22 – It’s Hard to be a Saint in the City
As I’ve intimated earlier cricket can hardly be described as a sexy game despite coloured clothing, Twenty Twenty, cheerleaders and all the other inane razzmatazz the ECB come up with after several bottles of Lord’s finest each year, desperate to appear progressive whilst at the same time strangling the grass roots that feed the game. Don’t think that the glamorous Mrs Flintoff and Mrs Pietersen married their respective beaus for the love of the sound of leather on willow or the ebbs and flows of the beautiful game as it meanders gently through the day. If those two were slogging it out in the leagues on a freezing cold Saturday perched on a hill in Denholme with Toxic leering at them they wouldn’t get a look in.
Most club cricketers are simply grateful for a good, reliable lass who won’t mind if you come home plastered professing your love after twelve pints of Tetleys and a Rogan Josh smeered over your new shirt, still high from the elation of that annual fifty and wanting to relive every single run; and you have to do this trying to imitate Henry “Blowers” Blofeld’s inimitable style of commentary complete with Bradford twang and Tetleys. So it was probably a good idea to stay single on my part although I think it was a classic case of it’s either cricket or women; with my attention span being so limited that only one could command that total commitment needed it was an easy choice.
Merging Two Worlds
I remember the beginnings of a school romance with a 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 footie team with a lunchtime slog around the local streets. This was our commitment to wearing off the chocolate biscuits we had spent most of the morning stealing from other people’s lockers. So much for her rear though, we could hardly get near it as she left us for dead gasping and happy to be consigned to the B team. Yet when cricket came along the allure of that rounded bit of perfection seemed to fade instantly.
Over the years I have attempted to straddle both worlds, albeit never for very long and always the same end result…back to the one I always thought caused me least hassle. There was one woman I came very close to settling down with – I even left my cat for her for a while – although given that she was a temperamental artist type I’ve no idea why we were together in the first place and am sure that she would have gladly knifed me in my sleep at some later date or super-glued my balls together. She was, shall we say, temperamental, highly-strung and prone to mini explosions although I doubt I was entirely blameless.
A Girlfriend In The Cricket Season?
For a time I was spectacularly captivated by this beautiful woman who spoke in clipped tones that baffled my mates at the club and wore lacy M&S underwear that made them wonder where I had stolen her from. We met in the office kitchen – try fitting that into Mills and Boon – and commenced a torrid affair most days next to the hot water boiler. As the 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 would be a challenging season at best. I cannot remember much about the 1991 season barring that we won the Worthington Sports Cup with my total contribution to the four games being less than ten runs and no wickets; I must have been distracted.
Mid-season and 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 which had been about my total contribution to the game that had taken place there that afternoon. My one regret is that, on the way out of the house, my face had it written all over – I was getting laid on the square no matter whether it needed rolling or not.
Big Phil And The Portable Ford Floodlight
Apparently as soon as we left the house word spread like wild fire and my mum fainted at the prospect of yet more humiliation although grateful this time it was not a fellow tea-lady’s daughter. As usual, my dad found the distraction useful to get closer to the beer supplies and 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 beautifully star-lit sky, this gorgeous young woman started to undress just on a good length. The cut strip 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; Spenner had never had this effect on me at all. I followed, slightly hesitantly but gaining in confidence ready to play my best knock of the season, which would not be that hard, little willow flapping in the breeze.
Big Phil You Ruined My Life!
Then off in the distance we heard a commotion and lumbering on to the field with full beam lights on was Big Phil in his Big Ford Sierra driving right across the outfield and straight towards us. Where was Browny to clear him off the field now just when you needed him? I felt like the guy who gets disturbed by the raging husband and scurries for the drainpipe to escape except that there was no drainpipe, although someone had left the hosepipe out. So we scrambled for our gear and ran off towards the changing rooms, rather ironically 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.
We did eventually skulk 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. However, the best was yet to come as the following week we played arch-rivals Harden at home, which was always a lively game to say the least. Harden was a bit like Denholme only posher. The lads drove 4x4s instead of tractors and generally knew what cutlery was for, although they were equally mad as hatters with some wonderful characters in the team, one being Andy Gill.
Gilly
Andy was a larger than life character who opened the bowling and on his day could bowl quite sharp with a wonderful competitive edge and a theatrical appeal that shook most umpires to the core often waking one or two from slumber with a raucous LBW shout from a demented fat lad. That competitive spirit may have led to him chasing Dirty Den off the field many years ago after we had won a narrow victory in a league match causing us to lock Den up for his own safety for quite some time after. I think Den alluded to the possibility that Boris the Rottweiller could bat better than Andy – just after he was last man out and the game was lost.
Den sprinted off the field chased by Andy waddling in his pads waving his bat with which he would surely have smashed Den’s remaining brains in. Once locked inside the changing rooms it was a case of Andy outside going through an “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” and Dirty Den quivering inside seeking out a hole in the floor from which to escape.
Word Spreads Fast
Now by the following week, most of the Harden lads knew of my attempt at an open air performance the previous Saturday. 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), fielded a yard off the bat end at short leg, aka suicide watch and was keen to make me feel settled as ever by enquiring 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 bat – there were assorted pearls of wisdom from bowler and fielders alike. The next ball he steamed in and this one 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. Gilly ran down the wicket, almost nose to nose and simply said for all to hear.
“Must have hit a ****ing ear ring Willy?”
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