And then, it rained.
This was the twelfth Sunday of the season that the Boars
were due in action, and the first to feature a single drop of rain since
September 2017; that day was memorable for the following exchange took place
between captains, as us lot turned up to play Trinity Mid-Whitgiftians down
near Sanderstead:-
Their captain: “So, what strength are you today?”
Me: “Weak. Very weak. There’s only nine of us, and one of
those is my eldest daughter."
Their captain: “Oh…we’re quite strong today. We were
expecting your strongest team.”
Me: “That’s funny. I was expecting to play your weakest
team.”
Their captain: “Oh. Well, I’m sure it’ll be a good game.”
And it was – for them. 320-2 in 35 overs played 120-odd for
nine, my daughter surviving the last three balls of the match and even
scampering a bye off the last ball. 35 overs bowled in just 90 minutes, and the
entire match played in a stinking September drizzle.
In terms of the weather today promised much of the same, and
the initial forecasts weren’t good for the game at all. We were due to play
Hook & Southborough, arguably our oldest friendly opposition on the
circuit, and I woke up expecting to see the remnants of a downpour battering
against the windows and my phone bearing the fatal message from the Hook
contact telling me the game was called off. But the ground was dry, the skies
were sort of clear, and my phone was silent. I cracked on with putting together
the picnic food for the daughters,
reminded myself of the buses I’d need to catch to get to the ground in
Chessington, and made my plans for the day.
Firstly, we had to be better than the opening game of the
Sunday season. That was against Hook at our ground, on a pitch that offered
zilch to the bowler except low bounce; we’d bowled really well in restricting
them to 165-4, with Kaleem getting the ball to hoop around corners and Rob
taking his first Merton wicket, but we couldn’t get their opener Roland out
that day, and he played the pitch brilliantly to notch 73 not out. That was
nineteen more runs than our entire team mustered; five of our batters were
bowled by pea-rollers as we slid from 19-2 to 30-8, and only some lusty blows
from Kaleem took us to our final total of 54. Also, in last year’s
corresponding fixture, we were 129-2 chasing 171 to win and ahead of the
run-rate until a collapse reminiscent of cars down a sinkhole saw us lose by 21
runs. It would take all our powers of concentration to overcome this team of
stubborn (mostly) old pros.
The rain started whilst the daughters and I were on the
second leg of a three-leg trip to the Hook ground. The sky grew darker and the
rain heavier. Daughter #2’s mantra-chant of “I reckon it’s going to be called
off, Dad. What do you think?” did nothing to help my mood, and as we switched
to the final bus in Kingston the rain was set and steady. Glumly, I traipsed my
daughters to find the right bus stop, and after a short journey we were at the
Hook ground. The rain had now lessened to a relentless drizzle; the sky was a
grey blanket covering everything, without a crack in the clouds to be seen.
Keith Milton, one of Hook’s great stalwart players and officials, was already
there and, after making us feel welcome, jumped on an engine-powered roller and
went off to roll the pitch.
The outfield was covered in baseball markings and, more
traditionally, feathers. Either the foxes use this ground as a place to eat
what they’ve caught, or there’s cock-fighting here every year. The feathers
would come in handy later, for one of our players. Keith had done a brilliant
job with the strip; the surface moisture had been rolled in and the strip
itself was very firm. If only the bloody rain would hold off…
The rest of the players began to arrive. We welcomed Shakil
and Joe back into the Boars fold in place of Dave “The Demon”, cruising
somewhere in the Med doing his best Rob Brydon impression, and Kaleem, who
simply wasn’t available (but could probably do a good Rob Brydon impression if
asked to). Being very bowler-heavy meant stints up the order for Ian Bawn and
Joe, up in the ‘nosebleeds’ at 3 and 4 respectively, while everyone bar myself,
Alex “The Jailer” and Aleem would get a bowl at some point. That was, of
course, if the game was to be played in its entirety…
Adnan, the unforgettable Hook skipper, suddenly appeared out
of nowhere, beer in hand. We went out to toss and agreed to shorten the game to
35 overs in case we ended up losing any time later in the day. Deep down, I
wanted to bowl first; Adnan won the toss and I got my wish. Before that,
though, a scare: my phone went off, and I found myself speaking to Greg, Joe’s
son. Joe’s dad had had a fall, and despite us offering Joe the chance to go
home, he opted to stay and wait for further information. Things like that put
everything into perspective, including what would happen later in the day.
Under slate-grey skies but with the drizzle thinning out, we
took the field minus Shakil, who hadn’t turned up yet. I threw the new ball to
Rob to bowl to Keith, and we instantly found out what happens on this pitch if
you bowl it a fraction short: it gets cracked for four. Keith either gets a
duck or a fifty-plus against us; duck was now off the menu. Killer Smither took
the ball from the other end and bowled a tight line, while Rob – whilst bowling
at good pace – got punished virtually every time he dropped one short. The ball
was doing zero off the pitch and Keith and Richard looked very comfortable,
until Shakil got one of his first deliveries to take a wafer-thin edge off
Keith that Aleem agonisingly couldn’t keep hold of. It had stopped drizzling
completely now; the ball was still in good condition and the run-rate had
slowed due to a thickish outfield. We didn’t look like getting many wickets,
mind. Keith and Richard were running well between the wickets until Richard tried
one sharp run too many and did himself an injury, retiring hurt on 12. That
brought Simon to the crease, who refused to be bamboozled by Sujanan’s swirling
deliveries and started hitting to long-on for four. Then, another chance: Keith
popped one up to Rob at cover, but it cannoned straight into Rob’s chest and
onto the floor.
We needed some comic relief, and it came in the form of Sam
Wyld and – quite literally - some shit. Fielding a ball at mid-off, he began
staring in disgust at his own hand, then wiped both the ball and his hand on
the grass furiously. In picking up the ball, he’d put his hand in a pile of
fox-shit. Horrified at the prospect of what we presumed to be his eating hand
potentially struck down by streptococcus, he sprinted, gazelle-like, off the
pitch to wash his hands, Rob’s advice of “Don’t rub your eyes, mate!” ringing
in his ears (along with our laughter). Aleem mentioned it was the first time
he’d even seen shit stop play. Keith called for a shovel, and with a
freshly-cleaned Sam in tow, Keith’s son David came out carrying a shovel to
look for the offending excrement. I watched from slip as three Boars players,
plus David and the umpire, examined the ground around them like police officers
conducting a fingertip search of a crime scene. It took them a full two minutes
to realise that Sam’s hand had probably destroyed the entire mound before play
continued; we carried on until drinks, but Simon and Keith were still there,
and we hadn’t taken a wicket. 77-0.
By now, Killer had found a use for the plethora of feathers
that were scattered, confetti-like, around the square by plucking them into his
shoes and hat. As he has a reputation for being (probably) a serial killer on
the sly, we reasoned it was better for him to wear them as trophies rather than
the less-preferred ears, scalps, noses etc of any potential victims that may or
may not lie buried beneath the home ground.
Johnny M, “The Steriliser”, and Sam “Shit Hands” Wyld then
entered the attack, and immediately Sam struck to get us off the mark. With the
field slightly spread and Simon looking to continue hitting over mid-on, Sam
induced another expansive drive and Simon nicked it into Aleem’s gloves. Nobody
really wanted to shake Sam’s hand, but rubbing his hands in fox-shit seemed to
have done the trick, and when he repeated the dose two overs later – same shot,
same catch, same result – I started to hatch a plan. Next week, before the
game, I am going to secure enough faeces from somewhere (not mine; that would
be far too weird) and get my bowlers to rub their hands in it. It’ll be like an
aphrodisiac to their bowling hand; a Viagra for their wicket column. At the other end, The Steriliser was bowling
really well, probably the smoothest he’s run in all season. Out came Adnan to
bat, a man who loves to swing so much he should be living in Boxhill.
Naturally, after moving Rob to fourth slip for impending catch, Adnan slashed
one over where fifth slip would’ve been,
but that was the prelude to a memorable Steriliser moment. In his next over to
Adnan, he had him swinging and missing, before pitching it up a little more
with his next ball and clean-bowling him. He’d set up his man and then served
him up his wicket, and after bellowing out a war-cry Johnny M fixed Adnan with
a classic bowler’s death-stare send-off as he trudged slowly off the pitch.
We’d made inroads into their batting, but that was that as
far as the wickets were concerned. Paul came in and put some loose stuff away
in quick time, and Hook ended on 189-3. Keith had carried his bat for a
brilliant 93, the two drops being the only chances he gave us. In our last
three encounters against Hook, and after bowling a combined total of 110 overs,
we’ve only taken ten wickets. It’s the
kind of problem that would have taken Sherlock Holmes three pipes of tobacco to
ruminate over but, as I don’t smoke, egg sandwiches and cans of bitter will
have to suffice.
After a very satisfying tea (finally, somebody serves
Battenberg cake!!!), Aleem and I went out to open the batting. Sam A bowled the
first over and should’ve had me out second ball; he bowled me one so wide I
could barely reach it, but reach it I did and it popped in – and out – of first
slip’s hands. Galvanised by my second chance, Aleem and I went off like a
train. We were 25-0 after three overs, and the middle one – bowled by the
ever-wily Mark Dainty – had been a maiden. Sam was struggling for line and
length, and every loose ball he bowled me went for four. We were flying along
at 40-0 off seven overs, before a nasty case of déjà vu came to hit me between
the eyes (and the stumps). Last year, in the corresponding fixture and when on
28, I stepped back to a Dainty special, tried to pull it and was bowled. This
year, despite telling myself over and over what not to do, the exact same thing
happened: same delivery, same shot, same result. This time, I’d made 29. I
stomped off, furious with myself, loudly calling myself every name under the
sun. And when I got inside the changing room I carried on, bellowing as loud as
I could a couple of times for good measure. Sixty seconds later, the toilet
door inched very slowly open and Sam Wyld stepped quietly out. I hadn’t even
known he was in there and he seemed not to have paid much attention to my rant,
instead warning me to steer clear of the toilet he’d just occupied and pumping
copious amounts of handsoap all over his digits. Lovely.
Ian joined Aleem at the crease but quickly lost his bails to
a Phil Evans moonball, which brought Joe to the middle. As the pace of the ball
teetered between ‘slow’ and ‘stop’, Joe struggled to hit his trademark big
shots, but the singles were still coming and Aleem was as hard to dislodge as
ever. Then, controversy. It was a moment I missed, as I was playing football
with daughter #2, but raised voices from the middle got the attention of
everyone. Aleem had about eight Hook players crowded around him, including
captain Adnan, and things looked animated. For a couple of minutes, time
stopped until someone got wind of what had happened: Evans had bowled, Aleem played
the ball, and the bails had been dislodged. The Hook players were adamant Aleem
had been clean bowled; Aleem was convinced the ball had gone past the stumps,
hit the keeper’s thigh-guard, and ricocheted back onto the bails. The umpires
weren’t sure, and had erred on the side of caution: Aleem was not out. That,
unfortunately, set the tone for the rest of the match. Ian and I took drinks to
the middle shortly afterwards and I was expecting reference to be made of the
incident, but to hear the slip fielder’s cry of “What a f***ing cheating
b****rd!” rather took me aback. Five of their fielders were extremely wound up
over what had happened and were clearly in no mood to let it go. Scores-wise,
we were around the same as Hook had been at their drinks break; the only
question was, did we have enough batting to chase down the rest of the target?
Joe and Aleem were slugging it out; boundaries were hard to
come by, but the running between the wickets was keeping the score ticking
over. Rob and I went out to umpire the last twelve overs of the match, and I
immediately found that the Hook players were still grumbling. Aleem was being
sledged behind the wicket, with slip making constant references to him being
bowled, and even tricked Rob into calling for the wickets column on the
scoreboard to be updated from two to three, when we were only two down.
Sam returned to the attack and, after Joe and Aleem had put
on 63 runs, dismissed Joe by rocking back his middle stump. Cue more references
of “are you sure that’s bowled?” etc etc, and on top of one other fielder
mimicking Aleem I started to get a little uncomfortable at how unfriendly the
game had become. “The Jailer” came to wicket, batting arm swirling like a
windmill, bristling with attacking intent. And attack he did; from ball one, if
it was in the slot he was going to hit it. Before he got started, though, Aleem
brought up another attritional fifty that was studiously ignored by the
fielding players. Enter Alex: Mark Dainty came back into the attack, and Alex
played him like I wished I’d done, using some fast hands to pull him down to
long-on time and time again for two runs at a time either side of some
fiercely-hit boundaries. Aleem was a man possessed now, both riled and inspired
by his treatment by the Hook players, and he began urging and pushing Alex to
turn ones into twos. This rattled Hook even more, and when the scoreboard was
posted incorrectly one of their ringleaders started moaning at me. The
implication was that we were being a little creative with the scoring, to which
I replied that whatever had gone on before had nothing to do with the scoring,
and we weren’t trying to con them out of runs or overs. The mood had not only
turned decidedly ugly, but seemed set in concrete as well.
On and on, Aleem pushed Alex; it was the hardest The Jailer
had run in a long time. With a face like a moustachioed tomato, he collapsed to
the ground in exhaustion at one point as if he’d just completed Tough Mudder,
prompting the slip fielder to ask if he needed an oxygen canister. In the
meantime, I made my feelings known about the constant carping to Adnan, who
didn’t say anything but instead lit up a
fag next to me at square leg. The running between the wickets was becoming more
and more frenetic, leading one fielder to have a shy at the stumps as Aleem
made his ground. Funnily enough, the ball didn’t appear to have been actually
aimed at the stumps. If I’d known yesterday that it was a Level 2 offence under Law 41, as I
do today, I’d have issued a warning.
With five overs left, we needed 36 to win. Another round of
moaning came my way, as the scoreboard read 164-3 instead of 154-3. It was
human error, but clearly Mr Evans was having none of it. I finally piped up and
told him, and slip, that the last few overs had been the most unfriendly I’d
witnessed in years, only to be by slip to “teach your team about f***ing
gamesmanship then!”. Paul came onto to bowl and, after bowling a couple of
deliveries that were too good for both Alex and the stumps, bowled a straighter
one and cleaned him up. The partnership had been 51, and Alex had contributed
22 of them; his best knock so far for Merton, and one that we were all very
proud of him for. That brought Shakil to the wicket, but he only lasted one
ball: done by a filthy double-bouncer that he would’ve needed a broom handle to
reach. Paul on a hat-trick, The Steriliser to face. Sure enough, Paul worked
his magic: Johnny M scooped it high, for Sam to take a comfortable catch. Paul
had his hat-trick, and our charge to the finish line had been halted.
In the midst of all this, I made sure Mark Dainty heard my
complaint about his team-mates language and behaviour. At the fall of a wicket
he had them all in a huddle, after which Adnan belatedly bounced over and
offered profound apology. Aleem, his mind
as always on the game, was still there, now joined by Killer Smither, and after
a barrage of Aleem twos Killer looked and sounded as out of puff as Alex had.
With twenty-two required off the last over, fours were needed; sadly, we
couldn’t get them. Only six runs had been mustered when Smither departed,
leaving Sam Wyld – now he was wearing batting gloves, people were only too
willing to shake his hand – to face the last ball. We had run Hook close but
not close enough, and lost by sixteen runs.
I managed to shake about seven hands; nobody shook Aleem’s
hand at all except his fellow Boars players and Mark; he’d finished on 83 not
out, his fourth consecutive red-inker for the club. The result was immaterial;
what had become a thrilling climax to the game had been totally overshadowed by
the League-style hostility shown by at least five of their players, and cast a
pall over the relationship between the clubs as well. I paid for the teas, we
all packed up and then we all left the ground. We normally stay for a beer and
a chat at the Hook ground, but nobody wanted to. Besides, Joe – who had played
the whole game for us despite his dad being admitted to hospital – wanted to
get there. The poor spirit of the game had soured the day for many of us, but
compared to the day Joe was having it was nothing, and didn’t really matter. We
all hope Joe’s dad is on the mend; whether or not the connection between Hook
and us will is a matter for another day.
Now then: where can I get my hands on a gallon drum of
top-grade, freshly-laid, fox-shit?
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