13- Fire
If men really are from Mars and women from Venus, the same twisted logic can also apply to many sports. In football it may be defenders and attackers, in rugby forwards and the backs and in cricket batsmen and bowlers that form almost teams within teams such are the variations in psyche and characters required. And maintaining the planetary theme, even though I speak from firmly within one camp – having escaped from the hard labour of the other – it is fair to say in most cases that bowlers are often not on this planet. Obviously as a bitter and twisted failed exponent of the art in my early cricketing life, unable to prise the ancient, balding, braces-wearing Browny from the new cherry, my joining of the other gang was a turning point for me.
Had I not found batting I may have found wedlock, shopping centres and one of my own ungrateful, off-springs instead of the hundreds I have tried in vain to coach the great game to; bowling is hard graft and an aspiring fast bowler has many obstacles not least the guys wielding the ever-burgeoning willow. You also have to suffer a variety of approaches to fielding, ranging from the half asleep to the outright useless plus umpires that come complete with everything other than the tell tale white stick. In short, it can be a tough day at the office sometimes. And when the sun doth shine let the torture really begin.
The Understudy
Not only is it a skill that takes many years to develop, it is fair to say that early opportunities can be limited if the older guys insist it is their ball and nobody else can play with it. It does not help your cause when you finally do get to play with it if you and your mates then spend ages looking for it in all parts of the ground and surrounding areas; this is largely because you have sent down a pile of nervous tripe generally resulting in costing your team the game and the club a fortune in broken neighbourly windows.
For most of my cricketing life, the stupidity of a rule that allowed two bowlers to share the whole allotment of overs was incredible; this has only recently changed and it should make games more varied and interesting. Life may have progressed on many fronts but league cricket remains, in so many ways, entrenched in the dark ages. As a consequence, on the rare occasion the skipper passed the ball to you as an aspiring junior bowler, it was generally at 150-0 and not many were wishing to be in your boots.
For a developing junior you either have to be top class – which I wasn’t – or have nerves of steel – which…you’ve guessed it. In truth I was never destined to hold that precious new cherry unless I got to be skipper and could at least pass it to the umpires at the toss. There were early successes but I think I was an exponent of the type of bowler who just might buy you a wicket – although the cost was never easy to guess. – which is fine if you are defending four hundred.
A Captain’s Life
I do think it’s fair to say bowlers are generally the worst possible choice as captain, mostly because the majority of them are simply dumb; you must be to volunteer to spend a hot afternoon charging in and endlessly throwing your body around like a missile. Additionally, bowling is a testosterone-fuelled act that blows any rational thought from the mind, assuming that was possible in the first place. My right to pass judgment on the bowling art, and those I have seen attempt it, is well placed.
As a very average fielder and as skipper for six seasons in three different stints I have spent at lot of time at mid-off the fielding position where you get to walk back with the bowler and try to engage in cheery banter, mindful of the fact that we have just retrieved the ball from the surrounding houses yet again. Or, in the case of some I might mention, try to convince them yet again that everybody loves them even though they are losing the game for us.
I spent many happy years at mid-off until our new captain in 2002, Mick “Birtsy” Birts, decided that at the age of forty, I would make a good short leg and posted me to the position known as Kamikaze. It did not take many games for even Birtsy – advised tactically by the wife from the sidelines – to realise that I was unlikely to catch much there on two counts: one that our opening bowler, Rick Slater, bowled a succession of short stuff that generally flew out of the ground and two, even if the batter did spoon it towards me I was unlikely to see it diving for cover with my backside in the air most balls.
And so without any particular axe to grind here are a few of the characters I have shared a stroll or two back towards mid-off. Or in some cases simply walked the walk not expecting much in return and rarely being disappointed.
Mike Adams
Anybody who was there the night Mike returned to Villas will never forget it; it was simply mythical. There we were, as we are every Tuesday in summer, rain or shine, honing our talents and hoping that an England scout may drop in just on the off chance, when in through the gate strolled this slightly balding, muscular guy with a beaming grin wearing chinos and moccasins. Of course us youngsters thought he was just another old guy come to see this crack junior team – our description only – but the look of sheer worship that came across the likes of Haighy and Browny could not have been bettered had Santa Claus just popped in.
“It’s Mike Adams.” gawped Haighy, looking even more gormless than usual. Browny rubbed both eyes and when they opened again the vision was unchanged; a bit like the line of his fast dying conifers. It was Mike Adams; legendary fast bowler, womaniser, drinker, world traveller and not seen at Villas for many years – the longest rehab ever. Lest we ever come down too hard on some of our youngsters for the odd Friday night out Mike had done it all and more.
“All right lads,” said Mike, “can I have a bowl?” No problems, we thought, get over in the Second Team net and trundle a few at a kid. Not Mike though, as seeing the First Team skipper in the nets and without a stretch, aerobic warm up, swig of an Isotonic drink or a change of those moccasins he simply bound in and with the most rhythmic, natural of actions slung one right past the petrified skipper’s nose prompting a rush to the changing room and a hastily arranged chest pad and arm guard. Now, we’d seen who we thought was the quickest bowler at Villas in Brent – well mostly during the seasons that he was playing against us – but I swear that Mike, even at forty and in moccasins, was just as quick. God knows how quick he must have been when they got him on the field all those years ago having found him, as legend has it, asleep in the long grass never short of female company.
And so, for the next dozen or more seasons, I shared endless banter at mid-off with Mike even if the early years were not easy, as I was still an aspiring bowler and clearly a potential threat to the old boy. Mike’s approach to any young lad who replaced him at the Willow Villas end was simple; ignore the young pretender until the skipper regained his senses and passed the ball back to it’s rightful owner. Thou shalt not take me off…and if you do I will sulk like a three year old.
He never, ever, understood the LBW rule and had he played professional cricket today they would never have finished a game as he had a natural stock delivery that slipped regularly down the leg side, indeed most keepers started at leg slip for Mike. Tactically, like most bowlers, he was a non-starter; his bouncer was generally a half-volley and the yorker always ended up being fended off by the batter as a snorting bouncer.
This can be illustrated no better than a game at Buttershaw St. Paul’s. The opposition had engaged some crack Asian batter who was carving bowling attacks apart week after week. Very early in the innings though our keeper, Steve “Leapy” Lee, had a theory that if Mike slid one down the leg side the batter, having a tendency to fall over to the off-side, may be vulnerable to a stumping. Standing up, Leapy felt confident he could stump him. In bounded Mike with plan hatched and sure enough the delivery went as intended down the leg side…only at throat height. Unbelievably, Leapy clutched the ball although the batter did not exactly fall over, he dived out of the crease for cover. It was the best stumping I have ever seen…even if it was a totally illegal ball.
Mike was our go-to bowler and whilst some of us, me included, might have felt our passage blocked by his return, he set a standard that we could not match and was a pivotal part of our success in the eighties. In truth he was the consistent bowling presence and without him we would not have achieved what we did. Tales of yesteryear abounded from Critics’ Corner. They could not believe their hero had returned and even more so now that he only drank coke and did not even snort it anymore. I shared many a trip to a game in his Alfa Romeo Alfasud that, although it was a mobile rust bucket, would regularly corner at right angles on two wheels like the wild mouse at Blackpool Pleasure Beach. As hard as he tried, JB (in his assortment of XR2/3s) could never get close to Mike as they raced each other home. There were times when I was so grateful I had arrived in one piece that it did not matter that it was Jer Lane.
You took what you got from Mike. He was never going to countenance Second Team cricket and, as with many top players, he had a single-mindedness that was borderline blatant selfishness. In those years, he developed the art of bowling with a calculator in his back pocket as he was fastidious with his figures and woe betide anybody who misfielded. I have to confess that the biggest sulk I ever saw on a cricket field long before certain other characters arrived was at Idle Upper Chapel, when after eighteen overs down hill with a bagful of wickets, I took Mike off with two to go.
For a guy approaching fifty that strop was monumental. He still recounts his exact figures from that afternoon to me all these years on. It was my extreme good fortune though to share a dressing room with Mike over many years and it’s a joy to see him still support all our events at Villas – although we would have made a fortune in his drinking days. He was highly competitive, very funny, always great company, a real gentleman and could tell you his career average in a flash. Quite simply, the dressing room has never been the same since Mike retired.
Brent Shackleton
Although Villas had a successful junior side by the end of the 1970s, the First XI that took the field for the Waddilove Cup Final in 1980 (against Harden) included only one member of the Under 18 team – Duck. I still stare at the photo of that team and it’s a bit like some promo for Help the Aged. As I’ve already mentioned, bowlers rarely make good captains and the team that year was skippered by Browny. Now cricket is a game full of theories, but never before had I seen as many as I did playing under Browny.
Back to the Cup Final day, when I witnessed one of the finest bowling performances I have ever seen at any level. Brent bowled a simply magnificent spell whilst Browny was getting carted all over the place although he would not take himself off. Without doubt it’s a team game but there are days when one man settles a match and that day Brent bowled the team to victory – and in the process rescued his skipper. I could not take my eyes off the courage of that solo performance…it was mesmerising; besides it was too painful to watch the rubbish from the other end. The best of bowlers are generally those with the biggest hearts and the opposite is also true… more of that later.
Over the years we have had some fine cricketers at Villas and it’s always hard to pick the very best. Fine batters such as Nick Gibson, Allan Stockdale, Peter Clarke and more recently Barry Hawksworth, Chris Hizzett and Mick Birts. Bowlers such as: Brent, Mike Adams, Browny, arguably even Mark Hay and keepers including Leapy Lee and Richard Tattersall. However, in my mind there is no doubt that the best cricketer I have played with is Brent; the fact that he went on to play at the ultimate level, Bradford League Division One, is testimony to this and that he did it so effectively yet so late in his career; well he had played at almost every other club in Yorkshire by then.
Few people care more about the club, but if it were a love affair it is roots would be Latin as Brent has left and come back more often than I can recall; some of the best games we ever had were on Brent’s return with another team. Never were some of us more determined not to give our friend our wicket. I am certain that Brent could have scaled even greater heights. So, as often as he left us, maybe we should be grateful for the seasons when he sprinted in with that new ball, slogged away into cow corner with the bat and even for his lunatic moments as skipper when he insisted that we turn up to games in shirts and ties.
I think Birtsy & I took it a little bit too far one day many years later rolling up at Laisterdyke as the Blues Brothers but fortunately Brent was not there to witness this by then. He was capable of rescuing many a lost cause with the bat and ball and respected by all opponents. Great bowlers generally have what we all recognise as a lot of ticker. The very best have it in abundance and Brent bowled with the heart of a lion.
Browny
The old man deserves a mention and I probably did not see him in his prime although I have heard enough of it since he retired to write a book but even towards the end of his career he had a control of swing and seam movement that was bettered by few. Even in those final few years with those last few strands of hair flowing in the wind, braces holding up the whites and boots from a bygone era he still commanded respect.
John Anderson
Ando joined the club from Idle where he had enjoyed a long career in the Bradford League and joined us as Mick was coming to the end and in a period where Brent was playing elsewhere. A skilful swing bowler and an absolute gent he was a real find for the club. Married to the feisty Kath he liked nothing better than to slip off for a day’s fishing ruined by the advent of mobile phones and the ruination of peace in the form of a hiding place from Kath.
Ando always likened warming up for bowling to nookie with Kath. He often referred to his first few overs as akin to foreplay with Kath – as hard as I tried to imagine this it never happened for me – but once he was warm enough to remove his sweater he was close to climax in his words. And after about six overs – she was some demanding woman – he would grab the ball, turn on his heels and proclaim that it was orgasm time and fire in the quickest delivery of his spell.
Ando bowled probably the best over I have ever seen to win us the 1991 Worthington Sports Cup Final against the mighty Methley CC. Needing only four to win he flummoxed the batter so much with the opening three balls that the sporting opposition skipper tried to substitute the batter. To no avail, Ando bowled out the over with a mix of skill and cunning I have not seen bettered and we were winners, his pipe was lit and Kath sensed a late night opportunity.
Jack and Steve Wright
A short, affectionate mention of father and son duo Black Belt Jack and “Spikey” Steve both of whom took on the mantle of the Villas spinner for many years as if a family tradition. And in true keeping with tradition Spikey never turned a ball as his dad had never done either for many a decade. Spikey is fondly remembered for enhancing our Sunday afternoon games many years ago offering a different slant on the world in print from that of JB’s Sunday Times and Rick’s Observer…Spikey read Sunday Sport.
And so it was that we were treated to famous ground breaking journalism such as “London Bus Found in Iceberg” and “My Mum Married a Spaceman”. No surprises that whilst the broadsheets remained almost untouched the Sport was the centre of attention. Jack died far too young for us all and we lost a genial and jovial ex-player and keen supporter and I sense that Spikey was never the same after that.
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