The dream is over for another year as the Villas Over 50s fell at the Grey Fox semi-final stage last Sunday to the Nidderdale Not-So-Youngs. Played out in the magnificent, if slightly surreal, surroundings of the Headingley Carnegie Stadium, the best team won on the day.
With the sun kissing the immaculate turf and barely 200 scattered around a stadium that can hold in excess of 20,000, we hobbled, limped and stumbled where legends of the game have graced.
In the end we live to fight another ibuprofen boosted day.
It felt bizarre to be driving up to the gates and announcing myself as a player, indeed it felt strange to be driving at all as visits to Headingley have usually been minus the car keys. The gateman looked me over suspiciously – the facials must be working – before waving us through.
We parked next to Browny’s ageing Roller; he inherited this vintage piece last year and had decided to treat Headingley to it’s grandeur, bringing with him his old mucker, Haighy. Spread-eagled across two spaces it looked as if Browny had yet to master parking the beast or had hit the whisky very early.
The first semi-final was in full flow as we arrived so we had plenty of time to soak in the atmosphere. Unfortunately, Lynton needed to soak in some of his son Adam’s max-strength cider as the nerves had started to bite.
Adam had declined the offer from fellow drunks for the day, Joe and Louis, to complement their attempt at Top Gun outfits with a vicar’s garb, although they looked more like outcasts from The Village People.
Had that been the case he may have achieved the distinction of being the first pissed vicar ejected from Headingley later in the day, once he had been forcibly lowered from the television gantry by an RAF Sea King.
The pre-match preparations had been far from smooth. Our captain’s wife (Joe’s mum) had put her foot down and insisted husband Rick vanish to Cornwall, most likely to avoid witnessing more antics from her youngest than the chance of a holiday of a lifetime in kiss me quick land.
There was curry for tea and my old mum was suddenly redundant, left to wander the ground looking for my dad, hoping Browny had not tempted him as 75 was far too old to start to learn how to drive home.
We also had legendary raconteur, Tubbs Taylor plus Thackley import Gaddy, on faraway beaches – Tubbs had said it was a long drive to Norfolk – so resources were stretched tighter than the tubi-grip holding together the old warhorse, Brent Shackleton, as the spectators crowded in.
The day before the game, one of our top-gun players, Pete Clarke, had dropped out injured; this was a major blow, not least as he was stand-in captain as well. As eyes turned to me, once again I sensed I was being landed in it from on high.
I am sure England never pick the skipper half an hour before play but as I had nobody to complain to, out I went to a raucous roar from the Western Terrace; the coin came down in our favour and we would bat. I waited for the pre-match interview from Sky but none came.
The dressing room was quiet as nerves seemed to spread faster than the smell of Ralgex. Lads who had done this hundreds of times before fiddled with straps and clasps trying to look confident and in control as fingers trembled in anticipation.
The name of the game was runs on the board but an early disaster came with the loss of our run machine, Mr Consistency, “Chiz” Hizzett drilling a long hop straight down gully’s throat. It was the kind of ball Chiz would normally put away quicker than his wife does a bottle of Magners cider down her throat.
In strode Gaddy’s replacement from high-spending neighbours Thackley in the form of Birtsy (ex-Villas) and a powerful batter if never a rival for Usain Bolt; several 2’s and 3’s later and the big man was blowing like the Flying Scotsman even if flying he was certainly not.
Having found my true level – OAP cricket – I duly retired reaching a season’s best and sending the cider boys on the terraces wild with delirium. It was simply surreal to walk off this international ground with my bat held aloft, indeed I would have taken it anywhere this particular summer.
In came “Shipley” Glen Ellis (ex-Tong Park) clearly unawares that the game had a scheduled finish the same day and bedding in to bat seemingly till the following lunchtime. The normally placid regular supporter, Roger, sat in the North Stand far away from the cider fuelled antics, was heard to shout out in despair.
“Gerron wi it, is tha batting for bad light?”
Birtsy retired, having hit a colossal six into the rugby stand, clearly deciding running was for idiots and in went club legend Allan “Duck” Stockdale with tactical instructions to “run Shipley out!”
The plan was sound, which was far from the case with Duck’s hamstring, as it popped like a cheap Christmas cracker as he lunged into a forward defensive shot, one he has played a million times and more.
Now we were in trouble as Chiz, another one that would not get Usain out of his walking stride, was called for as a runner. As it takes Chiz half an hour to pad up, including his pre-bat shit, by the time he appeared from Trap One Duck was out and the innings imploding.
Out strode Brent, arms waving like Beefy Botham minus the hair. A cameo 20 including one enormous six into the North Stand and still Shipley studiously poked and prodded as if seeking out a dodgy gas main on the day job.
Now it was time for Peg Leg Brennan who had been ticking like an unexploded bomb at our fall into trouble. The only man in Villas history to put all of Critics’ Corner to sleep without the aid of whisky having watched him bat, was now chuntering like a true critic over Shipley’s inertia.
A short-lived innings ended with him striding off the field mouthing all sorts of vitriol and enough for us to suggest to little Harry that it was not a good idea to follow him down the tunnel.
The little man was rattling like the jar of ibuprofen he had swallowed as he went through his pre-match stretches, mouthing volleys of obscenities at those roped in to help him unjam contorted muscles.
True to form, the scruffiest man on the planet had wrecked the contents of my bag searching for yet more pills, leaving it looking as if the Peruvian Police had been through it. Now was not the time to remonstrate.
Tony Brown, our official ringer if from the wrong sport, valiantly tried to waft a few quick runs. Eventually, both Birtsy and I had to return to the crease; clearly fearing the worst – more 2’s and 3’s to run – Birtsy shouldered arms to a straight one and we were 136 all out which was never likely to be enough.
As much as we huffed and puffed in the field, our only wicket was taken by Bob Hodson (ex-Saltaire, now Hall Park 2’s) our only “regular” bowler. Veteran Iain Copping (ex-Bingley Congs) charged in but could extract no swing from the Rugby Stand end as the Western Terrace swayed with the cider breeze.
Lynton whirled away as son Adam flirted with para-gliding unassisted from the top deck of the stand by now testament to the hallucinating effects of 5% cider. Somewhere in the stands a shamed mother hid her face from view and the bollocking would be almighty.
We lost to a better team but there’s no shame in that and we will be back with the same ethos, that of a Villas side as far as we can achieve, next year…yes we will lads!
We may even have new additions to the squad but, above all, we have had a unique and fabulous experience. Our thanks to all who helped organise the day from all at BVCC.
FOOTNOTE – you may find additional photos on www.runsontheboard.co.uk
You may also like to read the stories behind our earlier rounds in this fantastic competition and these can be found using the following links (simply cut and paste into your browser as I have no idea how to do a live link!)…if you like what you read then subscribe at no cost to the blog.
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