Cricket is rarely described as a sexy game; even with the introduction of coloured clothing, fireworks, cheerleaders and all the other 20/20 razzmatazz groupies at a club cricket match are about as likely as the proverbial flying pig.
I cannot imagine the glamorous England wives were attracted by the love of the sound of leather on willow or by the prospect of scrubbing out grass stains.
Were they sat out on a freezing cold Saturday perched on a hill in Denholme – a wilderness on the outskirts of Bradford – the only bite they would have got would have been frost.
Equally, where women are concerned most club cricketers are grateful for a good, reliable sort who won’t mind if you come home plastered after twelve pints and a Rogan Josh smeered over your face, still high from the elation of the annual fifty. The chances of one final quick “single” are limited though as you stagger into the wardrobes.
Wanting to re-live every run from the afternoon glories with a pissed, piss-poor imitation of commentator Henry “Blowers” Blofeld’s, you stride naked around the bedroom wearing only your batting gloves and helmet wielding your bat before being guided to the safety of the spare room and Paracetamol.
Many cricketers – myself included – are simply clueless when it comes to women. Given the demands of trying to understand reverse swing or master the off-drive, the additional complexities of the fairer sex can be more baffling than a Murali Doosra.
I remember the beginnings of a school romance with a stunning blonde called Julie. She who was a champion runner and had such a perfect rear that we coaxed her into training some of us for the school team – any team in truth – with a lunchtime slog around the local streets.
As spectacular as she was, the plan was flawed as we could hardly get near her to view that magnificent derriere; daily she left us for dead gasping and happy to still be breathing.
The fledgling romance did not survive many more runs as she would have killed me in time and besides plenty of fat people play cricket.
Over the years I have attempted to merge both worlds – cricket and women – with spectacular levels of ineptitude. However, few calamities have ended with the ultimate “sledge” delivered with inimitable humour and style by a great old opponent called Andy Gill from Harden CC.
Let the story unfold…
Way back in another time – 1991 actually – I was spectacularly captivated by a beautiful woman. We met in the office kitchen – try fitting that into Mills and Boon – and commenced a steaming affair most days next to the kettle {Really? Ed}.
As the new cricket season approached the usual nagging doubts occurred around bat and ball but this time it was different. I’d never entered a season with a woman in tow so this was indeed a brave new world.
We won the Worthington Sports Cup – an inter-league affair with some much bigger clubs – but my total contribution to the four games was less than ten runs and no wickets; I bowled like a lemon and batted like a blind man.
The evidence was crushing and one night in particular showed how my game had suffered.
There was a party at Duck’s parents’ house, which backs on to the cricket field. My lady was feeling particularly lively that night and as the party kicked into life she asked me if I fancied playing on the wicket again, this time minus bat and ball, in fact minus everything.
As my total contribution to the game that had taken place there in the afternoon had been modest, this chance at a form of redemption of sorts was one I had to grab even if there would be no mention in the Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack of this fielding position.
As soon as we left the house word spread like wild fire and my mum fainted at the prospect of yet more humiliation. My dad found the distraction useful to get closer to the beer supplies whilst Big Phil Smith decided to ruin my one and only attempt at becoming an outdoor exhibitionist.
It was a beautiful warm summer’s evening, a bit of cloud cover and there was definitely going to be a bit of swing out there. With a backdrop of a beautiful, star-lit sky, this gorgeous young woman started to undress and on a good length too.
I could almost hear Blowers uttering “my goodness me!”
The grass had never felt so good and it made a change being voluntarily sat on my backside on the wicket instead of some lunatic fast bowler putting me there involuntarily.
All of a sudden, in the distance we heard a commotion and then lumbering on to the field with full beam headlights on was Big Phil in his battered Ford Sierra driving right across the outfield and straight towards us. Where was Old Browny to clear him off the field now just when you needed him?
We scrambled for our discarded clothes and ran off towards the changing rooms which was ironic as ten years or so earlier I would have had a key and unless Big Phil’s Sierra fancied a ram raid, we would have been safe and secure inside the old wooden hut on Mr Patel’s bargain white shag pile.
Eventually we skulked back to the party and enjoyed cult status from all but my mother for the rest of the evening. The eternal shame of having me as a son, had once again resurfaced as she lamented never having a daughter.
The following week we played arch-rivals Harden CC at home, which was always a lively game to say the least. They were a bit like Denholme only posher lunatics, mad as hatters and with some wonderful characters in the team, one being opening bowler Andy Gill aka Gilly.
Gilly remains a larger than life character who opened the bowling and on his day could bowl sharp. He was a big lad who had clearly never dallied with any form of diet most of his life and had a theatrical appeal that shook most umpires to the core, often waking one or two from slumber.
He would turn with arms aloft, almost kneeling before the umpire to melodiously plead “how’s that one, Sir?” Somedays he was like Pavarotti in cricket whites.
A few years ago he had actually chased our spin bowler – the diminutive Denis Wood – off the field and into the dressing rooms after we had won a narrow victory causing us to lock Den up for his own safety for quite some time after.
I think Den alluded to the possibility that Boris his Rottweiler could bat better than Gilly just after he was last man out; not the wisest thing to say with testosterone levels still racing.
Den sprinted off the field chased by Gilly, all eighteen stone, waddling in his pads and waving his bat with which he would surely have smashed Den’s remaining brains in.
Once locked inside the changing rooms, we had Gilly outside almost laughably howling “I’m going to huff and puff and blow your changing rooms down and the I’m going to eat that little, wiry man inside”
Dirty Den remained quivering inside for a very long time as Gilly eventually wandered off for a soothing beer with the usual big grin over his face.
Fast forward a few years and by the following week, most of the Harden lads knew of my attempt at an open air performance under the moonlight. So much so, that on walking to the wicket one or two of the lads asked if I felt okay being fully dressed.
Cooky, a lively lad who always had a point of view or two (most of them total bollocks) enquired if I’d left a wet patch anywhere on a length. It was genuinely funny and I almost did there and then.
As Gilly continued to beat my groping lurches – this time with my bat – there were assorted pearls of wisdom from bowler and fielders alike.
He steamed in again, pushing his mighty frame off from the boundary edge and down the slight hill. This time the ball spat off the pitch and flew past my nose so close I could see the gold foil of the maker’s name and almost smell the leather, which was better than smelling Cooky who was fielding close by at short leg.
Gilly ran down the wicket, almost nose to nose, sweat pouring from him, cheeks ruddy with effort and a big smile breaking out all over his face.
“Must have hit a fooking ear-ring Willy!”
I have never heard a funnier “sledge” since.
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