With the prospect of the dreaded double weekend, dictated by the inclusion of the Villas in the Preliminary Cup round, players not anticipating ironing their whites till June were suddenly in demand and wives were receiving unwarranted attentions.
Flowers and wine in early April could only spell cricket was looming.
Chairman of Selectors, Chiz, sought the re-introduction of his squad rotation policy (stolen shamelessly by Jose Mourinho) and hit the mobile in earnest, gobbling up the free minutes like a parched Pac-Man.
The English Cricket Board (ECB) should really strike a deal with Vodafone offering all clubs 5,000 free minutes a month, unlimited texts and a call barring service aimed at anybody seeking a late cry-off claiming a dead family budgie.
Back to the Stiffs this week came our skipper, Tall Pete, replacing fellow quinquagenarian Duck, barred from playing by daughter Annie until he can run faster than she can walk…backwards…on her hands.
In too came young Louis, unfit to bowl for the 1sts but in as a “batter” – cue desperate measures – lowering the average age in a breath by replacing JB who was being “rested” till Sunday, much to the dismay of partner Sally who had been looking forward to a weekend off…from JB.
Despite the rain showers our ruddy faced trainee curator, Binny, deemed play was on as there was no way he was entertaining his lady – our Honourable Secretary, Lady Marsden – two days on the trot as she’d had all manner of DIY tasks lined up.
We won the toss so Tall Pete elected to bowl, opening with seam. Molly carefully marked out his two-yard run-up with the precision of an Olympic long jumper and fielders scattered like autumn leaves as Alwoodley Stiffs’ opening pair strode out.
A lick of the fingers, a wipe of the glasses, a hitch of the braces, a quick silent fart to let the nerves out and in the big man trundled as if on a pulley system.
It soon became clear that visitors Alwoodley had a big party to get to; either that or someone had told them we were playing Twenty-Twenty.
At 20-3 caution was called for but Number Five came in swishing like a blind Zorro, making contact with little else but fresh air; the end was nigh and, as Our Geoffrey would have said…”…me mum would bowl ‘im out!”
At 40-8 my quiet Saturday night in was looking like an afternoon matinee as well; it was a bad day to go dry.
Team Security Consultant – Big Geoff – was prowling the edge decked out as usual in shorts and t-shirt – the man would wear the same gear to the North Pole – threatening any batter that even thought about hitting “Our Jordan” for a boundary.
However, Molly’s pace had started to drop – down from 22mph to 16mph – and resistance was eventually provided by a 12 year old taking ACC to 78 all out and afternoon tea at three.
Whilst the bowlers tucked into their cream teas with relish, I sat there alone, staring at my soft, blackened banana in the dressing room, more nervous than if Curtly Ambrose was opening the bowling for ACC.
Failure today, especially if their bowling was as bad as their batting, was not an option. I made sure I had the Samaritans’ number in my mobile just in case and wrote my last words to my long suffering parents.
We cruised home though without issue and soon it was what to do with the rest of the day. Anything but the Bear, especially with Molly!
Along came Sunday and another trip to Skipton; could we avenge last week’s narrow defeat? Would the cakes be just as good?
There was a strong rumour that Molly would be turning out for the 1sts until protests from the International Cricket Council’s Corruption Unit. The accusation was that his inclusion was blatant match fixing, suggesting we were not that keen on progressing to another double weekend.
We consulted the League’s twin rule books – the official one and those made on the hoof as and when t’Management Committee fancied – no guidance re match fixing there.
Eventually, we observed the yet to be created rule that “No old fart shall bowl two days on the trot without a gallon of ale overnight” which meant he escaped with a day off like the ECB’s central contracts, where bowlers are periodically rested.
Ensconced in the scorebox for the afternoon at Skipton we could see his lips twinkling at the prospect of a few sneaky beers after all.
On another Skipton wicket slower than a Sir Bruce Forsyth jive, underneath gloomy skies that threatened a very early finish, both sides raced to get in the mandatory twenty minimum overs to avoid a rescheduling the following week, testing the remaining free minutes on Chiz’s phone and Morrisons’ flower department.
Even Big Geoff had come in knee length shorts, suggesting a snowstorm was on its way or that he fancied a game.
We made 160 – a big improvement on the previous week – largely due to Marsy batting without his contact lenses offering a message of sorts. And then a bombshell from Tall Pete.
“Willy you’re opening the bowling!”
It was the first time I had opened the batting and bowling since the Great Milk Crate Test Matches – see Fifty Not Out (chapter 2) – this time no choice of ends, into the wind and up-hill…bastard!
It was off to a dream start though as, unbelievably, their opener missed my surprise ball – the straight one – and it was off on the Courtney Walsh celebration, knees pumping, tongue out and eyes popping.
Mr Harker, the umpire, wanted to know if I got as excited about anything else. I told him that taking a wicket at my age was a bit like having sex – you never quite knew when it might happen again so best to pretend it had been as good as it could be.
Mr Harker nodded sagely and refused to give me my ball back.
I suppose when he gave me my second wicket with a slightly generous LBW decision, suggesting I was on the way to a “semi” was not what he wanted to hear. Thankfully, after five overs of tripe, Tall Pete sent me into the “long grass” where I began to stiffen.
Our catching was good and Skipton could not wriggle off the hook as they had a week ago. Highlight of the day was JB, hit flush in his well spread belly before he could move, managing to cling on to the catch and claim it was all as intended.
We were home and hosed and on the road to…Adel.
A final mention from this week’s lost and found (JB’s kit) section – if anybody knows where the little man’s socks are (“the ones Sally bought me!”) – please bring this weekend freshly laundered?
Sockless, like a little, fat, hairy New Romantic, off he skulked home to explain his loss to the long suffering Sally.
Meanwhile, back at the Villas, the Firsts were still on the field, despite the lack of floodlights. A new league ruling this year, admittedly a consensus vote, has introduced leg-side wides for the first team cup, ensuring a few midnight finishes at some point.
For those non cricket-lovers this basically is the equivalent of asking amateur footballers to pass straight or X-Factor contestants to sing in tune. It’s totally barmy and was shown in it’s true light – or lack of – as our Firsts won in the dark.
Up in Critics’ Corner the wags were insisting we install floodlights and foot-warmers for the next round, peering through the gloom.
A cup competition – marginally shorter in format originally to try to entice players – now risks being longer than a Saturday. If they introduce it in the Stiffs we may have to book a Premier Inn.
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