Adapted from “It’s Hard To Be A Saint In The City” {Ch22 A Critics’ Corner}.
Welcome back to our old friends Harden CC for the first game of the 2016 Grey Fox Cup for the old, infirm and those in complete denial.
We start the defence of our trophy at the Villas on Sunday afternoon aided by enough narcotics to get you through a night out in Bradford.
Although we spent most of the 1980s and 1990s at each other’s throats, playing out some fiercely competitive games, Sunday may be a little more relaxed.
And so I wanted to recall a tale that summed up all that the rivalry really boiled down to all those years ago; competitive spirit, numerous laughs and, above anything, a mutual respect for each other resulting in enduring friendships.
Let the story unfold…
Over the years I have attempted to merge the polarised worlds of cricket and the female of the species with spectacular levels of ineptitude.
Way back in 1991 I was hopelessly captivated by a beautiful woman, not for the first time you might suggest. We had met in the office kitchen over the burning embers of the toaster and had commenced a steaming affair by the kettle {Really? Ed}.
As the new cricket season approached, the usual nagging doubts occurred around bat and ball but this time it was different. I’d never entered a season with a woman in tow; how would this clash of worlds pan out?
That season we won the Worthington Sports Cup – an inter-league affair with some much bigger clubs – but my total contribution in the four games was less than ten runs and no wickets; I bowled like a lemon and batted like a blind man.
Maybe it was true what dear old Browny had said, it really could make you blind so stick to cricket young man!
There was a party to celebrate at my best mate Duck’s parents’ house which backs on to the cricket field. My lady was feeling particularly lively that night, free from cricket at last.
As the party kicked into life she asked me if I fancied playing on the wicket again, this time minus bat and ball, in fact minus everything.
As my total contribution to the game had been modest, this chance at a form of redemption of sorts was one I had to grab even if there would be no mention in the Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack.
As soon as we left the house word spread like wildfire and my mum fainted on the spot at the prospect of yet more humiliation.
My dad found the distraction useful to get closer to the beer supplies whilst Big Phil Smith decided to ruin my one and only attempt at becoming an outdoor exhibitionist.
It was a beautiful warm summer’s evening with a bit of cloud cover so there was definitely going to be a bit of swing out there. With a backdrop of a star-lit sky, this gorgeous young woman started to undress slowly and sexily on a very good length too.
I could almost hear the old commentator Blowers uttering “well my goodness gracious me!”
The grass had never felt so good and it made a change being voluntarily sat on my backside on the wicket instead of some lunatic fast bowler putting me there most weeks.
All of a sudden, in the distance we heard a commotion; lumbering onto the field with full beam headlights on was Big Phil in his crappy battered old Ford Sierra driving right across the outfield and straight towards us. Floodlit sex…surely not?
Where was Browny to clear him off the field just when you needed him most? We scrambled for our discarded clothes and ran off towards the changing rooms.
This was ironic as ten years or so earlier, I would have had a key and unless Big Phil fancied a ram-raid, we would have been safe and secure inside the old wooden hut to cavort on Mr Patel’s bargain white shag pile that adorned the rooms.
Eventually we skulked back to the party and enjoyed cult status from all but my mother who suggested I move into the scorehut on a more permanent basis.
The eternal shame of having me as a son, had once again resurfaced as she lamented never having a daughter.
The following week we played arch-rivals Harden at home, which was always a lively game to say the least. They were mad as hatters with some wonderful characters in the team.
There was opening bat Falky who, whilst he always looked shit-scared, constantly flayed us around the park. The odd fielder had been known to comment that Falky’s bat had “more edges than a cracked piss-pot!”
King-pin and prized wicket was teenage heart-throb Andy Moulds who played in our winning side of last year but has been wooed back by long-time pal Andy “Gilly” Gill.
“‘Ey up Mouldsy don’t think tha’s playing for those inner city twats again this year” soothed Gilly in the tall guy’s ear one winter’s evening after pint number twelve “tha’s ‘Ardin through and through…will fifty quid in your back pocket and a new polo shirt do it?”
And so the deal was done and Mouldsy returns to wear the claret and blue loved by those at Cuckoo’s Nest.
Gilly remains a larger than life character who opened the bowling and on his day could bowl sharp for a fat lad who had clearly never dallied with any form of diet other than real ale and opening batsmen.
He had a theatrical appeal which shook most umpires to the core, often waking one or two from slumber, turning with reddened cheeks and arms aloft, kneeling before the umpire, gut almost level with the grass, to melodiously plead “And how’s that one, Sir?”
He actually chased our spin bowler – the diminutive Denis Wood – off the field and into our dressing room after we had won a narrow victory causing us to lock Den up for his own safety for quite some time after.
His wife never believed that he had spent the night in a wooden hut although if Gilly had caught him it would have been a wooden box.
Den had alluded to the possibility that Boris, his half-blind Rottweiler, could bat better than Gilly just after he was last man out and a tense game lost.
It was not the wisest thing to say with testosterone levels still racing and Gilly never a contender for a career in the diplomatic corps.
Had any of us been mad enough to try to protect Den it would have been impossible as we were all in stitches.
Den sprinted off the field chased by Gilly, waddling in his pads, dementedly waving his bat like Fred Flinstone with a club with which he would surely have smashed Den’s remaining brains in had he caught the terrified little man.
Locked inside the changing rooms, all Den could hear was Gilly outside howling “I’m going to huff and puff and blow your changing rooms down and the I’m going to eat the little man inside!” Vintage Gilly.
Other characters included the certifiable Nigel Moulds who, from the vantage point of wicket-keeper, encouraged most batters who had nicked it not to hang around for the dreaded umpire’s finger due to the forthcoming threats of bodily harm and verbal abuse.
In truth few of us ever understood a word he said and were just grateful that at least one Moulds was crap with the bat.
Most of the Harden lads had heard of my attempt at an open air performance under the moonlight. So much so, that on walking to the wicket one or two asked if I felt okay being fully dressed.
Cooky, a lively lad who often fell out with himself most weeks and always had a point of view or two – most of them total bollocks – enquired if I’d left a wet patch anywhere on a length or had I slipped her a…{No! Ed}.
As Gilly continued to beat my groping lurches – this time with my bat – there were assorted pearls of wisdom from bowler and fielders alike suggesting they hoped I had enjoyed more success the previous weekend.
He steamed in again, pushing his mighty frame off from the boundary edge and down the slight hill, arms pumping intent on bodily harm.
This time the ball spat off the pitch and flew past my nose so close I could see the gold foil of the maker’s name and almost smell the leather, which was better than smelling Cooky, who was fielding close by at short leg.
Gilly ran down the wicket, almost nose to nose, sweat pouring from him, cheeks ruddy with effort and a big smile breaking out all over his face.
“It must have hit a fooking ear-ring Willy!”
Welcome back boys, let’s have some fun one more time.
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