Time To Say Goodbye
It’s a deluded old fool that fails to recognise when his time is finally up so this weekend it’s time to call time on a first team career lasting over thirty years; the old lion is leaving the pride.
I started playing for the team before most of my team-mates were born although the way I have performed this year they may counter by saying it shows.
My debut for the 1sts was in 1974 – well before I became a regular – as an emergency stand-in, aged eleven, to cover a last minute cry-off.
No matter what the whisky soaked old boys tell you up in Critics’ Corner, even in days of yore, players were less than wholly reliable when Saturday came.
I remember we batted first and, pencilled in at number eleven, I spent the next few hours bricking it in the old wooden dressing room, trying to avoid stale jock-straps or sitting in anybody’s spot.
Nobody spoke much even though this was well before the advent of the iphone; times have not changed that much I guess.
When the time came to bat I trudged nervously to the wicket, almost dwarfed by my man-size bat, took my guard and awaited my head being knocked off like a fairground coconut.
Out in the middle was our star player, Brent Shackleton, who would become a lifelong friend. In raced the bowler smelling blood – mine – and all I remember was a nervous waft outside off-stump, ignoring Brent’s instructions which I think were “leave, block or duck!”
The ball sailed miraculously over the slips for four as Brent looked on perplexed. He was out soon after and I was able to offer a pat on the back and some consoling advice as I strode off undefeated, bat held high.
Easy this first team lark!
The Eighties; Would Life Ever Be As Good?
A group of us were so lucky to grow up together with a common love of cricket, able to pursue our dreams in that beautiful secret garden, hidden away on All Alone Road.
These days few really know where the name Bolton Villas came from but to us we were Villas through and through. It was our club and the badge really mattered.
The Eighties were simply magical, albeit with regular bridesmaid appearances at cup finals; the cricket was hard and the characters we scrapped against were tough as nails.
The good and bad times were shared with wonderful people, on and off the pitch, with a sense of community I think has sadly gone from many parts of life today. And the cakes were awesome.
As our team started to attract predatory interest, a few of us knew that things may never be as good ever again. By the end of the decade there were several new faces in the dressing room but, as always with Villas, nice guys, good to be around and never short of a laugh.
Personally – in truth I was rarely asked – I could never have left a place that had kept me so grounded when life was tougher than I knew how to cope with at times; I owe the place more than I can ever repay.
The boy, eventually, started to become a man, selected as captain near the end of the decade and the yellow socks just had to go.
The Nineties; The Return of the Messiah
Just when the dust had started to gather in the trophy cabinet, with wives and girlfriends breathing unanimous sighs of relief at endless Sunday afternoon cup matches seemingly now a thing of the past, for a short while we were back at it again.
If I had to select a team that was the best Villas side I played in, then 1994, the year after we won the league – led by Brent on his return – would be that team and yet we finished runners-up; such is sport.
Winning, like losing, becomes habitual and even when the team broke up again we still managed to keep the odd trophy coming although it was hardly a flood.
By the end of the decade I had the honour of leading the team again, this time into the Airedale & Wharfedale Senior Cricket League for a brand new era.
New Millennium, New Challenge
The AWSCL allowed the club to escape the sad sinking ship of the Bradford Central League, where we had played for almost seventy years.
This was some step up playing against hired guns and overseas players for the first time; there were some dark days of painful adjustment with one or two bruises as well.
The tougher cricket made many of us better cricketers and, once again, new faces arrived to threaten the old dog’s “reserved” spot behind the dressing room door. It was time to bleach the hair again.
Nobody could ever accuse us of ever being a flash side. Nor do we slip folded notes into the back pockets of average players to cling desperately to our “status”.
So when we do achieve it’s a real team effort as was 2009, defeating cheque-book assisted rivals to the Division Three title; a year to be proud of.
In honesty, as this season has progressed, I sense I have only kept my spot largely due to my abilities as a chauffeur and wise old sage rather than as a batter.
True the guys enjoy the free moisturiser, Jo Malone fragrances and supplies of jelly beans but the runs have been as rare as hens teeth; statistics rarely lie.
The eyes have dimmed quickly and cruelly; once respectable footwork at the crease has become akin to a drunken teenager groping at a school disco, ending in many desolate walks back to the changing rooms.
The hushed, almost embarrassed silences from team-mates and spectators alike tell a proud man everything he needs to know.
In the field the “long barrier” has been adapted to the human shield and often I simply stop the ball by letting it hit me; if I hate tattoos then at least I have some body art most Sunday mornings.
It’s been a massive part of my life being in a dressing room with fantastic guys too numerous to name; sharing the ecstatic highs and desperate lows of a wonderful team sport on a weekly basis.
If occasionally we are rewarded with a cheap bit of plastic and shiny metal, none of us ever turned up just because we were getting a medal. It was the shirt that mattered.
I hope I can be of some value to a new bunch of guys next year as I join the Stiffs but above all I am sure that the laughs and the beers will continue to flow.
So it’s one more hurrah this weekend but don’t count on fairy tale endings because sport rarely offers these.
If I walk off intact and with a smile that will be enough. So to all you guys that I have shared the years with my sincere thanks; I am a very lucky man.
Would it all have been possible without the old folks? Not a chance and I hope they have enjoyed it as much as I have.
If I may, the final words are from my hero, Bruce Springsteen, summing up heartfelt advice I would have for anybody younger…squeeze the pips from youth because…
Glory days well they’ll pass you by
Glory days in the wink of a young girl’s eye
Glory days, glory days
Steve Archer says
Brought a tear to mi eyes – top fella, keep going old boy!
young mush says
No say it isn’t so Willy……..villas won’t be the same…….
Steve says
Only from 1sts mate…have to put up with Molly’s big fat arse next year and somebody slower than me at 3rd man…hope you are well…it was nice to see mum and dad Saturday…those two nephews of yours do like our nets as well…good job I’m not yet a grumpy old man 🙂
Shout when you are next in town!
Gas man says
Would”nt say you were getting long in the tooth but there was a real danger you could have been poached by ivory hunters.
Steve says
B*stard! xxx