Occasionally during the school coaching sessions I run, one or two kids stand out as clearly head and shoulders above the rest.
As a coach, your duty is clearly to the group but we all like working with talented kids, every bit as those just full of enthusiasm.
This is not to say that, a few years down the line, said youngster will not fall by the wayside, a victim of life’s other temptations.
So the best way to “indoctrinate” any youngster into senior sport is to treat them like a cabbage; pick them young and fresh. Not that I am calling the subject here a cabbage!
By doing so us Elders can demonstrate most of the various temptations, within reason. Call it a “Masters” if you will and there are several Professors Of Life in most changing rooms.
This season the Stiffs have enjoyed the presence of a lively teenage irritant in our dressing room and what a breath of fresh air it’s been.
We don’t even have to coach him as his Dad is currently plotting his route to partnering Joe Root in around five years time.
He’s got cheek in spades but, as Child Welfare Officer, I’ve had to plead with the lads not to seek well deserved retribution via Deep Heat in his boxer shorts or cutting his socks up just yet.
These things take time.
Last weekend we were down at our old friends Thackley CC and, having lost the toss, we were sent in to bat on the kind of wicket I would normally see Maris Pipers growing from at this time of year.
As Mad Martin of the opposition, a bowler actually slower than Molly, got one to rear like a Cobra from a good length in his first over, we all sensed a long afternoon on the paddy field.
Early wickets fell as the scruffy opposition wicket-keeper observed that “the Under 11’s are playing on this deck tomorrow and I wouldn’t fancy batting even against them!”.
We all looked in danger of an early bath, which at least would have benefited the scruffy wicket-keeper currently negotiating a new sponsorship deal with Daz.
And then in strode young Weaner to play the kind of innings that only makes you smile.
Batting with a maturity beyond his years, eventually he was down to his last partner, the obdurate Molyneux, complete with his – as yet unused – new bat.
The youngster took one look at the gnarled old pro striding in, all purpose, misty glasses and size 14 boots then promptly decided it was a hopeless cause and a “not-out” was on the cards.
Dad, sat there on the boundary edge working out his average, strike-rate and percentage of shit shots, mouthed some soothing words along the lines “get out now and you’re walking home!”
Thanks in large part to the youngster’s clear fear of getting out and having to sit with his Dad analysing just how, we managed to bat our full overs, setting a respectable target, at least when batting amongst potatoes.
The young man raced off the field to generous applause with the normal paternal instructions fresh in his head. “Make sure you get to the sandwiches before Molly and fill that plate the way I’ve shown you! And don’t forget the scones!”
Despite the heroics of our team mascot, the scruffy wicket-keeper batted rather well and patiently guided the enemy over the line to victory, assisted by a few cameos from the usual assortment of fat lads.
But the real winner on the day was the game as another talented youngster showed us just why we all keep playing.
In The Blink Of An Eye.
Coaching cricket as I do in primary schools during our tropical summers, it was only natural that I go back to my old school and see if I could put something back.
The old place has barely changed since my Mum kicked me over the threshold into their care for the next six years.
Only last summer did they finally replace the old metal-framed windows which I stared out of most days hoping what lay ahead was not a slot as a getaway driver for the Fontaine Gang.
The nursery, which was a new bit as far as I remember, has also gone and in it’s place is a MUGA – multi-use games area – which would have been more useful if the fence had been electrified too.
Inside, the old parquet floors still survive and the smell of the dining hall pricks the consciousness, as if you can still taste the creamy custard and the sugary rhubarb crumble from yesteryear before going off to fart quietly at the back of Mrs Wood’s class.
As I waited for another group of future England cricketers to emerge I looked out across the lush green fields and found myself back in 1974 in a flash. Maria Cummings was still a possibility as was a first England cap at Lords and a debut at Wembley.
The old football pitch is now sadly bereft of it’s leaning, rusty old goalposts; gone too are the perennially bare and muddy penalty areas where we played and played regardless of the weather.
Sloping from top to bottom and from side to side, games were played out in the mud and rain on Saturday mornings, never destined to be classics of the Beautiful Game and yet I could feel the aura creep over me again.
Dads lining touchlines, subs freezing and desperate to get on and risk a kicking, if only to warm up iced toes. Out there on the pitch, all of us striving to steal a piece of glory over Swain House, St Brendans, Eccleshill North and the rest.
And over in the corner, on an uneven and rolling piece of grass, was situated the cricket pitch where a wicket of sorts was cut and rolled leading to weekly prayers that nobody fast from a posh school ever turned up to endanger our puny bones.
Up in the far corner, where Morrisons used to be, the trees have grown ever taller where the Boogey Man was rumoured to live and where we left the ball if ever it went into those dark recesses.
And the “castle” still survives; a four-sided entrance where one fine day we vanished with a four pack of Heineken and took our first illicit slurps of the demon drink.
We passed an afternoon with ruddy cheeks and silent pride; we were now men aged eleven. Had our Headmaster, Mr McEvoy, ever found out we would not have made twelve and those Christmas slippers would need replacing.
Hold on to the memories for soon that’s all you have left.
Basil King says
Cracking good read, though the Dad seems a bit of a loonie!!!!.