{Previously published on here several months ago…any small typos due to child minding my Godson who wants me to watch Scooby Do!}
[Read more…] about The Pub and the £3 Pint – Yorkshire Post 23/8/12
Musings From The Padded Cell
{Previously published on here several months ago…any small typos due to child minding my Godson who wants me to watch Scooby Do!}
[Read more…] about The Pub and the £3 Pint – Yorkshire Post 23/8/12
The banking crisis may be several years old now but this year it seems that there is no end of bad news leaking from a once so highly regarded sector.
[Read more…] about Banking – View From the Bottom of the Pile – How Do Issue 8 August 2012
A few weeks ago we got an invite on behalf of the cricket club to take eight of our juniors to the second day of the Headingley Test match with England seeking to bounce back after a bruising defeat by the South Africans at the Oval in the opening rubber. If it was going to be a monumental task for England then equally to have to spend a whole day trying to control eight hyper-active kids and also stay stone cold sober at a test match for the first time ever presented several new personal challenges. The highlight of the day was an invitation to play cricket on the hallowed turf at lunchtime.
As we approached the day, my fellow coach Sam & I were tormented by suggestions from several of the lads at the club that, as coaches, we would be decked out in some brightly coloured, ill-fitting gear from head to toe rivalling the fancy dress offerings on the Western Terrace; at six foot and plenty, Sam had visions of looking like a walking banana. Fortunately, the free gear on offer was strictly junior size which was a big plus as Asda’s corporate green would have made Sam a very Jolly Green Giant. So it was that eight sets of parents entrusted their precious ones with us for the day; truly a case of the blind leading the blind.
To their credit all the kids were on time for a very early set off from the Villas on the Friday morning although one final selection poser meant that my leg spinner, a very frightened nine year old Aneeq, had to endure all three girls in my car with Sam getting the all boy contingent; that will teach him for getting precious stating his preference for BMW over Vauxhall. We were barely out of the gates when Lucy piped up “put Capital on, Dude!” Never having heard of Capital I offered her Classical but this was a forlorn hope and soon my ears were adjusting to the din in equal amounts from the seat next to me and the radio.
Another half a mile and this time “Nokia…that’s an old man’s phone!” said the little angel at me side, face screwed up in some juvenile taunt, as she dropped my phone in disgust. At this point I now understood why Lucy’s mum, Jayne, had a wry smile on her face when she dropped her off; all the years of my smug, child-free existence were now looking poor preparation for the day. In the back Aneeq already looked as if he would rather be at school or, indeed, anywhere, as Ella and Molly jabbered away about all things girly. Molly was especially worried as the midgies had attacked her the previous night and, aged ten, she was very worried about how she might look if she made it onto the big screen.
Behind me I sensed Sam was having an easier time of it with Ben, Jack and the two James both almost mute at the fear of bowling in front of such a huge crowd; meanwhile Lucy had now plugged her iPhone into my car. After a promising taster with a couple of tracks I actually recognised – “that’s my dad’s music, its really old stuff…soooooo dull!” – I was not sure which I preferred my ear drums being perforated by – the music or Lucy. Aneeq slipped further down in his seat and, inevitably, was the first to ask “are we there yet” whilst Ella promised to show Molly her new trick of drinking a can of coke through the grille of her cricket helmet thereby ensuring a new Villas shirt next season; not so dumb these kids!
Finally we were there and the kids were free to blow what spending money they had set off with on a variety of souvenir goods. A quick briefing in the cricket school and all now had bright green caps and t-shirts courtesy of Asda and were duly branded for the day. We were inside the ground around half past nine and to watch the best in the world prepare was a real eye opener for Sam and I. No rolling up here twenty minutes before the start with a can of coke, a burger and a quick fag.
For the kids endless pursuits of illegible squiggles on their newly acquired bats commenced although as anybody in a uniform seemed to do there was a chance the G4S security lot may have been woken up and called to sign a bat or two. There he was, the best player in the world, Jacques Kallis, almost unflappable on the cricket field whatever the situation with barely an expression ever on offer. And then there was Lucy screaming “oi Kallis Dude, give us your autograph” and I swear I saw his eyebrow twitch and a trace of a furrowed brow. Finally, England had a way to get to Kallis!
Our youngest member, Jack, a livewire on the dullest of days, was like a continuously shaken fizzy drink and at times his head looked like it might pop off with the excitement of it all. Lunchtime approached with our main part of the day about to begin. Sam kindly reminded James C how he had been that nervous before his under thirteen debut in front of three men and a dog at Saltaire that he had thrown up; so how was he looking forward to twenty thousand plus? Poor James looked ashen whilst the younger James S simply laced up his spikes determined to hit a good length from ball one.
On we walked, with the veteran announcer Johnny English uttering surreal words “…on the pitch juniors from Bolton Villas CC” although he could have added “led out by two coaches clearly bricking it!” The instructions were pretty simple although contrary to everything I had been trying to coach all summer. As Steve from the YCB said “just slog it into the crowd as far as you can and see if you can hit somebody” but my lot can be slow on the uptake sometimes and so started with some competitive bowling and studious defence almost as if it was a five day test.
Ironically, the best cover drive all summer sent the ball flying towards the test match wicket with Jack flying after it oblivious to being in the middle of the arena, dodging hoards of security. Fortunately we were well away from the Western Terrace so barracking was limited and Aneeq finally launched one into the seats which was the signal for everybody to join in.
Even though we had warned the kids the allotted twenty minutes would fly by the time really did seem to vanish although a final skied catch ended with a mass collision and captain Ben prostrate on the ground and a stretcher looking a possibility; my main man out for the season, please no? Running off the ground as instructed the urge was simply to walk as slowly as possible just to savour the last scraps of a unique and hugely fortunate experience.
Inevitably the rest of the day petered out as an old fashioned, attritional test match battle unfolded on the pitch in front of kids weaned on biff-bash, twenty-twenty slog fests. Normally this is the best part of the day as the early morning beers take hold, the sun shines down, eyelids droop softly and the head gently slips sideways. On this one day there was no earthly chance of this and, as my eyes closed albeit ever so briefly, a jab in the ribs woke me and there was Lucy once more reminding me “you are so, so old, Dude!”
Sat in the wonderful Royal Oak in Eccleshill last Friday, I was musing with “Smithy”, a PE teacher at a local Secondary, over the state of sport in general as the Olympic jamboree was launching simultaneously in East London with Boris tucked comfortably into his free seat for the next few weeks urging us all to “get on down!”; what did London do to deserve this idiot? A crowd of us meet most weeks for the early quiz and the chance to win a few beers from the fierce incumbent “home” team; rare victories are savoured almost as much as the ales on offer.
Out early, home early – with the occasional lapse – so goes the plan and a necessary evil these days as a hangover and three hours on a cricket field the following day do not make good companions at my age; roll on the wild, indiscipline of a carefree winter and sod the headache. Smithy was talking about coaching kids and trying to instill in them the instinct of playing with no fear as we all know from experience that the mind and body are interwoven when playing sport. Success is rare without both fully functioning although I am not implying you have to be super bright as a few of my team will testify.
Conquering the “fear” or simply the roller coaster of a season’s ups and downs and the impact on your confidence throughout is often as big a challenge as fending off some spotty teenager who is trying to send you to A&E for the afternoon courtesy of propelling a shiny, hard cricket ball. Anybody who says they never get nervous before playing sport is either lying or simply does not care which is enough to make you suggest they should find something else to do. An old team mate of mine could never go out to bat without one last visit to Trap One; if it was occupied then the innings was simply delayed. So, if you commit to even turning up, then it should matter.
Smithy’s view was that kids can be unnecessarily inhibited by over bearing coaches desperate for the result almost above all else. I see this every summer with some opposition junior cricket coaches and you can spot them a mile off. It is fair to say they will never have actually played the game but have a son they hope – without any supporting evidence – will be a world beater making up for their own failings. The game will inevitably centre on the Precious One and I will spend most of it tempted to break the unwritten rule and fire him out LBW – even if Hawkeye suggests it is missing – just to get rid of him. Kids should have fun first; we can worry about the rest a bit later.
The “no fear” bit resonated with me as, it is fair to say, this summer has hardly been a run feast for the veteran here. In the autumn of my cricketing life the competitive edge is still fierce even if it is always worth checking the team sheet each week now given my unique selling point of being able to drive is no longer unique; it may indeed be time for the two-seater? As you get older the need to prove yourself again and again seems to actually intensify hence the endless nights fiddling with batting stances in front of the purpose bought double glass doors of the fridge freezer, lining up my feet along the floor tiles.
The last few weeks have been strange to say the least for our team. A few weeks ago we anticipated another tough contest with Knaresborough only to bowl them out for 37 on an afternoon everything went right. Only one week later and we were on the end of it ourselves, succumbing weakly to Ilkley for 45 so at the interval a week later versus in-form North Leeds and facing down 233, it looked a steep hill to climb. Cricket, though, is a strange game indeed and never underestimate the power of “momentum”.
After 10 of our allotted 50 overs in reply I was 0 not out and being barracked so badly by the home drunks in Dementia Corner – aka Critics’ Corner – that even the opposition had sympathetically stopped sledging me. Our skipper was whispering into his mobile, presumably I thought, to try to try to arrange a sniper to get me off the field and I confess to feeling as low as you could get on a sporting field. At least in most other sports I would have been substituted to a few boos from the drunks. I had simply got too wrapped up in the intricacies of batting instead of just trusting 40 years of knowledge to go out and hit the ball…without fear.
At the other end, my partner Danny was saving my neck batting sublimely and taking on the opposition single handed. And then it clicked; Big Barry bowled one on my legs, contact was made and we were away to ironic cheers from those long enough retired to forget how very ordinary they were “in their day”. Soon, unbelievably, the ball was pinging off the bat to all parts – had I indeed been substituted – North Leeds must have been considering a drug test. No it was simply a complete change of mind set only possible because the one thing you learn after all these years is never panic…or at least stay hopeful a straight one will take out your middle stump!
In a thrilling finish to a game spanning almost seven hours, with not a penny in admission charged and with the drunks scattered to all parts by the rapidly reducing temperatures, we scraped home; not with a triumphant, confident strike out of the ground but a scruffy inside edge down to the vacant boundary. Recreational sport at its very best; played hard, played fair and with more twists and tales than even Boris could hope for in the coming two weeks. No fear? Not a chance; I was bricking it as we edged closer to the finishing line…simply because it mattered.
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