Well, well, well. They say you should always expect the
unexpected in sport; with us, you should always expect the following:-
1)
To field first.
2)
To collapse at some point when we bat.
3)
Someone to nick all the jaffa cakes off the tea
table before I’ve even got my spikes off.
What is always unexpected, and almost always pleasurable, is
a win. When, however, the win is more comprehensive than almost any other win
you’ve ever played in, it can be a struggle to comprehend. On this day, though,
the struggle would turn out to be most definitely real…
Our old friends, Sopwith Camels, were the hosts as we made
our way to the Roebucks Cricket Club in Bromley for our latest Sunday
adventure. Minds thought back to when we played them at our place earlier in
the season, to when he had them 41-5 and dreaming about skittling them out for
under a hundred, only for their post-drinks batting and our fielding to go off
in wildly different trajectories, and we ended up losing a game by 90-odd runs
that we really should have nailed to the floor.
The Roebucks is a lovely little ground. The boundaries are
slightly shorter than the bowlers would like, but the clubhouse is lovely and
huge automated gates have to be passed through in order to get to the car park.
I’d said to myself all week that, if I won the toss I’d bat first, but as I
went out for the toss with their skipper Richie, I had a wobble. Thankfully, I
lost another toss…and we were put into bat.
Lots of familiar
faces returned to the Boars fold following the Six-a-Side tournament the
previous week, and it was Jake and Aleem that opened the innings. The first
ball brought a “Sliding Doors” moment to the fore; what if their man at cover
had held that catch off Jake? The Cat would’ve notched another entry into the
Sunday Boars burgeoning Duck Club, and the entire day would’ve turned out
markedly different. Thankfully for us, the catch didn’t stick, and Jake then
did to the next ball what he spent the next few overs doing: creaming it mercilessly
to the boundary. Through point, over midwicket, over long-on…the ball left his
bat like a pistol crack, and Sopwith were stunned into silence in the field.
Aleem was also looking positive in the shot, but as Jake sent the scoreboard
whirling – and John Smither’s faculties, as he tried in vain to keep on top of
the scoring – Aleem looked for the ones and twos and gave Jake the strike
whenever he could.
The fifty partnership wasn’t long in coming up, and the
bowlers who had terrorised us in previous encounters weren’t getting any joy
out of a pitch offering them little. At least the tight boundaries meant no
rummaging around in bushes looking for the ball, but Jake kept making their
fielders chase, with Aleem also sending the bad ball to the rope. Harry Deans,
torturer-in-chief in the corresponding fixture last year, came on and was
instantly dispatched for four by Jake, and shortly after that, another boundary
took Jake to his fourth Sunday score of 50+ this season, and past 400 runs for
the season to date. But, with drinks on the horizon and the score on 91, he
tried a big hit too many and was bowled, but what a platform he and Aleem had
laid; our best opening partnership for some time, having been put into bat, and
with plenty of batting to come. Even at this early stage of the game – the
quarter point – we were looking in very good shape.
I replaced Jake and immediately got into the shots, slicing
Vinay over cover for four. Despite never looking totally convincing, and
seemingly unable to play the ball along the ground much this season, I put on
30-odd with Aleem and was on 23 when the old warrior Hughie entered the attack.
Having watched me try to thump his son Harry around, he got his third ball to
me to move from leg to off, pass my outside edge, and clink into off stump. I’d
been done again by the wiles of a Sunday bowler; crucial for Sopwith, as our
nemesis/buddy JP was limping on a previously-injured leg and only bowling two
overs.
It was time for us to kick on, and inevitably wickets
started to fall; Aleem, though, was still there, untroubled, unfazed,
fully-focused and playing the anchor role to perfection. Mustafa smashed a six
off near-enough his first ball but then top-edged one so high it came down
cold, and poor Andrew Counihan fell lbw to the only ball of the entire innings
that bounced no higher than ankle height. We approached the 150 mark, and Moh –
making his Boars debut after squllions of years at the club – was off the mark
with a super clip through point. He doesn’t play too often but he makes batting
look easy when he’s in the groove, and he was soon in the boundaries. He was
ultimately castled by a ball that probably should’ve been knocked into Kent,
but the incoming Johnny M started doing just that. Confident, crisp and hitting
the ball with purpose, his first boundary was a pull to backward square off his
hip, and his second was a cracking shot through midwicket. As Aleem patiently
ticked over, Johnny fell to a fantastic catch by Richie in the gully: the shot
was good and seemingly rising over the cordon for another four, but Richie
plucked it out of the air with his right hand – having injured his left hand
earlier in the innings – for a one-handed wonder. Johnny M hadn’t trudged off
long when Aleem followed him; a booming drive to the long-on boundary just
didn’t quite have the legs, and Harry Deans took a fine tumbling catch. We
groaned: not because Aleem had got out, but because he’d done it on 47. If ever
someone had deserved a 50, it was that man on this day. Our innings was
dissolving, but he’d been the glue that had kept it together. The wickets were
tumbling to one bowler: Nikhil, son of Vinay (one of two dads & lads duos
amongst the Camels).
Bawny duly contributed to our Boars Duck Club, his blob
being the 23rd of the campaign so far, and we were eight down.
Sujanan’s first act was to belt a swirling six over midwicket, but once he’d
perished, Rob followed shortly after. We were all out for 191; a fantastic team
effort. In a 35-over game such as this, you’re looking at 150/160 minimum if
batting first, so to have nearly 200 on the board was wonderful. And an omen
suddenly fluttered into thought as well; our previously two wins in 2019 had
happened when we’d batted first, and in the other occasions when I’d beaten Sopwith
– twice, in 2011 and 2014 – we batted first then. Hmm. Nikhil had got fitting
reward for his golden arm with a fine 5-for; 5-36 to be precise, for the
architect of our wicket rush.
The Camels innings started off in comedy fashion. Realising
we didn’t have a square leg umpire, out sauntered – and I mean, he sauntered –
their guy to umpire…in a pair of white shorts that looked like an oversized
nappy, topless, with a cup of tea in his hand. He looked more like a 1980’s
bullion robber on a Costa Del Sol villa balcony, and more mirth followed two
balls into Suj’s opening over when, with the batsman’s trousers sagging around
his knees, the ump was forced to dip into the batsman’s crotch area for the
trouser laces – having pulled his trousers up for him – and tie them together.
Suj and “Killer” Smither opened the bowler and started well;
John almost picked up a wicket in his first over, as a fend towards the gully
area just fell slightly short of the straining Moh. Killer, who hadn’t realised
the umpire was keeping his cap stuffed down his shorts so he could keep his
hands free to count Killer’s balls, then almost struck with a chip to Couns at
point, but that too just fell short.
It was Suj that made the breakthrough, bowling one so
gun-barrel straight it hypnotised the batsman into forgetting to move his feet
as it thudded into his front pad. It pitched in line, it hit in line; if it had
been a DRS review, there’d have been three red lights on the screen. One down,
nine to go, but that was merely the appetiser for a Smither banquet that had us
all gasping in both joy and disbelief.
Every serial killer has one or more accomplices: enter the
ring of fielders on the off-side. Moh at gully; Couns at point, Mustafa at
cover, Johnny M at mid-off.
“NONE SHALL PASS.”
Not one Black Knight,
of Monty Python fame, but four: unlike the Black Knight, they stayed on their
feet and kept their hands poised and ready to pouch anything even slightly aerial.
They strangled everything that came their way as a good murderer’s accomplice
would, and it was their catches that helped Killer burn through the Camels top
and middle order like a dodgy curry through a porn star’s arsehole. First,
Killer extracted a wild drive that flew up and into the safe hands of Mustafa;
next, another expansive shot flew not where the batter intended, but instead to
Mustafa again, whose bucket hands made no mistake for the second time in rapid
succession. Three balls later, with the dangerous JP now at the wicket but at
the other end, catching practice came Couns’s way as he gobbled up a regulation
chip to point. The Camels were 24-4, and we were pinching ourselves. It had to
be said that Killer had bowled so much better in the past for approximately
zero reward; but, on this day, that stop-off at Gregg’s had seen him take on
board a lot more of their stock than just a takeaway mocha. Every ball was now
seen as a potential wicket-taking hand grenade, but still the Camels played
their shots; sure enough, a lusty drive merely took the edge and spooned to Moh,
waiting gratefully at gully to swallow the catch. 28-5, and Killer had four.
Could he? A quick check confirmed that he’d never ever taken a five-for. As the
umpire switched Killer’s cap from his crotch to his armpit – fuelling
speculation John would have a new head of curly hair by the middle of the week,
fuelled by the transfer of crotch-to-cap testosterone – all the Boars crouched
around the wicket even keener than before.
The moment came on the first ball of the 12th
over, and what a moment it was. JP was facing; Killer pitched it slightly
shorter. It was a real pie; overflowing with steak and ale, Fray Bentos written
along the seam, there to be pulled through midwicket for four. But JP mistimed
the bounce and played the shot too early; the ball sliced neatly through his
defences like a kitchen knife through a hooker’s ribcage, and knocked back off
and middle. Killer jumped and yelled; we all jumped and yelled, then mobbed him
as hard as we possibly could. After twenty-five years at the club, he’d finally
taken a five-wicket haul. What’s more, they were 30-odd for six. I couldn’t
process which of these facts was easier to take in, but as Killer tired and with
only four wickets left to take, it was time to bring on the fresh legs. Rob
“UMPIYAAAAH!” Turner came on to replace Suj, but if the Camels thought a change
of bowler would bring them a little bit of a breather, they were sadly
mistaken. Rob hit a good, quick line from ball one, and just two balls later he
induced batter Brian to chop the ball onto his stumps. The Camels were 40-7 in
just the 13th over; would we even make drinks?
Bawny replaced
Killer, who retreated to midwicket with our ovation ringing in his ears (and a phone call from Fred Dinenage, asking if he'd like to be on the next series of "Murder Casebook"), and
proceeded to bowl a maiden – and, as a rarity, wicketless – over. Sam, their
batter, had been unfazed by the carnage; he was the one to carry the attack to
Suj and Killer, plundering boundaries with some very crisp shots. He almost
came a cropper to Rob’s first ball of the next over, though, as a slash to slip
was tipped over the bar by Moh, running all the way to the boundary for four
instead. In the next over, Bawny joined the party by inducing a pull shot out
of Hughie…straight to, waiting with eyes wide open in eager anticipation,
Killer. The hands opened, Jaws-like, waited for the prey to fly nearer, then
wrapped around it and gobbled it up. Eight down; us Merton “old-timers” barely
knew what to feel.
Rob wouldn’t be denied a second time. A little extra bounce
saw him take Sam’s outside edge, and this time Moh couldn’t have been
better-placed to take the catch. 60-9; we don’t do this to other teams, I
thought. Other teams do this to us.
Sensing the bowling would shortly be at an end, I called
upon Johnny M to bowl the 17th over, the last one before the
scheduled drinks breaks. And their last batsman? The Costa Del Cricketer, only
now he was taken it really seriously: he’d put a string vest on. And he somehow
nicked a single off Johnny’s first ball, a ball that narrowly missed the
off-bail as well as it went flying between myself and first slip. Johnny then
tried far too hard to get that last wicket, and leg and off-side byes were
taken off the next three balls. The next ball was better; a straight one kept
out well by the batter. Time for The Steriliser to clean up: with the final
ball of the over, he took a breath, focused himself, and bowled a ball the
batter could only shovel back in his direction. With Mustafa moving in from
cover, waiting to pounce for the catch, Johnny got behind the ball, steadied
himself, and took the catch that sealed our win.
64. ALL OUT.
Of course, we didn’t celebrate wildly or go mad. It was
Sopwith Camels we’d beaten, a team we’d never show any form of disrespect to,
and their handshakes and embraces in defeat were warm and genuine. They know
we’ve hardly beaten them over the years, were overdue a good day against them, and
today had been our day. And what a day! It was my first true win as skipper
over them in five years of trying, following a hollow victory a couple of years
earlier that hadn’t brought me any major satisfaction; it was the biggest
margin of victory any team I’d played on had recorded (127 runs); it was the first
time any team I’d played on had bowled a team out for double figures. Killer
had ended up with 5-26. The catching and fielding had been like something out
of League cricket, and proved we don’t fluke our performances from week to
week; with the ball, and in the field, we’re now a team to be reckoned with.
We’d totally dominated a game from start to finish; not even the nine-wicket
win at Banstead in 2018 had been this one-sided. And yes, as I glanced at Bawny
and Smither, team-mates of mine during the last nine years of at times painful
shellackings and humiliating massacres, and Johnny M, four years a Boar and
veteran of some of those beatings, I thought back to some of those times we’d
fielded first in scorching heat, conceded 320, then been hustled out by cocky,
talkative so-and-so’s with bad hair and appalling manners, for 80 or 90. And
then had a beer to flush the game out of our system, wondering when we’d get a
day like that.
That day had arrived, and it felt utterly amazing.
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