When you’ve
been on a chastening run of defeats, the visit of old friends can be as
therapeutic in recreational sport as it can be in real life. Our ninth Sunday
friendly game saw us due to host one of our firmest friends on the Sunday
cricket circuit, Sopwith Camels; we’ve had many entertaining tussles with them
over the years. It was honours even last year over the two games, one win apiece,
and on a personal level they were the opposition in 2014 when I played my first
decent innings for Merton and my best innings since before my testicles started
to sprout hair – with four required to win off the last ball at about 8:35pm, I
swished and missed and the ball went sailing harmlessly through to their
keeper, and we lost by three runs. So you can imagine the disappointment I felt
when I received a call on the Wednesday from their captain, informing me that
reluctantly the Camels would be withdrawing from the fixture. Just two players
were available, and the rest of the week wouldn’t be long enough to rustle up
another nine. And so into their shoes stepped Chessington, a team we hadn’t
been slated to play since 2011, when a massive thunderstorm thirty minutes
before the game did to our sides what a scalpel and anaesthetic usually does to
the nutsack of a male dog that’s already sired enough pups – despite John
Smither trying to soak up the puddles of water on the square with a single,
solitary tea-towel; the visible equivalent of, quite literally, pissing in the
wind. The Chessington contact, Richard, explained – to my great relief – that his
team were weak; a mixture of young lads and wise old heads would be travelling
to the John Innes Theatre of Dreams. They sounded exactly like us, the Sunday
Boars, and a great match was suddenly on the cards.
All we’d
need was the weather, and oh boy what a wonderful day was in prospect as
Daughter #1 and I made our way to the ground. We’re in the middle of the kind
of heatwave that makes cricketers of a certain age whisper “1976” every few
moments; on this first day of July, we still hadn’t had a game affected by rain
and were seeing weather usually accustomed to August. A perfect yellow sun
beamed out from a cloudless, blue watercolour sky and bathed the home ground in
brilliant sunshine; the outfield was yellowing, the square bone-hard. Once
again I’d already decided to bat first if given the chance; the temperature was
due to hit 32 celsius, and I didn’t fancy fielding first in that. On top of
that, the strip that had been prepared for us was the only one of the six on
the square to possess virtually no grass, save for a bizarre two-metre wide strip
of green on a good length right in front of the batsman; it was
biscuit-coloured and felt like concrete beneath your feet. A glance to my left,
to the pitch used on the previous day, caught a glimpse of a pile of sand that
you’d expect to see at Caister or Sandbanks rather than Merton.
Chessington
duly arrived, and on first glimpse looked the kind of team we should be playing
every single week of the season; just like us, they were indeed a team of dads
and lads, with the requisite septuagenarian thrown in for good measure. He
would come in handy counter-balancing our own triumvirate of sexagenarians:
Richard, Joe and the returning Rocky.
With no
football to delay proceedings this week – unless you were mad keen on watching
Russia beat Spain on penalties – myself and their skipper went out to toss. He
called incorrectly, handing me my eight straight win at the toss (beat THAT,
Eoin Morgan), and I opted to bat. Chessington were happy to bowl so that their
lads could get a full game, words that usually trip from my lips on a weekly
basis, and despite the fact we hadn’t even started the game I had already grown
to like Chessington.
Richard and
I went out to bat at the stroke of 1:30pm, and within the space of young Stewart’s
first couple of balls from the Kingston Road End we realised that the pitch was
not in the kind of well-prepared condition I had expected. From the other end,
Clark wasn’t as quick but was getting steep bounce off a good length that
couldn’t be played easily. Richard then rolled back the years to notch up our
first boundary, a hook shot off his shoulder down to the fine leg boundary.
Pure vintage stuff, but then came the most worrying moment I’ve ever witnessed
at the crease. Stewart’s next ball was a beamer which Richard lost and tried to
hook, and the ball cannoned into his forehead. There was a pause until I
suddenly realised that the green thing on his head wasn’t a helmet but his cap,
and Chessington’s players ran to Richard’s aid as it dawned on us he was in
trouble. A round, crimson, ball-shaped circle had instantly appeared to
decorate Richard’s forehead, and despite Richard telling us he was fine he
clearly wasn’t. Ice and the first aid kit came out as we gingerly carried him
towards the clubhouse, and Dave was summoned to gather his bat and his thoughts
and come with me to the middle. For the second time in two games, Richard’s
early departure had totally thrown the innings into a state of slight bewilderment,
only for vastly differing reasons, and it was clear Dave hadn’t been ready to
bat when he sliced a rising good-length ball high in the air for gully to
pouch. Furious with himself when he shouldn’t have been, he then treated
anybody watching to an expletive-filled striptease when he returned to the
clubhouse; just like the Burlesque dancers of olden days, a piece of clothing
was hurled into the air every few seconds; a thigh pad here, a box there, a
chest guard everywhere. Thankfully, nobody was on hand to stuff wads of money
into Dave’s jockstrap, but if they had I’m sure he’d have donated it to a
charity dealing with Tourette’s, as for the whole of routine he’d sounded like
a sufferer.
Out came
Iain Evans to join me and initially he came out swinging at the youngster –
who, by the way, we’d all told should in no way have blamed himself for Richard’s
injury; a beamer, yes, is a beamer, but a lot of us have bowled them and we’ve
never meant to do so – but it was swinging and missing before he settled down
and found the middle of the bat. Stewart was bowling horrible balls rearing off
a good length at good pace and one of them brushed my cheek on the way to the
keeper, prompting me to finally call for a helmet to bat in. Iain and I defied
the pitch to notch a couple of boundaries apiece before Clark castled Iain with
a beauty that moved off the pitch, held its bounce and hit the top of off.
Aleem came out and instantly played two sumptuous pull shots off Clark; the
outfield was like polished glass, and a half push/half drive of mine squeezed
past mid-off and raced to the rope. In fact, all you needed to do was to find a
gap and the ball was going for four.
Enter Dave
Harrison, the aforementioned septuagenarian. Prior the match, we’d joked that
he’d probably take a five-for, but his first over was to mine and Aleem’s
liking. The pitch was unforgiving to anything dropped short, and we’re in good
nick at the moment. With half the innings gone and the score at nearly 100, I
took a step to Harrison and smacked him over mid-on…only to find mid-on was a
little deeper than I thought, and he steadied himself to take a routine catch.
With Richard at hospital, courtesy of Catering Preparation Supervisor Janet (I’m
too scared in this day and age to say “tea-lady” in case I get trolled), we
were only two down. But we are the Boars, and a mini-collapse ensued; Rocky
banged one dismissively into the bushes for four, then fell lbw to Harrison who,
not long after, snaffled Ian Bawn the same way. Aleem was playing really well
and was joined by young Sujanan, who showed what he could do by pulling his
second ball for four.
With ten
overs left, Aleem danced a little to Williams and was stumped, which brought
Joe to the crease. In tandem with firstly Sujanan (who became Harrison’s fourth
victim, leaving me wishing I’d had a bet on him taking a five-for) and then Sam
Wyld, Joe produced the kind of innings our lower order has missed all season:
destructive when needed, intelligent, and assertive. He may be retired now but
he hits the ball very hard, and the boundaries flowed from his bat. Sam batted
out the last eight overs for his three not out as Joe farmed the strike and
enabled us, at the close of the innings, to post an excellent 179-7, Joe’s contribution
45 not out.
Disbelief at
Spain being beaten by Russia was smoothed over by the sumptuous tea that was on
offer to us, and the sight of Richard walking back into the clubhouse with a
smile and a square white bandage on his nut. He’d had the scans and everything,
and thank God he was fine. Someone then piped up that he’d do anything to get a
not out these days…
The game
against the Flying Ducksmen was still fresh in the memory; a defendable total
posted but a last-ball loss by one wicket. This time I decided against the
Gareth Southgate-style pep talk, hoping that our bowling and fielding would be
on point. Tellingly, the pitch had calmed down in our innings once the hardness
had gone from the ball, and as we were using the same ball for the Chessington
innings – and our attack wasn’t the quickest in the world – I was quietly
confident that our slower bowlers would be the key.
Firstly,
though, Sujanan (from the Clubhouse End) and “Killer” Smither (from the
Kingston Road End) opened proceedings, and after one early boundary settled
into a beggarly spell that neutered the Chessington top order – a top order
that was opened up in the third over by a beauty from Sujanan. With the same
delivery that dismissed Iain earlier in the day, Suj got one to hold its line
and hit the top of off-stump – and it was Bilal, their best batsman to boot.
Just eleven runs came from their first six overs but Spiller looked in good
touch with some crisp fours and the outfield was as fast for them as it was for
us; chasing the ball was a lost cause as soon as it went past you.
Ian Bawn
replaced Suj in the 13th over and struck with his sixth ball,
piercing Raje’s defence to clatter into the stumps. Killer bowled straight
through and, despite bowling really well and getting the ball to swing and
bite, ended luckless and wicketless. In his seventh over, Spiller bottom-edged
the ball which started rolling towards the stumps. Everyone got ready to jump
up in celebration as it clunked into the bottom of the stumps, but alas the
bails refused to move. 0-21 was poor reward for another great spell, but that’s
just 36 runs conceded in 15 overs over two games for John. One of these days,
somebody’s going to be on the receiving end of a Killer special, and that
Charles Manson stare will once again grace the greens of John Innes Recreation
Ground.
The Bawn
Snaffler got another cutter to dissect another defence, this time Stewart
Senior, and Chessington were rocking at 43-3. That became 44-4 as Sam got Clark
Senior to slap one in the air to a waiting Iain at midwicket, who made no mistake
with the catch. Stewart Junior arrived at the crease, whose first act was to
reverse –slap Ian for four over backstop, albeit off of a top-edge. Stewart the
Younger was bristling with intent and looking to score, but some brilliant fielding
was restricting him to mostly singles. Sam was bowling with the kind of pace
and accuracy I’d been yearning to see since he bowled at me in winter nets; in
tandem with Ian, he was conceding less than three runs per over. Rocky had
breezed from slip into short extra cover and absolutely nothing was going past
him; one shot rocketed off Spiller’s bat and was heading at speed past Rocky
until he stuck out his left hand and nonchalantly caught it on the bounce. It
typified our performance; our tails were up.
Spiller and
Stewart Junior had put on 47 runs when the defensive field paid off; he pulled
Sam to the waiting Ian at cow corner, who took a great catch to finally end their
resistance. We sensed that the turning point had been reached, and two balls
later Sam bowled Spiller for a well-made 38. They were 91-6, and Sam’s third
wicket was his sixth for the weekend. With Treadstone bowled through, it was
time for Iain Evans to inject slightly more pace into proceedings. After some further
resistance from Garner and young Harry Wort – whose spin bowling earlier in the
day had been top quality – Iain’s extra pace cut through their lower order. In
the space of four balls he took three wickets, including an arrow-straight lbw
and a caught and bowled. With the score on 113, it was left to Joe to take the
final wicket and seal a first win of the season for the Boars.
Oh, my God.
We’d won. We’d actually won. Played eight, lost seven…won one. And what a one
it was. Even the weather had behaved for us; a lovely breeze sailed around the
ground for the entirety of our fielding stint. Furthermore, it had been an
all-round great performance with players one to eleven leaving their mark on
the game one way or another. Another Spiderman-like performance behind the
stumps from Aleem had kept the extras low again, and every single bowler had
contributed. We congratulated Chessington on their performance and their
spirit; sixty-six runs was the margin of victory but it wasn’t as easy as that
sounded. They’re also a terrific bunch of people, and I’ll be ensuring we get a
fixture with them again next year. Our victory was compounded by the results
coming in from the other Sunday teams, the Wolves and the Rhinos; both teams
had lost.
And so it
won’t happen often, but Sunday was our day; the day that the Boars ruled the
roost. We’d posted our highest score with the bat, we’d taken all ten wickets
for the first time in 2018; we didn’t drop a single catch. Spare a thought too
for Ian Bawn, for whom victory made his Foster’s taste a little sweeter – in 29
games, stretching back more than two calendar years, he hadn’t won a single
game as a player of any Merton team. Next week is the Six-a-Side Tournament,
meaning that the Boars will remain unbeaten for a further week until we travel
to Banstead on the 15th. That’ll be 14 days unbeaten, a bit like
when English golfers hit the top of the world rankings (they don’t usually stay
there long), and I’ll settle for that.
It was nice
to finally wake up on a Monday morning with a smile on my face. The groin
strain, sore calves and sore heel were all there as standard, but with a smile
on my face I couldn’t feel a single one of them. It was just nice to realise
that I’d finally notched up a win as captain in 2018, and was the last of the
seven – yes, Mother, count ‘em – club captains to register a win. Now that’s
what I call fashionably late. And, if you know your Doctor Who, that makes Arjun
Kiswani William Hartnell and me Jodie Whittaker…
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