“A trophy carries dust. Memories last forever.”
Mary Lou Retton, US Olympic Gold Medallist.
One last game of a long, hard summer and no better setting than the picturesque Marine Road ground in Scarborough. It was our first appearance in the final of the Grey Fox Over 50s, a competition we entered only two years ago.
On a personal note, it was another chance to enjoy the company of a group of guys – many of whom I’ve grown up with – sharing all the ups and downs stepping over the boundary rope throws at you.
Who knows how many more…breathe it all in…slow down the ticking of the clock if you can.
Although we had been fortunate to savour Headingley Stadium only a few weeks earlier, a unique charm and nostalgia positively oozed out of the stands surrounding this lovely ground, the bright skies above dotted with noisy seagulls chirping “Come on Villas…go **** ’em!”
This was what cricket is all about, a beautiful late summer’s day and a bunch of daft old fools clad in white.
We were humbled by a support in numbers beyond belief; I swear we felt a foot taller as we glanced at those sat in hope and expectation dotted around the ground.
Family and friends had gathered to watch a group of old boys try to relive long gone days or most probably make complete arses of themselves on the lush green turf.
It took me back to those glory days back in the 1980s when we were regulars at Bradford Central League Waddilove Cup finals, held at the old Grattan ground, now covered in houses.
Thrilling games against the likes of Molly’s old club Denholme, Buttershaw St Pauls, Mouldsy’s Harden and Woodlands. As bridesmaids we came up short often…if only we could make this a good day?
Tubbs Taylor had brought three generations courtesy of Wallace Arnold Tours and the afternoon was punctuated by cries of “Go on Dad!”.
The great man did not let them down when it really mattered.
We won the toss and elected to bat as our opponents – Bradford Bhuddhas – assembled mats and said a few final prayers out across the sea, presumably in part to protect ageing bodies.
We assembled too in our dressing room swallowing handfuls of ibuprofen and jelly beans in the same cause, whilst a queue formed for “Trap One”. Old habits die hard and don’t smell any better come to think of it.
I looked around the room and felt an incredible calm seeing guys still with so much ability and, more importantly, “ticker”.
Mouldsy was tapping away nervously, staring at the floor, almost as if the Bhuddhas were opening the bowling with Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis. He would be fine…you just knew it.
We were batting first faithfully observing the runs on the board approach. Captain Chaos came back to announce the order and guys silently fixed pads and other body armour in place.
My oldest and best mate Duck and I strode out together for the umpteenth time and the applause made you tingle; beautiful sunshine, a crowd wishing you on…go trust in yourself but most of all…enjoy this day…savour it all…bring it on!
Soon Duck was back in the hutch, preferring to get himself out this time rather than let me run him out. In strode Mouldsy, freed from staring at the floor at last.
The Bhuddas bowled well and the ball was hardly flying to all parts; at times it felt like hitting a giant conker. This was tough going…time to hang on in…things would surely get better…wait for the bad one.
Conspiracy theories were circulating in hushed whispers around the ground. Most of us were far too long in the tooth to want our balls tampering with…surely not?
Mouldsy reached his thirty, able to retire and fret no more, job done. He was replaced by Captain Chaos, striding to the middle with a defiant swagger, shirt hanging out, hairy arms flailing the bat, all intent and aggression, like a mini King Kong.
Soon he was in trouble and had to enquire of the umpire as to the possibility of a runner.
“What ‘ave you done lad?” asked a quizzical umpire.
“Two hamstrings and a groin Sir.” wheezed Chaos.“Not counting the metal plates holding me together!”
“Not good enough lad…carry on!”
Competitions like these are not for wimps.
Runs were still hard to come by and wickets fell steadily but we hobbled and slogged to a respectable, if probable under-par, 160 – 4.
One of the joys of the earlier rounds are the smaller club grounds, meaning more boundaries and less running. These bigger grounds are unforgiving of old bodies. No country for old men sprung to mind.
RSL and Tubbs finished off our innings looking worse than most that had completed the Great North Run earlier.
We helped RSL out of his batting gear, laying him on the dressing room floor and fanning him like a wounded soldier, unsure if he would be able to keep wicket.
“Tell Julie I love her” he wailed.
Tony Brown, originally supposed to be on a beach far from Scarborough, was readied as a substitute fielder as Chaos rounded the troops for one last finger-wagging, expletive-laden up and at ’em speech.
You could cut the air with a knife and there were certainly some odd sights.
Molly was actually warming up having carbed up already with a meat pie; I’d never seen Molly break sweat before other than trying to make last orders without Carol finding out.
The old warrior Brent had an apprehensive look but was relieved to see his mate RSL patched up and ready to go.
The tell tale knock on the door came, the umpires were on their way, time to go and that unmistakeable feeling of now or never once more flowing through our bodies.
The crowd was boosted by our neighbours from Hepworth Idle, staying on to enjoy the day after their narrow loss in the earlier Plate competition; sportingly they cheered us on to the sunlit field.
It was like a mini Western Terrace up on the balcony, beers and advice of a sorts flowing freely; all we needed was a beer snake.
Devon and Molly bowled tightly and wickets fell as the pressure mounted. After ten overs the Bhuddas had limped to 32/3. If they were in search of karma they were in the wrong place…the heat was on.
On came Brent and Tubbs to replace our openers and still we kept it tight, only occasionally did they make headway as Tubbs lobbed the occasional pie, the seagulls ducking for cover.
Just as he was gaining some momentum, Big Bhuddha – an ex-international and the prized wicket – holed out to the bucket like hands of PC right in front of the pavilion off Tubbs.
There was never a chance he would drop it and the crowd erupted as the Taylor kids went wild.
Tubbs punched the air and gave a trademark wiggle, the kind that sent women delirious at the Pile Bar night club in another lifetime, back when we were boys.
The missus looked on in dismay, high up on the terraces…the Pile Bar Shuffle was alive and well…Tubbs maybe less so.
The run-rate was up now above seven an over and Tubbs was whipped off to be replaced by team veteran Lynton who bowled the spell of his life, ratcheting the pressure on the Bhuddas. Nerveless, accurate and unrelenting; cometh the hour so they say.
At the other end PC was miserly too relying on all his years of bowling at sons Andrew and Michael in the garden of hard knocks cricket back home.
Having spent his childhood being bounced out and sledged by his dad, son Andrew looked on and almost pitied the Bhuddas.
Thirty-five were needed off the last four overs with PC and Tubbs – brought back under extreme pressure – to bowl out. Could he hold his nerve in this cauldron? It was worse than the pressure of the last dance many moons ago with Betty of West Bowling.
Twenty-nine off three, twenty-four off two and nineteen off the last which was bowled beautifully by Tubbs, nerves made clearly of steel.
We had bloody well done it and all of a sudden I was fighting back tears, though not simply because we had won, more perhaps a reflection that days like these should be pickled and preserved.
I looked around and picked out my mum and dad; there was old Haighy, sixty-odd years with the club beaming with pride.
Wives and girlfriends looked on, doubtless relieved their men had survived in one piece, knowing tales would get larger as the days passed of this famous day. For now, time to savour the moment.
My Godson Harry, happy as any kid could be, proud of his daft old Godfather; how I wish he enjoys days like these in such wonderful company in years to come.
Don’t try to tell me sport is anything but good for the soul.
Up above the balcony was packed with generous applause coming from our friends and neighbours.
Hepworth Idle Alcoholics X1 were in full voice. Meds was on his twentieth bottle of Bud, Macca was still boring everybody witless over his earlier six whilst old Brian had gone for a lie-down as the only escape from the story.
We shall share these tales over many a winter night coming up in The Bear.
There were hugs and embraces stored up for decades and I knew I wasn’t the only one hiding a tear or two.
In unison we looked to the skies and offered a toast to our recently lost friend Tom Brown, who instilled a love of this beautiful game in so many of us.
He would have loved this special day.
Inevitably Chaos had lost something and had to contemplate going out on the beers “Commando”. It’s never dull around the little man.
Eventually we had to leave the beautiful ground as the sun dipped in the distance, though eighteen of us were staying to party into the night. And what a night!
After a few beers at the local pub Molly gathered the troops.
“It’s a ten minute walk that’s all” promised Molly as we left the pub adjacent to the hotel for a nostalgic trip back to bars we discovered on a beer soaked, cricket deficient trip to Scarborough three years previously.
If he had been a General his troops would have shot him.
At the infamous Valley Bridge – known for many suicides – it was suggested we carry out an assisted suicide by lobbing him over the edge. Molly sensed danger and picked up the pace again.
After a gruelling thirty-five minute hike across Scarborough, we arrived at the Cellar Bar down in the valley. Forgiveness though was soon in full flow as it was salsa night.
Of course there was no real need for Devon to point out to me that “there ain’t no black in you mate” as my attempt at salsa had the crowd heckling and laughing in unison; I blamed tired limbs and my hotel bed was calling.
It’s been a long hard season and we all need a rest but how lucky we all are to have been able to savour a day like this.
These are indeed the ties that bind…to quote my hero Mr Springsteen.
Lyn Bayne says
Really enjoyed the blog Steve….what a fantastic day – great memories for all of you!
Regards Lyn