It had seemed like a really good idea; a reunion of sorts with some old “enemies” from the now defunct Bradford Central Cricket League, all to raise a few quid for one of those clubs – Bingley Congs – plus a deserving charity many of us hope we don’t ever need – brain cancer.
There seemed an obvious flaw in the idea though, in that it was eight-a-side; surely at our ages we needed sixteen fielders not six? Still, a five over format – reduced to four as soon as it became obvious a few hearts and lungs would not make it – compensated.
At the last minute a further tweak meant that helmets and all other body armour could be placed back in car boots as it was now softball cricket.
Old men had finally gone full circle back to childhoods and games of cricket played forever on long summer days when there were winners and losers; regardless, you came back ever more determined the next day.
The only padding allowed would be that generously carried by many of the ageing combatants. Fags were stubbed out on the grass, tinnies were put to one side, ill-fitting whites were hitched over flabby bottoms and battle – of sorts – would soon begin.
Wives looked on anxiously, shaking heads in unison, contemplating a moaning and groaning body in the marital bed later that night for the first time in years but for all the wrong reasons; time to relocate to the spare room.
It was just like the old days of milk crate cricket at the Villas – see “Fifty Not Out” – Ch2 The Great Milk Crate Test Matches.
One of the pioneers, the rotund Paul “Meds” Medley – his athleticism tempered by years of devotion to Budweiser – was captaining Bet Fred tournament favourites, Laisterdyke Old Corinthians CC – Dyke for short.
Still playing a version of milk crate cricket these days for Hepworth Idle Stiffs, as an ex-Villas player, a warm welcome was cordially extended.
“All right you fat bastard?”.
Dyke’s team had been assembled by Old Dykonian, Gary Kingett MBE, celebrity gardener to the rich and famous on the Holme Wood Plains and wearer for the day of a pair of his wife’s silk pyjama bottoms unable to find his old whites.
“I’ve had to scour three prisons to get this lot together” he said proudly at the team photo-call although strangely a few seemed reluctant to take part in the line-up.
Not good news for me was that Gary had persuaded Jimmy Poutch out of retirement; I hoped he had forgotten that I’d “beamed” him some twenty years ago at the Villas. With my Edgar Davids glasses on and cap drawn low, I hid behind my bag from the big man.
The other teams taking place were Crossflatts, Sandy Lane & Thornton 1st XL unchanged since 1999 when we last played them including the effervescent Higgy.
Slow and low twenty years ago, Higgy’s medium pace now threatened the “must only bounce once” rule, with an arm so low the umpire was in danger of being decapitated.
Full of energy and enthusiasm undimmed by the years, he charged in off his three yard run-up still wanting to be Darren Gough and would be in my team every time.
Our first game was against Dyke and with late replacement – sixty-five year old Mark Falkingham (Harden CC) – taking his teeth out it was Ranatunga Patchett sent to the middle to destroy the pride of the Dyke with some good old fashioned slogging.
Kingett, once such a proud warrior, had no control over this little fat lad heaving the spongy ball skywards and into the river. Perhaps the silks were chaffing?
Tony Dawson, testament to the fact that Dyke men have never bothered with anti-ageing cream, watched in admiration as Ranatunga secured an IPL (Idle Premier League) contract at locals Cambing CC.
Despite once again having to rely on Cymbals Brennan as a “wicket-keeper” victory was ours with Meds also dispatched into the tidal flow.
Of course old rivalries were not just being played out between batter and bowler. Congs’ somewhat officious Mr Briggs was umpiring and seemed to view Molly’s stock ball – a foot down the legside – as a wide.
Had it been fifty overs we could have been there till dusk. Molly offered a few choice words not quite in keeping with a family fun day.
I had decided that this slog-fest was not for me but strangely skipper Shutty chose me to bowl with the river on the short edge. Had the soft ball been amphibious it would have been a sound plan but not even the dodgy glasses could put the batters off smashing me into the fish.
We lost the next two – one narrowly and one by a country mile – securing a tie from the jaws of victory in the final game. With only three to win from two balls we sent in Brennan the Blocker (his other alias) who made two with the first ball and then shouldered arms to the last.
Asian bookmakers in the East – Bowling & Barkered – sat smugly knowing the little man had taken the bung; match-fixing was alive and well.
The quote of the day had to be Shutty observing one lad with “Northowram CC” tattooed on one calf and “Fields CC” on the other.
“I know a few lads that would need stilts to get all their clubs tattoed on!” Wonder who he meant by that?
The day was not about winners and losers, more about the joy of sport, the enduring relationships and friendships that form as a result and the reality that even at our age we still enjoy rolling around on the grass making tits of ourselves.
And finally, the Verve Clicquot champagne moment of the day was a classic.
Attempting to cut off a ball on the boundary edge, Meds set off running like a dad does approaching the dance floor at a wedding. Short little steps lengthening as the confidence grew across the turf until he simply collapsed on the spot, as if shot by a sniper from the trees.
The crowd erupted in laughter as he got up dazed, covered in grass and exclaimed “***k me I’ve not washed these whites for five years!”
A marvellous idea had produced a wonderful afternoon and a big thanks to the old warrior Chris Hemsley and all at the Congs for organising the day plus best wishes for a speedy recovery to Chris who wont be bouncing anyone for a while on those crutches…even with a softball.
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