It was finally time for the talking to stop and the action to start. Not the Ashes but the long awaited clash of local rivals Villas against the Tracksuits on the sun-baked Westfield Lane Sahara.
Two teams of patched together fifty-plus idiots, loaded with Ibuprofen, stinking of Deep Heat arriving under a baking sun; whatever happened to washing the car on a Sunday afternoon?
Captain Chaos had left us, predictably, in chaos. With no captain-elect it was left to the old married couple – Brent and Rick – to share parental duties for the day.
As they tossed up – to see who would actually toss up – one sensed a harmonious coalition at least for a day.
The Tracksuits were clearly taking the game seriously; as I passed the White Bear, three of them lumbered out of the doors, squinted at the bright sunshine, exhaled a quick burp or two and heaved bags over shoulders for the walk up the road to destiny.
On arrival I oiled up carefully and contemplated taking a few warm-up laps but sensed the reaction might be somewhat abusive, as the Tracksuits gathered for one last fag and the weekly draw to determine the batting order and who got the buckskin pads.
We were bowling first and opening was our new recruit Devon Malcolm. Nothing puts the willies up the opposition more than a black adonis steaming in down the hill, all rippling muscles, diamante ear ring, mad eyes and bad mother f*cker intent.
From the road end it was the gentle seam of wily old fox Lynton “Fiery Fred” Marsden fresh from fielding all afternoon in the sun the previous day; loose old Fiery was not.
The Tracksuits had sent in one of the White Bear Three to open the batting hoping that a run around in the sun may sweat a few beers out and give the other two time to sober up.
It was not to be as he spooned an innocuous ball from Fiery skyward towards Molly, himself not averse to the odd nip before a game.
The big man tumbled forward and collapsed like a wounded elephant into a cloud of dust, tusks first. Up he came clutching the ball like a bottle of Saltaire Blonde and danced a merry jig on the spot; one down!
In came much respected veteran Dave Goodaire, released by Villas’ Seconds in 2005. Determined to show the folly of that decision he set out with some swashbuckling shots.
Soon the scoreboard was rattling along with DG bashing us to all parts.
And then a nick floated harmlessly into the hands of our ringer Mouldsy who surely would grasp? But no, down it went onto the dusty earth, the big man unable to touch his toes since the 1990s.
Devon was rested and off he went to the massed crowd on the boundary edge bad-assing Mouldsy.
Meanwhile, behind the sticks our keeper was doing a very passable impression of a blind man as the byes mounted up making them easily top-scorer for the Tracksuits.
Had he been nobbled with an illegal bung or the offer of seeing out his playing days in the Craven League?
Joint Acting Skipper Rick dryly observed that, as a batter retired on reaching thirty, perhaps Binny should swop the gloves when the byes passed thirty too? Given his combustible nature there were no volunteers to suggest this.
Another wicket fell and it was time for us to witness the arrival of local cricket legend, wit and raconteur Macca, waddling to the wicket complete with filthy pads, stinking of ale and sporting a Pakistan helmet borrowed for Ramadan.
Given Macca’s rotund frame there was certainly no evidence of fasting here.
Unbelievably, Macca started to swipe the ball to all parts with one thunderous six almost killing an elderly spectator on the boundary edge, standing transfixed having never seen him middle one in thirty years.
Maybe I should start having a few beers before I batted I mused.
Just as we feared the prospect of Macca heaving and edging his way to thirty, living off this for years to come in the Bear and forcing us to the New Inn in the process, the inevitable happened; he missed a straight one.
Looking like he had just lost the Ashes, off he walked to an appreciative crowd that had gathered in the afternoon sun, roaring hearty approval. We had been spared but in the coming winter months you can be sure that six hit will just get bigger and bigger.
From the Estate Agent End on came local sporting God Tony Brown, ex-Leeds United, Scunthorpe and Prospect Sunday Kickers FC. Never having played cricket in his life does not faze Tony and once again, Mr Reliable was in the groove.
From the bottom end on came DJ Tubbs Taylor fresh from his rave weekend at the Villas having escaped down the drainpipe from the missus one more Sunday.
In came Swivel Hips Mc’D, two new hips and looking less mobile than Big Al, who had been dropped unceremoniously after his debut only a few weeks ago. It seems fielding by kicking the ball in from the boundary edge was deemed unacceptable behaviour by the ECB.
We argued for a grant for having a cripple in the team but to no avail.
Brought on to bowl at Swivel Hips and pensioner Old Brian, having just dropped the kind of catch my Mum would take, it was fair to say I was copping it from the two local drunks, Young Haighy and Budweiser Belly Medley.
Staggering from boundary flag to flag, they brandished their half-empty bottles, lurching around the edge.
And then the crowd went wild as old Swivel Hips launched me into the beer tent, scattering the Tracksuits players who were topping up ready for their turn in the field. Six!
Captain Rick gave me a scholarly disapproving look over his steel-rimmed glasses; must do better I sensed!
I looked across at my mum – what else to do when being smashed by a cripple – and she clenched her fist, narrowed those steely eyes and mouthed a la Judy Murray.
“Stop bowling shite!”
Fortunately my five overs were complete and I was sent off into the outfield by the now jointly disappointed coalition captains to negotiate a transfer to the Tracksuits and cop some more abuse from the locals.
The cripple soon holed out to the safe hands of our joint-skipper Brent as did Old Brian to Young Gaddy with a far safer pair of hands than Younger Gaddy, there to see dad demonstrate just how to catch a ball.
Molly came back to snare five rabbits for a career best return in the Grey Fox and the Tracksuits were all out, having barely mustered 150 and that with the assistance of our keeper – renamed Kamran Binns – now under investigation for match fixing.
The Tracksuits disappeared to the bar to talk tactics whilst we took tea under ever-darkening skies.
There was to be no return as the skies emptied and, as Duckworth-Lewis was not available, the game was called off in favour of Carlsberg Tetleys.
Will we meet again…watch this space.
Life At The Top Table
Passed on to me by our nutty wicketkeeper in the Stiffs, Rob, is a tweet from BBC Sports Editor Dan Roan.
“2015 ECB revenue: £174m (up 42%), pre-tax profits £28.4m (up 215%)
ECB contribution to Chance to Shine schools cricket initiative: £1.25m”
Grassroots participation numbers falling like a stone…tweet that one!
Meanwhile, Sky pundit Bob Willis, interviewed about the state of the game on Radio 4, slips in a plug to advertise Sky product Now TV for those that cannot afford (or do not want) Sky.
Unbelievable.
Dear Mrs Bayne
I hope you are enjoying my posts regarding your boy. This weekend saw him return to action and bowl out our rivals for the top slot in the “log” as I am now accustomed to calling what we refer to as table or league.
A very early finish ensued and he was off then in under the “care” of our 1st X1 captain, Young Joe. I am reliably informed that he was less of a steady performer a few hours later but that is mere speculation.
Predictably, there was no sign of him on Sunday morning; it seems he is a quick learner and has decided to avoid witnessing my Under 15 team at all costs, even if it does mean drinking with Joe.
A friend of mine bought us both a gift, uneasy at the prospect of two young lads (at heart in my case) sharing a bathroom. I shall leave you to worry as to which is mine.
The sun appears to have put his hat on again and the rains are here once more.
That’s all for now!
To All The Kids I’ve Coached Before
I’d like to say the attached clip is a reflection of the passing years. I’d like to say I was fast and dangerous as a youth. I’d like to say I once played for England. I’d like to say I was any good.
But I can’t and this, if anything, is living proof surely that you don’t have to be any good at any sport to enjoy decades playing it with great mates and wonderful stories to listen to and re-live.
To borrow a quote…“Say goodbye to the oldies, but goodies, because the good old days weren’t always good and tomorrow ain’t as bad as it seems” Billy Joel
Have a great weekend.
LYN says
Thank you Steve, so enjoying my weekly updates. Regards, Lyn Bayne