Familiar old faces strode across the lush turf at the Emirates All Alone Bowl as we prepared to commence “battle” with bat and ball one more time.
Over fifty we all may well be but our competitive spirits remain undimmed even if our eyesight is foggier than a bad pint.
The boys from Cuckoo’s Nest were back in town as crowds gathered to witness the inevitable humiliations brought on by bodies that had long since given up heeding what selective memories were still urging them to do.
It had been a night of heavy rain and the covers had been left off. Most of us had grown up in the age of uncovered wickets and besides were oblivious – due to heavy beers – by the time the call came to consider some protection.
It would be a sticky dog and the toss was awaited with more than the usual apprehension. Veteran trundler Molly licked his lips at the sight of rolled mud and green grass; Red Tube was never this good.
Captain Chaos lost the toss and we were inserted on a track with more than the odd wet patch. Having returned to runs the previous day, I strode to the wicket in good heart.
One shit shot later and the game, as ever, proved it can bring anybody back to Earth with a bump.
The solitude of failure awaited contemplation in the hut; I sat there with only jelly beans to console me. We were two down in no time as opening partner Duck had abandoned his lifetime mantra of no attacking shots for at least an hour.
“If I bat for an hour now I won’t be able to lift the bat let alone play a shot!”
He drilled it like a bullet only to be caught by a fat lad half-asleep at gully, grateful for a good pair of hands saving him from eating from a straw at the local hospital had he missed it.
Wickets continued to fall and nobody was sure what a good score would be.
On came Casper the Friendly Ghost from the bottom end marking out a twelve-yard run-up which reduced by two-yards each ball with Patch our umpire having to push him up the hill for the last ball, wheeling his arm over just for good measure.
Casper disappeared wheezing into the outfield, his day not to get much better later on, searching for wife Julie and the Rothmans.
The crowd suddenly woke from their mid-afternoon slumbers and several started patrolling the edge trying to intimidate the Harden fielders, goading them into mistakes, threatening them with lumps of pork-pie.
An old man in a silly hat had to be ejected for taunting pin-up boy Mouldsy with “Villas reject, Villas reject!!!” We took his season ticket off him, wrote a three page apology to the ECB Compliance Dept and banned him from Critics’ Corner till next Saturday.
The newly svelte looking pin-up boy was having none of it safe in the knowledge that his offer of a free beer guaranteed no reprint of the erotic topless photos from last year before his gender correction surgery.
Unusually there was little “chatter” coming from behind the sticks; at our ages breath is precious and not to be wasted on sledging.
Falky – aged 75 – had four sweaters on whilst Genial John – 97 – stood at first slip praying an edge would come nowhere near him or if it did, that death would be instantaneous.
Having caught a skier earlier on, the opposition’s Professional – “Bish” Bailey – again fell victim to the cricketing Gods dropping the type of catch that Geoffrey Boycott often claims his mum would have caught without putting her knitting down.
It was an absolute Dolly prompting Bish to do an embarrassed jig on the spot as several fielders collapsed in fits of laughter.
Some good hitting by Tubbs Taylor, Demon Dev and the multi-talented Tony Brown – still wearing his Bruce Forsyth smoking jacket – got us to a respectable 127 though the feeling was we were twenty short.
But who really gave a shit, it was time for cakes!
Harden opened with the old pairing of Falkly and Mouldsy – Steptoe and Son ride again – whilst we had the ebony Dev steaming down the hill, all muscles, menace and more bling than Mike Tyson. What a contest this once was, albeit several decades ago.
It was gritty stuff with new signing Paul Howker coming up the hill; the stakes were high. Then came a pivotal moment for it would not be Harden versus the Villas without one.
A quick single was called – madness surely – as Duck swooped on the ball whizzing it back into the reliable gloves of keeper Lawrence. The bails were whipped off; surely we had our man?
At his feet was the wreckage that once was Mouldsy, lying like a stricken plane on the runway, nose down in the dirt.
But no! The umpire’s finger remained in his pocket – nobbled with an offer of free digs if they got to Scarborough – as he claimed that Mouldsy had got in “by a nose!”
Up in Critics’s Corner there were howls of derision as the local hooligans pelted anything they could see with stale potted meat sandwiches and humbugs. Out of their seats in the sponsored area, in unison they rose chanting away.
“You’re gonna get your….!“{No! Ed}
The big man staggered to his feet, relieved to be still at the wicket but blood pouring from his nose. Sympathy, as ever, was in abundance as a folded envelope was quietly slipped into the back pocket of the umpire.
The game went on and remained in the balance. Down went a catch to the diving Captain Chaos only for him to finally snare old Four Jumpers Falky, weak from heat exhaustion; suddenly we were in with a sniff with Mouldsy retired and smelling more blood!
On came Molly to tighten the grip as runs started to dry up. Our late call-up Nigel – total career appearances in cricket gear…one – was a study of concentration in the field secretly praying the ball would avoid him much like the wife.
Tubbs snared a wicket and started his old Pile Bar shuffle dance routine, a wiggle of the hips and finger pointing skywards. Staying alive indeed and lock up your daughters time again!
And then the final gamble with us desperately short of bowling options, Captain Chaos turned to me with pleading eyes. Nerves jangling, I tried to squeeze out a relieving fart or two and marked my run-up out like a condemned man.
Unbelievably, the first few landed somewhere near and flew off a length, swiftly named the Ratners Length for reasons well-known to readers of this column; somehow, wickets started tumbling.
The batters were terrified of the mystery delivery – the straight one – and were rendered strokeless.
In came an ashen-faced, hobbling Casper who helped a generous full-toss right down Molly’s throat a fine-leg which he grasped like a warm pie.
Bish remained the key wicket having renewed his first team contract only this year; cricket’s youth policy is indeed impressive. Chancing his arm he chipped Howker into the deep and then another catch went down soon after.
The other centrally-contracted player – Lengy – strapped up like a racehorse and with the tan of an Arab owner, was spilled by Cricket Chairman Chiz in the deep. The tension was unbearable as the Critics said silent prayers for the miracle of Tena pants.
I gave Chiz the glare, safe in the knowledge that, with a double weekend coming up, there was no way he would drop me.
The crowd were now on the edge of their Zimmer frames but catches win matches and the better team on the day finally won through as our total was overhauled.
We’d gathered one more time despite all our fitness worries and various aliments – dodgy hamstrings, knackered shoulders, busted knees and the odd heart-attack along the way – to enjoy a great day, ending fittingly to a wonderful burst of late afternoon sunshine.
Who, indeed, knows when…
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