Boars @ Banstead: The Early Bird Snaffles The Boars

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 26^th, 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…

Boars @ Trinity Oxley: For A Few Dollies More

One week earlier: July 12th, 2020

Oh, the joy. The euphoria.  After ten barren weekends spent doing a variety of things such as degreasing the oven, cricket was back. I could hear that song by Andy Williams in my head, the one that goes “It’s the most wonderful time of the year”, that gets played endlessly every Christmas and pops up in scores of Hollywood films. Well, for club cricketers, this was it: the most wonderful time of the year. For Sunday cricketers up and down the land, July 12^th 2020 was Christmas Day come early. It’s always boiling hot Down Under on Christmas Day, or so it seems, and the day cricket returned was just as warm; so, for one day at least, we were all a little bit Aussie.

Merton Cricket Club’s Sunday Boars was to be led by me again in 2020, alongside our two other Sunday teams – the Rhinos and the Eagles. During the week, the other skippers Tom and Ben discussed the strengths and merits of the three teams that ours were scheduled to face; the Boars were to play Cheam, while the Eagles were to play Old Wimbledonians and the Rhinos travelled to Cobham Avorians. One of the Saturday teams had spanked OW the previous day, and they’d admitted that their Sunday team wouldn’t be strong either; a far cry from whenever the Boars travel there, as we always seem to have been carded against the stronger team in error, leading to a heavy defeat so regular, the fixture ought to be sponsored by Dulcolax. Should we switch the teams around, we pondered? The Boars were to play Cheam who had advertised as a Sunday 2^nd XI and so would be stronger than us but not uber-strong; should we play OW instead? The decision was ‘no’; it was too late in the day to switch around now. Besides, Cheam wouldn’t be that strong. Would they?

Regular readers will guess what happens next. It’s like when you watch an episode of ‘Casualty’, and within the first five minutes you see a frazzled-looking mum frantically packing things into the boot of a car and screaming at her noisy children to get in and put their seat-belts on. “I’ve got a long drive”, she’ll say, but we all know where they’ll be heading. It’s scripted. It’s signposted. And so, unfortunately, is the outcome of playing a team we’ve never played before who describe themselves as Sunday 2^nd XI who have been told that the playing standard of our team is weak. Like logging onto a website entitled “Thai Brides For You” and thinking you’re talking to a 20 year-old in Bangkok who really dreams of spending eternity with a fat, bald, white bloke in England, when in reality you’re talking to a fat, bald, white bloke based somewhere else in England who wants you to wire “her” $1000 so she can get an airplane ticket and join you in the sun-kissed seaside resort known as the London Borough of Merton. Not that I’ve tried all of that, of course.

Yep, you guessed it: we ran into a pack of ringers. An ambush. Saturday 1^st XI players looking for a tune-up, and boy did they get it. Under a spotless blue sky and enveloped in bright sunshine and the kind of heat only produced by saunas, the Boars spent two and a half hours fetching the ball from the bushes that surrounded three-quarters of Cheam’s back pitch. Rob “Typhoon” Turner and John “Killer” Smither were smote for an eye-watering 158 runs from their 14 overs, hands and brows perspiring freely and not a drop allowed to be used on the ball due to it being a “natural vector of disease”. Cheam’s batsmen were young, cocky and dismissive; egging each other on to hit 24 from an over, giggling at the ineffectual bowling or goading the next batter to hit the ball further, they teed off from the first over and never let up. David Floyd came on for a bowl and their eyes lit up: old guy, slow bowler, let’s see how far we can hit him and have a laugh about it in the process. I would say it was Sunday cricket at its worst but it wasn’t Sunday cricket at all. Sunday cricket is two teams who play for enjoyment first, where winning is the happy by-product of that approach; friendly cricket where the opponent is respected; where ringers are frowned upon, and when half a team of them are about as welcome as a bowel movement in a packed elevator. Batsmen wanted to retire early so the next one could come in and have a jolly old smash of the bowling, egged on by shouts of “Come on bro, go big!”, and they duly racked up 324/3 from their 40 overs. It wasn’t a contest, of course, but at least we kept them in the field for 33 overs and thumped some sixes of our own.

I didn’t allow it to cloud my judgement too much, despite coming off for tea wondering why on Earth I was still playing the game. After so long in mothballs, it was just great to be back out on a cricket field, playing the game we all love dearly. When you have a full 22-weekend season you can take the game for granted as the fixtures come and go in a sun-drenched haze, but I for one was determined to drain every drop from a season sliced in half by Coronavirus. Having said that, maybe we should have started the season a week later!

After a week spent licking our wounds and musing over whether we should either send a team to Cheam the following year packed with ringers of our own  (it’s very hard to hit sixes when the ball is trimming your nostril hairs at 85 mph) or simply not play them again (I think we’ve settled for option 2), the Boars travelled to the Cricket for Change Centre in Wallington to play Trinity Oxley. It is a fixture that only began the previous year and was such a lovely day we’ve both ensured to keep it in the calendar. The result wasn’t anything to write home about - they racked up 230 thanks to a brilliant 94 from Tony Springer and we folded for less than half of that – but they were great people and, as Sunday friendly fixtures go, it ticked all the boxes. Sadly, we lost our home fixture against them due to lockdown, but thankfully we didn’t lose the away fixture. The ground looks deceptively small as you approach it from Carshalton; as you walk over the railway bridge, the green dome that holds the ground’s indoor net facilities looms into view and, beyond it, a cricket field that appears no larger than a postage stamp. In the distance, the distinctive IKEA chimneys point upwards at the sky. At ground level, though, the field is large, and we were to play on the strip at the edge of the square farthest from the clubhouse.

 It was much cooler when we arrived, having rained over this part of the world for much of the morning, but the ground was so dry a monsoon wouldn’t have threatened the game. It was eerily quiet, too: it’s a venue renowned for regularly staging children’s birthday parties and functions, but with lockdown shutting down everything, only the toilets were open and not to the general public. Tony Springer, our nemesis from the previous year, was their captain for the day, while no less than three Sajjids – Aleem, Kaleem and Waleed – were playing against us for them. Comments about how that meant Trinity were already three wickets down rang merrily around the ground, but they’ll always be friends of the club and it was great to see them again. The Boars were dealt a blow on the morning of the game when Rob Turner had to withdraw due to an illness in the family, and so new player Scott Wesselo stepped in for his second game for the club. Joining him in making his Boars debut was Nick Bursey and Saurab Bhargava, with all three forming the batting order’s ‘engine room’. Returning to the team were Richard Ackerman and his two brand-new hips, and Joe Gunewardena after a couple of happy years in the Rhinos. The rest of the team included Killer, David ‘Pink’ Floyd, Sujanan, Ian Bawn and Andrew ‘Safe Hands’ Counihan. Having a paucity of batsmen allowed me the luxury of dropping myself to the bottom of the order, also enabling me to rest my knackered frame after 40 overs of keeping wicket, and after losing the toss to Tony we were asked to field first.

As our pockets bulged with travel pack-sized bottles of hand sanitizer, we took up our positions on the field. I ignored Joe’s protests not to bowl him (“I haven’t bowled in two years”) as he and Ian Bawn took the new ball; only Sujanan and Nick, as I was to find out later, possessed real pace in our attack, and I’d remembered how ineffectual pace had been  the previous year. Ian was due to take the first over but Joe wanted his first bowl out of the way; a genius move, as the fifth ball of the match proved. Aleem, watchful but keen to get off the mark, prodded his first ball into the path of Sujanan in the covers and tore off for a run that was never on. Tony, at the non-striker’s end, knew that too. Aleem was more than halfway down the track when he changed his mind, but by that time it was too late: Suj had gathered the ball and calmly returned it to me, and I duly broke the stumps. Aleem had run himself out and they were 1-1; a great start. From the other end, Ian was producing some lovely swing away from the batsman, subtle enough to draw the shot and beat the bat. Tony, however, seized on anything slightly short or tossed up full, and ominously dispatched those looser ones to the boundary. Chris joined him at the wicket and, although not as punishing as Tony, proved as obdurate. Between them a fifty partnership was steadily notched, dominated by Tony’s power, but the contest between bat and ball was even. It was a far and welcome cry from the previous week’s shenanigans. The Boars fielding was sharp, and there were no freebie runs being offered to Trinity.

Joe had a breather and was replaced by David, whose control and ability to turn the ball subtly off the pitch was quickly in evidence. Tony was respectful but always looking for runs, whereas behind the wicket I tried and failed to get a string of Pink Floyd-themed remarks going. Mentioning that his bowling promised ‘A Saucerful of Secrets’ was met with a deafening silence, lost in the ‘Echoes’  that swirled around the ground, so I gave up straightaway. ‘Time’ and again his bowling was on the ‘Money’, and the next breakthrough came when Chris uncharacteristically heaved across the line to one that kept a little lower and was bowled. Waleed was in next but failed to trouble the scorers; again it was a cross-batted heave, but this time it cannoned into his pads bang in line and Kaleem, umpiring, raised the finger. Drinks came with the score at 85-3, Tony having completed his half-century, and we were pleased with our efforts. Tony, although going aerial on occasion (he has the knack of putting the ball where the fielders aren’t), hadn’t given a chance as yet and was clearly going to be the most decisive player on either side. Getting him out would be an enormous  fillip.

Then came one of those surreal interludes that contribute towards a cricketing  Sunday spent laughing and smiling. An ice-cream van pulled into the car park, not playing the usual jingle such as ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ or ‘Greensleeves’, but the theme tune to ‘The Good, The Bad and The Ugly’. Everyone fell about laughing; it was hardly the kind of music designed to get children raiding their parent’s pockets (for A Fistful of Dollars, perhaps?) and running across the road for a portion of dairy. Its composer, Ennio Morricone, passed away recently too – perhaps the sound of him spinning in his grave could also be heard if we listened hard enough.

As the score neared 100, one of those pivotal moments came forth that can ultimately decide a game of cricket. The excellent David Floyd, each and every dot ball he bowled Another Brick In The Wall, took a breather, and his control and guile was swapped for the pace of new player Nick Bursey. As we ruminated upon after the game, it’s never easy as a wicket-keeper to gauge where to stand to a pace bowler you’ve never played with before; Nick’s first couple of deliveries were quick, but he was merely shaking off the rust. In his second over, bowling to Jenkins, he bowled a streak of lightning that took the edge of the bat; I heard the nick and felt it hit my hand, but I didn’t actually see the ball until it was on the floor. After that, every ball seemed to find the inside-edge of his bat and either squirt through his legs to fine leg or he turned it extremely late off his pads; just when we thought he’d play onto his stumps, another French cricket-style cut would whip past me and down to the fine leg boundary. In the olden days, such batsmen’s tools were described by bowlers as having “more edges than a broken piss-pot”, and together with Tony he added 71 runs until Killer – having replaced the excellent but utterly luckless Sujanan, who surely one of these days will get the wickets his bowling deserves – got one to pop up at Jenkins. He tried to pull it but found the edge, which ballooned up towards me behind the stumps; this one stayed in the gloves and we’d taken our fourth wicket at 140. That brought Raj to the wicket, playing straighter than Jenkins but possessing the same positivity and intent. Tony went to 95 with a pull to square leg off Killer – one more than he scored against us last year – and, off the next ball, contrived to throw away another chance of a century. He mistimed his drive to the long-on boundary where Scott was rushing in; breaths were held all around the ground. Scott covered the ground brilliantly and wrapped his hands around the ball…but, as his elbow hit the ground, his hands popped open and the ball rolled to the floor. Tony escaped with a single, and everyone breathed again.

He duly brought up his century by steering the returning David to the Dark Side Of The Moon (a.k.a. the square leg boundary), and was rightly applauded by all. It had been an excellent knock, thoroughly deserving of three figures. Raj, who had helped steer Tony to his ton, tried one big shot too many off Killer and gave Scott a second successful chance at taking a catch. 188/5 quickly became 201/6; Tony was fed a full toss by Killer and thumped it to Andrew Counihan at backward square leg; “Safe Hands” doesn’t drop those. Tony was finally dismissed for 115, and after the last couple of overs saw Bhatt and Wilson give what Sir Ian Botham used to call some “humpty”, their innings closed on 226-6. Wickets-wise, Killer had been the pick with 3-59, his figures tarred slightly by the last couple of overs, while David Floyd and Sujanan were the most economical. The fielding had been fantastic and the Boars spirit good. We went into the interval feeling a lot happier about proceedings that we’d done a week earlier.

Joe revealed what was possibly the worst packed lunch ever seen on a cricket field, and surely worthy of a club fine. Having told us he’d been offered pizza and other lovely things by his wife, he’d turned that down and decided, instead, to bring with him six digestive biscuits. We offered to go to the shops to buy him one of those Dairylea Lunchables you find kids tucking into at school, but he wasn’t having any of it. As things would transpire, though, maybe six digestive biscuits is the recipe for success.

With so much batting in the team, and with three new guys in the middle order, I pulled rank and dropped down to the very bottom of the line-up, allowing my knackered body a nice rest after all that keeping – much to the chagrin of Andrew, who likes opening the batting as much as he likes watching England win The Ashes. His suggestions that I open the batting while he came in at number six fell on deaf ears as I sharpened my scorer’s pencil and familiarised myself with the Trinity Oxley electronic scoreboard. Andrew’s opening partner would be Richard, the Earl of Purley and of Merton, and proud owner of two new hips. It was terrific to see him back at the crease; he hadn’t played for a year, and when he had been playing regularly it was clear not all was right with those legs of his. He and Andrew watchfully saw off the first few overs from Nair and Kaleem, and then hit their stride. Andrew hit the first boundary, a searing drive to leg, before Richard cracked two straight fours off Nair. He looked totally revitalised; body balanced when facing the ball, not falling to the off-side when trying to cut or drive, and when he hit the ball it stayed hit. The pitch was providing no help to the bowlers, and the running between the wickets was sharp and intelligent.

After ten overs we were scoring at four an over, and in the 16^th over Andrew and Richard registered a very fine fifty-run partnership. But the bowling had changed; Raj Deol – who did a lot of damage against us with the ball the previous year – and the enjoyably excitable Bhatt were now on, and getting the ball to do things. Runs became harder to score, and it was Bhatt that made the breakthrough. Richard went for a big drive but got more height than distance, and Jenkins held on comfortably to the catch. Trinity Oxley had been quietened ; now they were elated. Richard, looking better than he had done for years, had gone for a sparkling 29, and was rightly given a great ovation as he left the field. That brought Scott Wesselo to the wicket, and he wasted no time in unfurling some superb shots for four. Wristy and powerful, the ball zipped regularly to the boundary and he’d caught up with the becalmed Andrew in no time.  But no sooner had he raced ominously to 29 than his wicket was broken in freak fashion. By all accounts, Bhatt bowled one on the line of leg stump; Scott played forward, the ball hit a crack or divot in the pitch, and took off instead on the trajectory of off and middle. Or it might have been the other way round; I don’t think anybody quite realised what had happened. It sounded like a ball Mitchell Starc bowled in the Ashes a couple of years ago. All we knew was that Scott had gone, cut off in his prime, having threatened to make huge inroads into the target. Indeed, another six or seven of Scott could well have proven decisive. Bhatt and his team-mates were elated; they knew they’d hooked a big fish.

Saurab was the next new cab off the rank, having not picked up a bat for nine years, and was unlucky to receive one straight and true after just two balls that rocked back middle stump. Bhatt had three wickets and had turned the game their way; two overs later, we were five down for 101. Andrew still looked solid despite the runs drying up, and it took a piece of utter brilliance from Alex Wilson to dismiss him. He took a single off Bhatt’s bowling to Alex at midwicket, who – with one stump to aim it – broke the wicket with a direct hit, with Andrew short of his ground. It was the finest run out against us I’d seen during my six years as skipper, and “Safe Hands” was gone, and possibly our chances of seriously threatening the target. Nick came to the crease and also showed immense promise, mixing power with skill, but after a couple of fine boundaries was castled by Bhatt who now had four of the five wickets to fall.

Still, as Joe and Ian took to the crease, both on nought, we had a solid platform. Joe instantly launched a couple of ferocious drives and, like Richard, looked more composed and solid that ever before; when Joe gets going, outcomes the long handle and he can hit a mighty ball in between swinging and missing, but there was no chasing after everything today. The straight stuff was blocked out, and anything slightly off line or length got carted, including a humongous six off Raj in his final over. Ian was looking to move the ball into the gaps while Joe upped the scoring rate, but – in the 30^th over -was undone by Waleed Sajjid. He simply played a little early in trying to steer him down to fine leg and was bowled. David strode to the crease, having taken ‘A Nice Pair’ of wickets earlier, and helped Joe bring the target under 100. Time was running short, though, and the light was started to fade; it had been murky for most of the day, but as the clock swung towards seven o’clock the sun had decided to pack up and try again another day. A couple of Joe’s straight drives swished to the long-on boundary past Bhatt, who wasn’t picking up the ball at all well, but David then lost his wicket. Having thumped Seymour for four, he was stumped by Springer; off he went to ‘The Great Gig In The Sky’ (or, at least, the pavilion).

Two overs later, Killer came and went without troubling the scorers, bowled by Seymour. Neither time nor wickets were on our side now, but Sujanan and Joe sparkled in the gloom. Two sensational straight drives from Suj bisected mid-off and mid-on, while Joe found every gap he aimed for and, as the overs ticked down and as the target sailed into the sunset, another four brought up his fifty. Smokin’ Joe the Smoking Gun had batted superbly and was well-applauded by everyone.

With just four balls of the match remaining, Sujanan popped up a return catch to Kaleem to leave us 189/9; a single from me, squirted Jenkins-like past the leg stump, took the score to 190 before Joe blocked out the last ball. We’d lost by 36 runs, but what a terrific game it had been. Bhatt had been the pick of the bowlers, taking 4-41 when we seemed on course to chase down the target, and the game had glittered with some fine individual performances. It was only a shame that those of who like a beer after a day’s cricket couldn’t retire to the bar and wind down in their time-honoured fashion, but it’s a small and acceptable price to pay for keeping safe and getting the game on. Those of us who resemble a keg on legs could probably do without the extra ballast, too.

After the shit-show of the previous week, pride and honour had been restored. We’d rolled over against Trinity Oxley the previous year, too: this year, we’d been a real threat. All in all, it was a superb game of Sunday cricket that was enjoyed by everyone, least of all the new guys. Now I’m off to the drawing board, to make a plan for Tony Springer for next year…

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!

Merton Sunday Boars v Plastics XI: A Hope Opera

If ever a game existed that highlighted the difference a year can make in the travails of a Sunday social cricket team, it was this one. Last year, in the corresponding fixture, we were in the middle of a weeks-long heatwave that reduced virtually all cricket pitches to roads for the batsmen and heartbreak highways for the bowlers; and our game was no exception. Plastics – admittedly, with a couple of ringers in their team – piled up 298-7 from 40 overs on a baking-hot day, with Ian and Abdul conceding 140 runs off their combined sixteen overs and Jake and my three combined overs going for 50 runs…although it was Jake’s famous over that lasted longer than “War and Peace” that make more of an impression than the whiplash I suffered watching my lollipops getting slammed over my head and into the bushes by the sightscreen. In reply, we mustered 165 thanks to the combined efforts of myself, Abdul and Extras. This year, the gap between the two teams would reduce dramatically, but could the Boars get one over the Plastics and atone for the previous year’s crushing?

Firstly, the weather. There will be no talk of heatwaves when reminiscing about 2019. The batsmen who were feasting on all bowling last year are struggling to lick the crumbs from last year’s table; the squares have been greener than a cannabis farm for most of the season, especially on Saturdays, when the League batters have been reduced to batting averages that look more like bowling averages, and Sunday pie bowlers – whose averages are normally just about higher than their ages – have been the ruin of many a weekend. Flat is the beer and stale the cheese and cucumber when you’ve been bowled under your bat by an 11 year-old/ 60 year-old/ 80 year-old….which is why the tonnes of rain that fell during various times during the week threatened to reduce yet another weekend of cricket to games of over-arm skittles. Just for the fun of it, Mother Nature threw down another load on the morning of our game that hadn’t been forecasted, and dreams of playing on a decent pitch turned into a nightmare.

Then came the availability snags. A fantastic fillip for the club was the ability to field three teams on this Sunday, but the downside is receiving the dreaded “Sorry, skip” WhatsApp messages and e-mails that instantly puncture a hole in your line-up. I was two players down until the Saturday afternoon but, crucially, saw a young lad called Kosta at our home ground when I went to watch a bit of the Saturday 1^st XI in action. He’s been coming down the club all season, watching the cricket, taking part in a little bit of the practice, showing that he’s capable enough of playing…and so I asked him – and his mum – if he wanted to play. Yes, he said. Great. One down. Sunday morning came, and I was still one down…so it was time to play the Daughter Card. Hannah is fifteen, likes the game but doesn’t play it often (always badgers me to pick her, though), but she made her debut in one of the worst games I’ve ever helmed two years ago at Trinity Mid-Whitgiftian and more than held her own. All sorted, I reasoned. I had my eleven. It was also the first post-Jake “The Cat” Curnow Boars game; his runs would be missed, as would his athletic, never-say-die fielding. The challenge was laid down to the team; his shoes would need to be filled.

Thankfully, as we got to the home ground, the rain had passed over and been replaced with bright sunshine and warmth. The outfield glistened but would dry quickly enough; I was more worried about the uncovered pitch. Sure enough, it was damp; a few rolls from the super-soaker lifted a little of the dampness, but not enough to squeeze it dry. No matter, I thought; I didn’t have a great deal of pace in our bowling attack and had already planned to bowl the slowies from the start anyway. I merely resolved to ensure I won the toss and bowled first; if we’d batted first, we might have broken the record for earliest finish of a Merton Cricket Club game (which we’d set against Ewell the previous September). Plastics arrived; Charlie, their skipper, and I duly went out to toss, and between us decided that – as I was intending to bowl first if I’d won, and he was intending to bat first if he won – we would field first. We tossed the coin anyway, just for show, and he won. If the game now went tits-up, I could legitimately claim to have lost the toss.

BOARS LINE-UP: Neil “The Fridge” Simpson; Abdul “Silver Fox” Hameed; Ian “Steel Testicles” Bawn; Oliver “Marauder” Miller; Andrew “Safe Hands” Counihan; Bob “The Dark Lord” Egan; Sujanan “Quiet Assassin” Romalojoseph; Kaleem “Special K” Sajjid; Shakil “Shakatak” Ehsan; Kosta Miskou; Hannah “Captain’s Daughter” Simpson.

At the stroke of 1pm, and under warm, blue skies, the Boars took the field; Plastics skipper Charlie and Mark were the opening batsmen. I’d asked Ian and Shakil to take the new ball and hopefully exploit the damp conditions and the general use of the pitch; sadly for us, Rob Turner had pulled out due to injury, but he’d have wasted his time bowling on what was a pudding of a pitch for the first hour or so of the game. Ian took the first over from the Kingston Road End and a full-toss got slammed to the boundary by Mark, but that was the last of his freebies as he settled into a probing line and length outside off-stump. Shakil’s first over from the Clubhouse End started with a ball that fizzed from off to leg that had the whole team purring. His fifth ball pitched in line with middle and leg and didn’t turn; it carried straight on, our appeal was imploring, and the umpire’s finger went up. Charlie was on his way for that Sunday Boars speciality – a duck. 4-1; what a start.

It got better in Ian’s next over. Bob now reminds me of one of my favourite footballers, Ruben Neves of Wolves: Neves doesn’t score simple tap-ins inside the box. Oh no. Neves only deals in twenty-five/ thirty-yard howitzers that rocket into top corners, and Bob doesn’t deal in straight-forward slip catches; not for him the stand still, hands cupped, yawn while the ball reaches you approach to slip catching. All of his slip catches this season have been tumbling, diving, sprawling moments of magic, and our second wicket was probably his best catch of the season so far. Ian elicited the outside-edge from batsman Bob and it flew low past me to slip, where Boars Bob brilliantly scooped it up off his bootlaces whilst diving to his left. No one could quite believe it, but we suddenly found ourselves on a roll: new bat Alex played for spin but Shakil cunningly bowled one that held its line and cannoned into the stumps. While Mark was somehow surviving at the other end and picking up runs where he could, 20-3 became 24-4 as Shakil’s rip and turn back into Phil forced him to chop the ball onto his stumps.

Kaleem replaced Ian from the Kingston Road End. “Special K” is in the bowling groove of his life and, time and again, he hooped the ball from off to leg, beating the outside edge. In a classic over, he set up batsman Jimmy brilliantly by bowling him two widish inswingers outside off-stump, which had Jimmy puffing out his cheeks in frustration, before bowling him one much straighter. Jimmy couldn’t resist the heave across the line, and departed to the sound of middle stump being knocked back. Meanwhile, the fielding was matching the bowling; Oli and Ian were proving hard to beat at point and square leg respectively; with “The Cat” now residing in Malaysia, these two were battling it out to become “The Tabby”. On top of that, young Kosta pulled off two brilliant stops at midwicket and had a run-out opportunity with a direct hit.

Pete Bishop was now at the wicket, and one of his first tasks was to needlessly run out Mark. The opener wasn’t looking that comfortable but was set on 30 when called through for a single to a push straight to Andrew; he returned the ball to me perfectly over the stumps, and as I broke them Mark was three yards out of his crease. Were we cock-a-hoop? Hell,yes! Plastics XI were 44-6; I’m not sure which set of players couldn’t quite believe what was happening.

That brought Joey Anderson to the crease, and he set out his stall immediately with a full-blooded pull off Kaleem for four. He wasn’t going to die wondering and I knew we’d get him sooner or later; what I didn’t realise was a Plastics batting revival had just started. The ball was also leaving Pete’s bat like a pistol crack, but on the stroke of drinks, and with the score at 78, Anderson tried one pull shot too many off Sujanan; the ball rocketed a mile in the air, Shakil steeled himself beneath it, and held his nerve – and the ball – to take a brilliant catch. Big, big wicket. Drinks were taken halfway through the 20^th over; I was pinching myself. Getting them out for around 100 was a very serious possibility; three wickets were all we needed. Three balls, out of a possible 123. Surely, surely this was to be our day?

Young Kosta stepped up for his first-ever Merton over. The first ball turned off the pitch and sailed past new bat Peter’s outside edge; the second ball hit a bump in the pitch and rolled agonisingly close to the stumps. His fifth ball was wide, but full, down the leg side; sensing an easy boundary, Peter gleefully had a go at it, only to top-edge it to square leg. Kaleem put his hands together, the ball bounced in, then out…and then he pouched it safely on the juggle. Peter was out, they were 82-8, and Kosta had taken his first-ever wicket with his fifth ball. Everyone in the team rushed to congratulate him; it was a fantastic moment.

Little did we know, that was as good as it got.

The sun had been out for a while now and the pitch was drying nicely, which was also making batting easier than in that first hour or so. Jamie joined Pete at the wicket and looked like a wicket-in-waiting as he just about managed to keep out stumps-bound yorkers and full-length balls at the very last moment, but he soon proved to be the immovable object to our irresistible force. His obduracy was giving the in-form Pete licence to play his shots, and they were coming off; seeing he favoured the pull through mid-wicket, I pushed Andrew back ten yards from that very spot…you can guess where Pete’s next pull shot went. Agonisingly for us, it landed at Andrew’s feet instead of in his hands.

As much as everything had gone our way before drinks, everything was now going against us. Twice in the same over, Bob found Pete’s inside-edge, but on both occasions the edge was too thick and flew past me down to fine leg. In his next over, the luckless Bob induced a wild swing from Pete that went slicing over slip and gully to where no fielder was, and a shout for caught behind was also turned down. We also found ourselves powerless to stop Pete from farming the strike, and pinching singles off the 5^th and 6^th balls of an over became the norm. Pete brought up his fifty, and shortly afterwards the 150 came up. The innings finally closed on 171-8, and Pete was 86 not out; it had been a brilliant knock, probably the best I’ve seen at our ground all season. The game had now swung firmly in their favour in the space of 123 balls.

“It’s the hope that kills you” is now our new Sunday Boars motto.

After tea, Abdul and myself went out there to start the run-chase. The batting conditions had improved the more the pitch had dried out, as Pete and Jamie (who’d finished on 11 not out from his 20-over crease occupation), so it was up to us to do nothing silly and get ourselves in. We were settled in relatively quickly; Saril couldn’t get his line right and we knew we could score off his bowling as a couple of fours demonstrated, but Jamie at the other end was a different prospect altogether: slower, bowling to the end where it could either ping you between the eyes or roll under your bat, we decided to just keep him out and not take any chances. His first two overs were maidens. It was a good ploy; the runs began to flow from the other end. Abdul and I exchanged boundaries, a crunching extra-cover from me bested by Abdul’s giant six into the top of the bushes near the school. My four brought up our fifty partnership (we bat well, us two: the last time we batted, against Kensington and Chelsea, we put on 109), but then I allowed my concentration to lapse for just one ball, didn’t quite cover a straight one, and was bowled by Milburn. I was gutted, but we were 59-1 – more than a third of the way there.

Ian came in and soon mastered the art of the one’s and two’s. Anderson was bowling rippers down the hill, pitching on off and called wide as the balls keep turning nearly off the cut strip towards slip, and Abdul had dealt with him well…until the stroke of drinks. To be fair to Abdul, there was nothing he could have done about the ball that got him; extra bounce saw the ball balloon off his glove and into the keeper’s gloves. 81-2, but Abdul had looked really good. That brought Oli to the crease, but his stay was brief due to a piece of brilliance from bowler Newhurst, who somehow turned Oli’s rocket shot into a safely-taken return catch; Davies then came on down the hill and put his team firmly in the driving seat. Turning the ball from off to leg, he got a beauty to lift and caress Ian’s bails from their grooves; three balls later, he did exactly the same to Bob. 82-1 had become 90-5.

Hannah joined Andrew at the crease, and there came another magic moment: two balls after a push from Hannah had been caught on the bounce by a close-in fielder, a pull shot brought her her first-ever run. The cheers from the clubhouse could be heard in Raynes Park. She’s the first-ever female to play for Merton CC, and she’d just scored the first run ever by a female player for a Merton CC team. History had been made, and the moment seemed to rub off on Andrew. Where he’d been previously watchful, he suddenly became Andrew the ‘Ammer by smashing three fours and a six down to the boundary near the school. Between them they added 28 runs for the sixth wicket, but it sadly came to an end when Andrew was bowled by the returning Saril, and a decent shot from Hannah was caught safely by mid-on. 119-7 became 126-9, as firstly Sujanan was caught behind off Charlie and then Kosta – who also scored his first-ever Merton run, and looked more than handy with the bat – was run out.

That left Shakil and Kaleem at the crease; Merton’s last stand. 46 runs to win, 36 balls left in the match. Milburn and Davies were the death bowlers, and dot balls were dominating. Shakil was looking to go big, though, and several big swings had missed…but he didn’t miss for long. The bowlers were struggling for consistency, and no-balls were swelling the Boars total; Shakil then reeled off a succession of fours and a monster six, that left us – improbably, but not impossibly – chasing 17 runs off the last over. Kaleem was on strike; he went for a mow at the first ball and hit it straight back to the bowler for a dot ball, then made contact with the second ball. In the air it flew, seemingly wide of mid-on, but the fielder there had broken into a run and smartly took the catch, on the move, to end the innings and the game. We were 155 all out.

The margin of defeat was just sixteen runs; a far cry from the 140-run shellacking of last season. True, the pitch and conditions had been a very good leveller, but once again our bowling and fielding had been top-rate. Yes, we were disappointed not to wrap the Plastics up for around 100-120, but if you’d offered me 171-8 at the start of the day I’d have snapped your hand off. All that stood between us and victory had been Pete Bishop’s great innings and Jamie sticking with him while he scored them, and the fact that Pete isn’t a ringer in disguise softens the blow. From what a couple of his team-mates said, it was his finest-ever innings: sod’s law he makes it against us. Maybe next year we’ll get him for a duck. But to run a good side close, with an XI that featured an 11-year old debutant and the captain’s daughter who normally buries her head in memes and YouTube videos, is something to be proud of. The fact she’d also scored more runs that day than the 2018 Player’s Player of the Year caused much merriment inside the clubhouse; the beer never tastes flat when you’ve just taken part in a terrific game of cricket and had a lovely day.

It’s the hope that kills you: never a truer word has been spoken in jest. Every Sunday team like us should have it as their motto.

The Return Of Energy Exiles

I think mid-season burn-out is setting in. It's that feeling you get when, having had the scheduled opposition sadly withdraw their availability on the first day of the week, you spend day after day checking fixture websites every hour on the hour - like others check their Facebook and Instagram pages - and just want to close your eyes and go to sleep.

Golden Age were the unfortunate team we were supposed to be playing; it sounds like they're having one of those seasons when teams suddenly haven't enough players to put out a team on a regular basis. Having been there ourselves, everyone here can sympathise.

Four fruitless days searching for an opposition had started off my eye twitching, like Chief Inspector Dreyfus from the Pink Panther films, when Fixture Sec Janet got in touch and said that Energy Exiles, a team we used to play every season without fail until 2017, would like a game. Would I be interested? I bit her hand off via WhatsApp.

And so to the day. As we're becoming more confident as a team batting first and posting a defendable total, I'd harboured the desire all week to bat first if I won the toss. That was, until I saw the pitch. It was a lush, April green, as verdant as the entire square looks before the season has begun, and I suddenly didn't know what to do. Bat first, ride out the first ten overs, wait for the ball to lose its firmness and then cash in, as per what happens pretty much every week on our square? Or bowl first, exploit the greenness and humidity in the air, keep them to under 140 and knock off the runs when the ball's old and the pitch is flatter?

Then, as the oppo started to arrive, it rained. It was only a couple of showers, but it was enough to see the covers wheeled onto the strip. Bugger it, I thought: lose the toss and not have to make a decision...which is why, when myself and Bernard - the Energy Exiles skipper - went out to toss and I won, it took me about thirty seconds to say the magic words, "We'll have a bowl". The gut instinct had been to bat first...such a shame that my gut can't talk, unless there's a pizza in front of it.

I strapped on the keeper's pads and joined the team out on the field. We were welcoming back Bob (injury), Sam E (banished to Coventry), and Kaleem (brother's wedding), and it was to Johnny M and Sam that I gave the new ball to. Johnny M's plan was to just try and pitch the ball up, get the extra bounce and a little movement off the pitch to surprise the batsman; Sam's plan was to tear in down the hill and let the ball go at supersonic speed, and not worry about line and length. He's always had a knack for panicking batsmen into swatting rashly at short-length balls outside off-stump; sadly, he's not always had fielders with the requisite catching ability at third man and deep point to complete the trick and take the catch. Today, I was hoping, would be the day.

It took the first two overs of the day to realise that day would have to wait; we were bowling on a quick bowler's graveyard. Johnny M struggled to get his line and length right and was swatted, hockey-style, to leg for a couple of boundaries; Sam was barely getting the ball above waist-height thanks to the featherbed pitch if it was straight, getting the ball to rocket through to me at keeper if it was outside off-stump, enabling their openers to swing their bats at will with no fear of being caught on the hop. The odd ball would beat the bat, but as the ten-over mark neared, their openers already had 80 runs on the board. Johnny M, it turns out, was still nursing a knee problem from the previous week; Sam's genuine hostility had been neutralised by the deck. Time for a change, and, just as the free-scoring Khan had clocked up two boundaries to sail past fifty, the change worked. Sujanan had replaced Johnny M at the Clubhouse End, and now watched as an attemped lofted drive flew to where 'The Steriliser' had just taken his position at mid-on. Johnny M was a picture of concentration as the ball dropped towards him and nestled perfectly into his waiting hands. Finally, as the humidity had risen and the temperature got hotter, we had our first breakthrough.

Kaleem replaced Sam at the Kingston Road End, and the batsmen suddenly found that they couldn't score a run. 'Special K' was putting every ball on a perfect length on off and middle, and in his second over got his first reward. Shahid was the batsman who saw the ball in the slot for a big, booming drive, didn't see it swing viciously late, and was still staring skywards when the ball perfectly bent back middle stump. Kaleem's jaffa was back; not bad for a fella who had hardly bowled in five weeks! And two wickets suddenly became three just five balls later; after a lot of prodding, Omshed flashed hard at a ball outside off and succeeded only in nicking it to me behind the stumps. Wow, what a turnaround - from scoring eight runs an over, the Exiles had lost three wickets for six runs in four overs, and 'Special K' had bowled that rarity of Merton beasts, the double-wicket maiden.

Keith, the dogged left-handed opener whose two colt sons were also playing, was still there at drinks, giving absolutely nothing away. We'd succeeded in neutralising his favourite scoring area by packing the arc between gully and point, but we didn't look like getting him out. Still, at drinks, they were 112-3; having whipped 80 runs off their first ten overs, Suj and Kaleem had restricted them to just 32 off the second ten. Having looked at one point like we were staring down the barrel of a total of 300, the game was back on an even keel.

The temperature rose; the pitch was once more becalmed. Bob replaced Suj and instantly applied the nous and skill that makes him still a dangerous bowler (in six overs, there would be just six scoring strokes off his bowling), while Rob gave Kaleem a breather and concentrated on accuracy over pace. Keith had been joined by Jonny at the fall of the third wicket, and he was skilful enough to keep out the good stuff and wait for anything slightly off-beam to hit to the boundary, and for a few overs not a lot happened. Bob rendered Keith virtually strokeless, and when Suj replaced Bob for his second spell, Keith tried to flick him down leg-side. The glance was firm, but not firm enough; the nick flew into my right glove, and finally Keith's defiance had been broken. 33 overs he'd been there for his 54, patiently taking singles, rotating the strike with a succession of right-handed batsmen, frustrating all of us in the field.

It was the first of three wickets in three overs: Rob, in the last over of his spell, finally got Jonny to glove one to me for a fine 41; Suj finished his spell with a delightful inswinger that had Jibs swishing at thin air, with nothing but the sound of his shattered stumps to keep him company on his way back to the pavilion. 163-3 had quickly become 166-6. Bernard and Jam crashed the ball to good effect against Kaleem and Sam, until Bernard tried one heave too many off 'Special K' and spooned it up to the waiting Johnny M, who pouched his second catch of the innings. The final over was left for Sam to bowl - who, for his second spell, had parked the pace and brought leg-spin out of his locker instead - with the Exiles on 198-7 and looking to go after every ball. But their single off his second ball was the last run they scored; his third ball sailed past Jam's flailing bat and crashed into the stumps, while his fourth ball was launched into orbit by Faisal, who tried to run two while it dropped to Suj at wide-ish mid-off. Suj nervelessly held onto the catch, and - with the youngest player, Evan Roberts, now at the crease - Sam was sensing a hat-trick. With the whole field brought in for the hat-trick ball, young Evan repelled the 'Widowmaker' and the one after that too - the final ball - which brought the Exiles innings to an end on 199-9.

It had been a terrific, committed, whole-hearted Boars fightback with the ball and in the field, epitomised by point-blank stops close to the wicket from Kaleem and Rob. We'd halved their run-rate after that first ten overs, from eight an over to under four an over, and taken nine wickets for 119 runs. Against the odds, we'd restricted them to under 200. There were only three genuine catching chances, none of them easy, and we'd taken them all. Kaleem had finished with 3-30 - having been 4-2-2-2 during his first spell - and Suj 3-34. Those two bowlers had spearheaded the fightback, and got their rightful rewards.

After another wonderful tea break - during which your correspondent downed a cold lager in one, as cups of tea and squash just weren't going to cut it - we padded up for a bat and looked to chase 200. Tellingly, a couple of us looked very drained after two and three-quarter hours in the field, but nevertheless Jake and Aleem walked out to open the innings. But Jake wasn't long out there; haven't belted one ball for four, he went for a big hit and was bowled off his inside-edge. Andrew 'Safe Hands' C was promoted up the order to three to allow me to recover a little longer, but after stoutly defending his wicket against some sharp and accurate bowling, he slapped one to square leg and was caught. Dave 'The Demon' suddenly found himself out in the middle against an opposition with their tails up; Aleem, at the other end, looked untroubled as he started to find the boundary regularly. Faisal had dismissed Andrew and now came for The Demon, trapping him in front lbw.

I joined Aleem in the middle and found the bowling to be accurate but the pitch as spongey as earlier in the day, so it would be a question of waiting for a loose ball to hit. An ugly top-edge off Faisal flew high over gully for four to get me off the mark, but Aleem was transformed; hitting some sparkling fours, and looking like a man back in prime form. I took four from Jam with a straight drive before reverting to type and shovelling a full-toss straight down Keith's throat at mid-on. Unhappily for me, it was a carbon-copy of my dismissal the last time I'd played the Exiles in 2017, and we were 59-4. Even worse was to follow, when I discovered my youngest daughter had eaten the meat from all the pork pie quarters and put the pastry cases back in the dish.

Johnny M banged a couple of crisp, well-timed fours, but went across the line to the next ball and was plumb lbw as the ball smacked into his pads. Kaleem joined his brother at the wicket and almost knocked him flying as they collided going for a run, but they safely negotiated the next two overs. Drinks were taken and we were 90-5; maybe we weren't too far out of the game, after all...

Four balls later, in skipper Bernard's first over, disaster struck. Aleem hit his first shot that could be called catchable, but catch it Ahmed did at deep-ish mid-on, and Aleem had gone on 49. That seemed to be it for the run chase, but we still had wickets in the bank. Bernard was weaving some kind of bewitching spell on the batsmen from the Clubhouse End, and after Sam and Kaleem had picked up a boundary apiece, Sam went big against him and was bowled. 104-7 became 105-8 next over, bowled by young Evan, as he got Rob to try and tickle him down leg; all that moved was the leg-bail as the ball sent it spinning to the ground. The young colt was engulfed by his ecstatic team-mates, and when he'd recovered Bob pulled him violently to the long-on boundary for four.

Next over, next wicket: Kaleem tried to flick Bernard to leg, sent the ball about forty metres into the air, and the wicket keeper pouched it safely. Bob delayed the inevitable as Suj joined him, by punishing some loose stuff to notch three boundaries in what was the penultimate over; Bernard, predictably, wrapped it up by trapping Suj lbw. 122 all out saw us lose by 77 runs, and Bernard had the scarcely-believable figures of 4.1 overs, three maidens, one run, four wickets. You could argue that we hadn't really applied ourselves with the bat, but the fielding had taken a lot out of us and the Exiles had bowled very well. Aleem was our stand-out batter, and Kaleem the stand-out bowler. However, it was one of those days when, once again, we'd shown our Boars spirit in the field when the chips were down and we were getting spanked to all parts; we stuck to our guns and gave ourselves a target to chase. The fact we didn't is a moot point; I was consoled by the fact that England had bowled like an utter drain against Australia at Fortress Edgbaston, and there was a large supply of cold lager behind the bar to slake our thirsts. Happily, as a club, we've also rekindled a friendship with a long-standing opposition in Energy Exiles, and we look forward to pitting our wits against them next year...