the game dynamic changed. Ian Jeavons and KP were bowling in tandem, and on the last ball before drinks, KP had Suggs trapped leg before. As everyone tucked into a welcome couple of gulps from the jugs of purple and orange, we were on 108-2 and going really well, especially with Aleem still batting and just eight runs short of a fifty. The last time he was in the 40’s at drinks he perished in the next over…surely lightning couldn’t strike twice?

They say that one wicket brings two; not only did that adage come up trumps again, but it also signalled the Park Hill fightback and brought our innings to a near-standstill. And it was Aleem who perished, seven balls later, when just five runs had been added to the team score and he was still on 42. KP, fortified by the wicket and now bowling a much better line, hit Aleem on the pads in front of all three stumps. Up went Suggs’s finger, and the Boars batting froze: just 16 runs came off the next seven overs, and 14 of them had been scored in one over alone (from the returning Lush), as KP and firstly Jeavons applied the tourniquet and strangled the intentions of Ian Bawn and Oli Miller. That 14-run over had been scored off new bowler Blake (Jeavons now bowled out), and Bawny was suddenly able to free his arms and send pull shots whistling to the Cannon Hill Lane boundary. KP wasn’t to be denied another victim, though; with the first ball of his last over, he breached Oli’s defences and sent the bails flying into the slips. We were 129-4 at the end of that maiden over with only 12 overs left to post a defendable total; KP took the plaudits for 3-24 from his eight, and Park Hill had well and truly fought their way back into the game.

If Bawny was going to see us to the promised land of 170-180, he was going to need a wingman. Enter Dave Barber. Still fresh from three days’ warm-weather cricket and discovering 1970’s copies of Razzle in the bushes of Wallington whilst looking for lost cricket balls, “The Demon” helped steady the ship and put the team back on course. The first of his two boundaries was powerfully-struck enough, but the second one was pulled so hard to long-on it could’ve had a rocket attached to it. At the other end, Bawny skilfully mixed up singles with boundaries and, over the next five overs, the two of them put on a partnership of 42 runs. It couldn’t last, though; Gujela joined the attack, instantly looked a threat, and bowled Bawny with his fifth ball. 171-5 was now looking an imposing total, and we’d wrestled back the initiative. Dave and Dan “Legal Tender” Money (and that wouldn’t be the last of the money-themed jokes, not by a long chalk) saw out the next couple of overs until Dave was bowled by Gujela, who now had 2-1 off two overs.

That brought Kosta to the wicket, and he and Dan did an excellent job in blunting the Park Hill bowlers. Lawn and Gujela were doing the bowling and ensured we didn’t get anywhere near 200, and after a couple of lusty blows for two runs apiece, Lawn finally got reward for his earlier bowling by knocking back Dan’s off-stump. Lawn and Gujela had traded maidens and, with an over to go and with Kosta and Bob at the crease, we were 180-6. Time for Kosta’s magic batting moment. Having scored his first-ever run against Plastics, it was time for his first-ever boundary, and off Gujela too. It was a sweetly-struck pull shot, right off the middle of the bat, and sailed speedily across the glass-like outfield to the Rutlish boundary. There was to be no more scoring as Kosta saw out the rest of the over; we all praised Bob for his sterling contribution of no balls faced for his 0 not out, and we closed on 184-7.

After another lovely tea interval, courtesy of Christine and Kiera, it was time to unleash our secret weapon: Pranav Pandey. A leg-spinner more experienced than his sixteen years would have you believe, I was going to open the bowling with him. Against Plastics it had been the twin threat of Shakil and Bawny that did the damage from ball one in the absence of your traditional pace openers, because we hadn’t had much pace that day; it was a trick I was keen to repeat. Firstly, Dan Money was to open the bowling from the John McCarthy End (see if you can count how many references to money you can spot in the following paragraph; best answer wins a prize). His medium pace was gentle but, when it was straight and on the mark, it was a threat. Gujela and Lush were the Park Hill openers and cashed in with a boundary apiece off Dan…then it was the turn of Pranav to take the ball from the Kingston Road End. His first two balls fizzed from leg to off past Lush’s bat, the third one was played back expertly with a straight, confident bat, and the fourth ball ripped past the outside edge once more to smash into the top of off and middle. We were all cock-a-hoop; the dusty, rock-hard track suited Pranav perfectly, and he was getting the right amount of revs on the ball to make it talk so much you’d need a gagging order to shut it up.

Forrest came in at number three, and instantly made a fatal error; he drove a ball from Dan straight to Kosta at mid-on and set off for the single. Kosta may be the right kind of short height for an 11 year-old but he’s got a pretty good arm, and his throw straight to the hands of Dan enabled the stumps to be broken with Forrest yards out of his ground. Park Hill were two down in no time, and we were s-centing more success. That brought Prem to the wicket, and from the off he looked ready to hunker down for a long stay. A single brought Gujela back to face Pranav; hitting against the spin, he drove high and long to the boundary for four. Pranav’s next ball landed in the same spot, turned a fraction more, and elicited the same shot from Gujela…but this time the spin had done for him. It went high but not long enough, and all Ian Bawn had to do at mid-off was wait for the ball to drop into his hands. It duly did, the dangerous Gujela was gone, and we had three of their wickets in double-quick time.

Two balls later, three down became four down. My very own daughter Hannah was the next batter to face Pranav’s trickery; the first ball spun more than the others and ripped off her outside edge, looping up in an arc in front of gully and slip to ensure her survival, but the next ball was even better. Shane Warne had his Ball of the Century; Pranav was bowling them for fun. Another ripper had Hannah offering a straight bat, only to see the ball whistle past and crash into the stumps. She looked at me with a shocked face, like somebody had stolen her lunch; I had to confirm to her that “yes, love, I’m afraid you’re out”. Pranav was apologetic, but I was having none of that – it was bowling to trouble far better batters than had been on display on this day, let alone the captain’s daughter.

Dan’s sterling spell came to a close; his effort had been top-dollar, his currency had been accuracy, he’d played his part in keeping Park Hill in cheque while Pranav caused mayhem at the other end. That brought Kosta into the attack. Fresh from taking 1-9 in his first match a fortnight previously, he was now bowling at Blake and from the first ball he was a threat: not too full, getting the batsman playing forward, and bowling a great line. With the third ball of his over he drew an attacking shot to leg from Blake; the bat missed, the ball didn’t. The crash of ash sent everyone Kosta-bound to offer their congratulations, and as Pranav was taking part in an epic and absorbing tussle with Prem at the other end, it got even better for Kosta. Claire Daniels had expertly kept out what she’d faced from Pranav, but Kosta got her driving at one that turned just enough from outside off-stump to turn her drive into a played-on dismissal. Once again – and for the 10^th time in the match – the stumps had been broken. As Prem stood alone in keeping our young Boars at bay, we had six of his comrades back in the clubhouse.

None of this was planned. I’d never seen Pranav bowl before, and was hoping he was good as he sounded…oh boy, it was turning out that he was better than anything I’d expected. The fielding was excellent yet again, that hallmark of how much improved the Boars have been this season, and enabled the bowlers to build pressure. Plans don’t work that often in cricket at our level, but so far the day was going our way. Ian Jeavons joined Prem, however, and for a while our charge was stopped in its tracks. Pranav had been blunted by both batsmen, and when he’d finished his spell he’d notched 3-22 from his eight overs: probably the best Sunday bowling debut I’d ever seen. It was time to replace the wiles of spin with the wiles of seam, and Bob – the Fu Manchu of quick bowling – brought his inscrutable skills to the bowling attack. It immediately looked like being yet another of those days for Bob when a sliced drive from Jeavons went swirling between Oli at point and Dave at gully, and when both went for it but neither got it, the ball dropped harmlessly to the ground. That was followed straight away by another fortuitous slice that only a fly-slip would have pouched, and an lbw shout that would have had Bob making the review sign had it been a Test match. But he wasn’t to be denied; shortly before drinks – which is fast becoming the witching hour for all batsmen at this ground – he got another peach of a ball on off-stump to straighten even more, cannoning into Jeavons’s pads. This time, the appeal was met with the raising of the umpire’s finger, and Park Hill were in the 70’s for seven wickets down.

Drinks were taken, but the Boars machine went rolling on. Kaleem had replaced Pranav and was his usual self: giving the batsman nothing to hit for free, angling his left-arm seamers across and past the outside edge, as miserly as he was a threat. KP went for a big hit, sliced it skyward to where Bawny was waiting, and the catch was nicely taken. An over later, and with Prem offering solo resistance with some fine leg-side hitting, Lawn came to join him but lost his stumps to another Egan missile, and we were just one ball away from securing a handsome win.

Park Hill had only ten players, so it was Last Man Stands time. Appropriately enough, that last man was Prem. A fine shot off Kaleem brought up a fully-deserved fifty, but he was now finding it harder to hit boundaries against Bob now we’d packed the leg-side a little more to counter his favourite scoring stroke. In tandem with willing runner Lawn, Prem saw Park Hill to three figures with another boundary, but – just like the afore-mentioned Fu Manchu, when the world never expected to hear from him again – back came Bob. Homing in on off and middle, Prem’s miss only meant one thing; the ball wouldn’t. Three wickets for Bob saw Park Hill wrapped up for 102, and we’d won for an unprecedented fourth time in a season by 83 runs. Prem had finished on 56, and Bob and Pranav had been the pick of the bowlers.

As always, the result had been immaterial; to enjoy the day is the ultimate aim, and to win is a lovely bonus. Admittedly, it is true that it’s less enjoyable when you’ve been chasing leather in searing heat for three hours before being blown away by a bowling attack hell-bent on grinding your face into the dust. When you’re on top and in a winning position, you’re always a little perkier. But Park Hill are a good side who are more than a match for anyone they play, and we had to be as good as we were to beat them on this particular day. We exchanged handshakes as both sides congratulated each other, and it was lovely to see so many of them stay for quite a while for a few drinks.

And so there are now only four possible Sundays left on which to play cricket, and the shadows are beginning to lengthen. There’s a chill to the afternoon sunlight, and the groundsmen need a mower and a leaf-blower when trimming the outfield. Six o’clock feels like eight o’clock. Winter is coming. So it’s time to make the most out of every last Sunday; eke out every second spent at the club, share the jokes and the chat and the beer, before Brexit comes to wipe it all out!