It was early one evening, as the month of July was
getting into full swing and everyone was readying themselves for the return of
club cricket, that I received a message from Simon, the captain of Banstead’s
third XI and our hosts at least once a year for the past two years. They had an
open slot on Sunday the 26th, he said, would the Sunday Boars be
interested in a game of cricket? If he’d been present in the room he’d have
needed to write his reply with his toes, such would have been the speed that
I’d have bitten his hands off. A visit to one of our finest friends on the
Sunday friendly circuit, cancelled presumed completely due to lockdown? Hell,
yeah!
We were due to play each other as the season-opening
fixture, way back in April. Gloomily, Simon had told me at the time that not
only had that fixture gone to the wall (as had everyone else’s), but the
Banstead 3rds – made up, at the time, mostly of guys of the age who were now
being told to shield indoors for twelve weeks – had written off their entire
season as a precautionary measure. We’d already pencilled in our fixture for
next year, too, so to actually get the fixture back up and running was a very
happy post-lockdown bonus.
Our previous two encounters couldn’t have been any more
different; a nine-wicket walloping for the Boars in 2018, chasing down 213 for
our greatest-ever win, was followed by a six-wicket canter for Banstead in
2019, when the Boars batted first and resembled someone sitting on the toilet,
desperate to poo, but who’d spent the entire week eating hard-boiled eggs. Our
crawl to 103/9 off 43 overs was mind-numbing in the extreme but we simply never
got going, pinned to the floor by an attack that specialised in the kind of
austerity that gets human rights activists jumping up and down. There were more
maidens bowled than you’d find in a drama about Henry VIII, and the bowler’s
economy rates looked more like the Coronavirus ‘R’ number.
It was destined to be a nice cool day to play cricket. We
arrived at Banstead Sports Ground at one o’clock just as two colts games were
being played to a close, and threaded our way through the pockets of watching
parents as they sat at socially-distanced intervals all around the boundary. We
were due to play on the back pitch, the scene of our triumph two years
previously; Ian and I, who shared a partnership of 120 that day, were most
appreciative. Above us, the weather couldn’t quite make its mind; the light
grey clouds had blown somewhere else, and strong warmth beamed upon us from
skies of unblemished blue. The football fans among us were on tenterhooks: Dave
Barber and Tom Allen, fans of Watford and Villa respectively, were anxious
about their team’s prospects on what was the final day of the Premier League
season, knowing that one of them was certain to get relegated to the
Championship by 6pm. Dave was desperate for us to bat first, knowing that we’d
be in the field while the games were being played out. The Manchester United
and Chelsea fans were crossing their fingers for wins that would cement their
Champions League places for next season, while this Wolves fans was praying for
a win over Chelsea or for Spurs not to get a result so that we could bag a
Europa League slot. Rob, the ever-optimistic Arsenal fan, just wanted a nice
win.
After finding a five-pence piece buried deep in student Tom’s
pocket, Simon and I held the toss. Yet again I called heads, and yet again I
won, meaning my record was now something like 25 out of the last 28 tosses won.
It was to be a timed game and we were jam-packed with a variety of bowlers, and
the pitch – although firm and in good nick – was topped with a lush, verdant
layer of trimmed grass, so I decided to bowl first. Some cloud cover had rolled
over as we took the field and helped Tom to swing the ball up the hill, drawing
a play and miss from openers Gopa and Jason. Rob was just as probing down the
hill, keeping the ball straight, not giving the batters anything wide to chase.
The bounce and carry were prodigious, almost Perth-like, and the openers could
leave the ball with confidence, but offered nothing for Tom and Rob in terms of
movement or deviation. The Boars fielding, for the second week running, was
sharp and accurate, so runs weren’t coming quickly; only one boundary was mustered
in the opening overs as Gopa and Jason had to apply themselves. Still, they
were proving very hard to dislodge, and offered no chances.
Shakil and Ian Bawn – Suj had one over but felt
discomfort in his shoulder – then took over, taking the pace right off the ball
and giving the batters something extra to think about, but at that point the
sunshine vanished; in its place came grey skies and drizzly showers, totally un-forecast,
but for the Boars they couldn’t have timed their arrival better. The pitch now
had a little juice in it, and the ball suddenly began to pop a little down the
hill. Ian’s late swing made every ball a threat, and as Gopa and Jason brought
up their fifty partnership, one that stayed gun-barrel straight had Gopa pinned
in front of the stumps for a plumb lbw. That brought Simon Read, the Banstead
skipper, to the wicket, and after shepherding Jason to a very well-made
half-century, steered a full-toss to “Killer” Smither at backward square leg;
the ball looked to be dipping to the ground as Killer ran in, but all of a
sudden the ball was in his hands and a brilliant catch had been taken.
Jason, for so long a pillar of concentration, then paid
the price for his only lapse of focus during his innings. David “Wily Coyote”
Floyd had taken over strangling duties from Shakil and was happily applying his
own tourniquet when Jason rushed down the wicket, heaved at a ball that sailed
past him into my gloves, and found himself stumped. Unlike the real Wile E.
Coyote of cartoon folklore, David does indeed snaffle his prey; the full,
flighted ball that fools a batsman into thinking he can smash him all around
the ground is his box of Acme bird seed that successfully blows up in the
batsman’s face. John and Stott were the new batsman at the crease, and John in
particular was looking to play positive, but when he too charged a Floyd
delivery and missed, he was bowled before he could be stumped.
As the overs ticked by at a rapid rate, Killer replaced
Ian (2-28) and struck in his first over – but not before another brief shower
had livened the pitch up some more. Stott, who had played straight to every
ball he faced, did the same to one that popped up at him; Killer, seeing the
ball loop up in an arc about three feet to his left, leapt sideways and plucked
it one-handed for a superb caught and bowled.
Not long after, five down became six down as young Daniel Read received
the same ball; this time it ballooned up to mid-off, where Oli “The Ox” Miller
held on to his first Merton catch.
Nick Hunt and Lewis Still then dug in as the overs
continued to whizz past, mixing defence with the odd lusty blow. Between them
they raised fifty-four runs with the bat, and after Tom got Hunt to chop the
first ball of his second spell onto his stumps, the innings was declared. 164-7
was the total from 42.1 overs; we would have around ninety minutes, plus twenty
overs from 5:45pm, to hunt down 165.
‘Evergreen’ is a word used, in most spheres of sport, to
describe someone who’s been in their profession for ten to fifteen years. Roger
Federer is evergreen, as is Jimmy Anderson. Ryan Giggs was evergreen, too.
Compared to Banstead’s Bill Early, however, they are mere striplings; babies,
even. If this were school, being Jimmy Anderson’s age would get you dragged in
the toilets and your head shoved down the bowl. In my team, anybody under the
age of twenty-five looks like the team’s carer, stretching his legs before
bringing the minibus back round to take us all home again. So, just how do you
describe Bill Early, looking at least twenty years younger than his eighty-five
years, and still going strong with the ball? And not serving up pies, either:
you disregard his apparent frailty and pensioner status at your peril. Last
year, in the corresponding fixture, I arrived here with the memory of my 92 not
out from 2018 still fresh in my memory, confident of a nice, long innings, only
to have Bill Early send me back to my kitbag with the third ball of the game.
Bowled, having virtually left a straight one. I’ve had nightmares about it
since. Bill induced panic in our team that day; there were about eighteen
maidens in our innings out of forty-three overs bowled, and they were mostly
bowled by him. Bill has probably never watched an Eli Roth film, and probably
just as well, but his bowling style is similar to the torture scenes prevalent
in those movies. He ties you up so you can’t move, then whittles little pieces
off you every couple of overs. You wait for the bad ball – you wait, and wait,
and wait…surely, he’ll drop a half-tracker in soon, or one nice and wide
outside off-stump…but no. Every ball is wicket to wicket, you don’t play back
and across, and you don’t give him the charge. So, he’s perhaps less of an
evergreen and more of an old oak. And it didn’t take him long to be up to his
wily old tricks.
At the other end,
Lewis Still cranked up the pace. At times, the bounce was too good – anything
short of a length would never trouble the stumps – but then it was too good for
me too. My rustiness was apparent as I tried to crash him over his head first
ball and got away with two runs after Dave had got off the mark with a lovely
straight drive for a single, but when Dave tried to shovel Bill to leg he left
himself no room to manoeuvre at the crease and was bowled. Ian came in and concentrated
on nullifying Lewis, whose deliveries were now flying off the surface and
through to the keeper. We’d already decided not to even try and score off Bill,
such was his accuracy and our propensity to give him our wickets, but knowing
that we had so much time to chase down 165 gave us the confidence to not worry
about the runs not coming quickly. Lewis and I enjoyed a proper contest: he
would have me on toast, swinging at balls and missing, and then I would then
break the shackles with a boundary.
Ian was looking in no trouble at all when he was suddenly
lbw to Bill, who then bowled “The Ox” three balls later. 25/3 then became 32/4
when Lewis picked up a reward for a fine spell by spearing a yorker straight
into the base of Sujanan’s off-stump. We needed a partnership, and next in was
Andrew Counihan, a man renowned for sticking around. I’d seen off Lewis, and
Bill had been given a breather, and both were replaced by Neil Sunderland and
Nick Hunt. Time to knuckle down again, and lay a platform; the overs were
clocking up but I estimated there to be about 30 left. If we needed 80 off,
say, the last 20, it would be game on. Typically, the change in the bowling
brought an instant breakthrough. Having dealt with Hunt’s first three leggies,
the fourth one hit my pads in innocuous fashion…only to deflect onto my stumps.
Deflated doesn’t cover it. I saw the bridge in front of me burst into flames
and crash into the sea. That left us 47/5 – 47/6 really, as we’d lost Shakil –
but, with Andrew and David at the wicket, we were still in the game. Andrew has
become skilled in the art of whipping the ball strongly to the boundary,
enabling him to mix attack with defence. David wasn’t averse to hitting fours
either, but as the score reached 70 Andrew departed, bowled by Sunderland. Rob
was unfortunate enough to face Nick Hunt, whose leg-breaks were really turning
off the pitch and into the left-hander. But Rob was far from all but sea and
smacked a classy boundary, until Hunt snaffled him with a beauty of a ball.
Looping one up a bit higher, Rob advanced down the track to hit it over the
top, but it turned sharply through the gate, was scooped by the waiting Andy
Beaumont behind the wickets, and Rob was stumped.
We’d started the final twenty overs of the day by now, but
the result was no longer in doubt. David was caught, and Killer had his
leg-bail sent skyward by Daniel Read to confirm Banstead’s win. On a pitch that
looked for all the world like a road, both teams had struggled to score
fluently, 74 overs having been bowled on the day for an aggregate just shy of
250 runs. Bill Early had bowled another six maidens (he must have bowled about
30 against us in the last three years), and had been backed up by the other
bowlers. Nick Hunt’s leg-spin was, after an over or two of getting loose, right
on point and was as threatening as any we’d faced over the years. 78/9,
effectively 78 all out, was our final total, although it didn’t feel like an
80-run shellacking. It had, once again, been a fun day’s cricket against one of
our friendliest opponents, and – very importantly – the hangover from the Cheam
game was now completely gone, exorcised from our system by two Sundays of great
friendly cricket.
Cold beer and talk of fixing up dates for home and away
fixtures next year featured heavily post-match, and as the breeze strengthened
and the sunlight began to fade, we couldn’t have been more relieved that our
season was finally back on track. Oh yes, and Watford were relegated and Villa
stayed up; Man United and Chelsea secured Champions League places, and Wolves
didn’t. Dave was understandably glum (as a Wolves fan, I know his pain), Tom
understandably relieved, Oli, Suj and Killer were happy, while I shrugged my
shoulders. Wolves have always liked achieving things the hard way – just like
the Boars…
No comments:
Post a Comment