Here we go again with the Villas Grey Fox X1 reassembled – no better word for it – for the 2015 campaign on the road to Scarborough.
Last year we lost on the toss of a coin so this year we have a new tosser; the class of 2015 are to be led into battle by Captain Chaos aka JB. If he can find his way to the ground, remember his kit and make sure we have eleven it will be progress indeed.
A few have fallen by the wayside over the winter months with batting powerhouses Chiz and Clarkey confined to seats in Critics’ Corner, a combination of old age and infirmity.
For those two, an afternoon looms listening to the old critics droning on about the good old days as the present day fades to a whisky induced blur.
And at some point they will turn their eyes skyward and offer a toast to a dear departed friend unable to be with us anymore.
Our youth policy means new to the team this year are Molly as team “pup”, relieved of his umpires coat by another fat lad, Shakoor Patchett who will do anything for a free tea.
On debut too is The Galloping Major – Binny – who missed last year due to a case of the galloping trots. As joint curator he will be scarifying the wicket closer than his dwindling pate in search of a batting paradise.
Another new addition is Shirley Pickles from the Class of 1981, named so after a very dodgy perm way back then and never seen near a cricket pitch since.
Shirley and I spent the glorious summer of ’81 – Botham’s Ashes – doing what young lads did chasing a beautiful girl or two. He got off lightly as twenty-five years later one caught up with me armed with an ironing board.
Dangerous, volatile thing she had become; I mused it had been a lucky escape and thanked Sir Ian quietly.
Displaying signs of his strategic approach, Captain Chaos has scheduled the fixture with our best bowler on holiday. Down two kingpins with the bat and with the team youngster a fat alcoholic, the portents are not good.
In response we have a loan signing from Haworth Road Meths CC in the form of Big Al; yes we are that desperate! Two metal hips and a belly a testament to Saltaire Blonde, at least the bar will do well.
Needing six bowlers, it looks a good job that we are playing Dales Dragons once again. Last time they played us they had an average age of plus 70 and there were some in Critics’ Corner that were younger.
This is one of the best afternoons of the summer. You look around the field and see guys that ran over the same grass almost like gazelles only a flash of the years ago, hobbling with dodgy limbs and praying a catch does not come their way.
All of us will be hoping we all make it back to the bar in one piece, any humiliation short-lived and long-forgotten.
In the blink of an eye as song goes…
Red Mist
Many things happen to a man in his fifties as he considers the sight of the various finishing lines; cricket, sex, life…to name but a few.
The temptations of things well beyond our mortal grasp are ever clearer; what can we still do that we could do with such prowess all those years ago?
Well, bowling was not something I ever shone at but it seems that new “Stiffs” skipper Marsy sees a future here for the veteran grunter and so it is that I now see myself pressed into service like one of those old Pacer trains; old and slow but always there.
Last Saturday it was a local derby with previously free spending rivals Thackley Amateurs, renamed following the loss of their mysterious big man, Skillikorski, who struggled with a British concept called HMRC and fled across the border claiming refuge in …Horsforth.
The past high rollers’ start to the season suggested it would not be a close contest as they struggle in the new age of austerity. Still, at least they buy 11 teas these days!
However, the league table means little on days like these and they hunted down our impressive total with aggression and purpose; a tough contest played in the spirit of the old days enthralled the growing crowd. Critics’ Corner was bursting.
Marsy gave me the nod – he was desperate again – so I warmed up the old bones. Now, anybody who has ever bowled at whatever level will tell you that something strange happens when you grip the red missile.
In short, you transform into a raving lunatic governed by clouds of red mist. It does not help if your fielders – those responsible for making your figures look semi-respectable – have drifted off into La La Land because they are not bowling and think you are shit as well.
Having winkled their skipper out with a trademark swinging half-volley – which should have swung all the way to the boundary – I was now bowling at the son of an old adversary; yes I really am that old!
Dad had neglected any serious batting technique lessons but son was still wiping me to all parts. Was this it, my renaissance as a bowler cut short by a spotty teenager not born when I was being wiped by far better players?
In the air the ball went again but surely this time straight down the throat of team crooner Gareth for an easy catch. There he was on the boundary edge, Ratners earring glistening in the sunshine.
But no, he was clearly going through his Val Doonican tribute set for a big night at Morley Working Mens Club and a bombardment of week old Matalan knickers and mouldy cheese butties.
I mouthed a few encouraging words in his direction along the lines of “…useless twat” and returned to my mark.
Next ball the foetus swiped it down to Our Jordan who was busy talking to his dad which is not in the ECB Fielding Guide as good practice.
He lurched after the ball as if wearing a diving suit and helpfully kicked it over for four; secretly I wished that Big Geoff had been fielding down there instead. My inner kettle was now steaming.
Next ball I managed a straight one, bowling my tormenter and here – honest – is what really happened next for the benefit of the League Disciplinary Committee.
“Try hitting that one for four!” I squealed with what breath I had left in the old pipes, sounding like Maria Sharapova.
As the young lad walked off crestfallen to go call his dad to come batter me senseless, all hell erupted on the boundary edge.
Saint Bernard, so bad a cricketer not to be picked for Thackley Amateurs on the day but a nice bloke really, started pointing my way and shouting all sorts.
I mused that as a past Child Welfare Officer for the Amateurs this was poor behaviour from the Saint. Then I remembered I was the current CWO at the Villas and had just verbally abused two minors counting Our Jordan, though if Big Geoff asks I said nothing!
A lovely sunny day at the Villas was warming up into a cross-border war…and it was all my fault.
In response, my mate Patch tucked into Saint Bernard from the safety of thirty yards away, hiding behind wife Paula. Insults were flying at a far quicker pace than my bowling.
Suddenly, like a ruddy-faced cuckoo, out popped our scorer for the day – Binny – to offer his considered thoughts popping regularly out of the hatch, on the minute, every minute, no future in the UN Peace Corps for him.
“Shut up you knob head!” he bellowed, which hardly seemed conciliatory.
“You’re a knob head!” offered Saint Bernard probably wishing he knew how to hold a bat so he could middle Binny’s bonce.
As it went on and on – only the size of knob head actually differed. Out in the middle and feeling somewhat sheepish, I reflected that, at 52, I may be on my first disciplinary hearing. Good God a night with t’Management Committee…where was the razor blade?
I apologised as best I could and the umpire summed it up in a flash with a smile and a wink “...you silly old bugger Willy!”
Our crooner was still lip-syncing on the boundary edge with a bit of air guitar thrown in as the world slowly returned to normality, silly old men having blown a bit of steam off and young lads having forgotten all in an instant. Soon be X-Box time!
Good to have the Amateurs back in town and look forward to our forthcoming visit down the road.
Team Building
As we sat down for tea on Saturday we were one short but nobody seemed to know where our eccentric wicket-keeper Rob had vanished to. Inimitably, he had got himself locked in the changing rooms and it was left to Tony to feed him through the windows.
Saturdays with Rob are never dull!
T E Brown – RIP
Incredibly sad news this week with the passing of dear old Browny which has come as a shock to us all at the Villas. Honestly, we thought he still had a shout of sharing the new ball on Sunday and arguing for a batting spot in the top four.
Rumbling up the hill like a vintage steam engine, sun bouncing off his head, white braces holding up his immaculately ironed white slacks, swinging it both ways and nipping it around off the seam, we would all enjoy a master-class in the art of bowling.
In between balls he would be tinkering with the field settings, trying yet one more theory, undeterred if a batter slapped him out of the ground, convinced that he would get his man eventually.
A member of the club for over 50 years – 28 of these as a player – he took over 1100 wickets and captained the First X1 to their first Bradford Central League trophy winning the Waddilove Trophy in 1980.
Apparently he fell “asleep” in his armchair taking tea, perhaps savouring England’s fine win on Monday, played in the manner he always advocated cricket should be.
Of the numerous posts on Facebook, a concept I am sure Browny never entertained, there is a common thread of affection, respect and sadness. Above all the general consensus was that we have lost a “true gent”.
It’s going to feel a bit empty in Critics Corner at the weekend.
Take your sweater Browny and rest well…that was a bloody good spell.
Paul Bennett says
Great piece Steve.
RIP Tom Brown
He will be sadly missed
Gasman says
Tom Brown a decent man of Bradford
RIP