18 – Into the Fire
After some sixty years as members of the Bradford Central League we were admitted to the newly formed Division C of the Airedale and Wharfedale Senior League for season 2000; it was a big step and had we made it some twenty years earlier, we would have been much better equipped. However, here we were with a crumbling embarrassment of a derelict pre-fab clubhouse, no money and, to put it kindly, a committee that had more than it’s share of odd-bods, misfits and downright miscreants. Clearly, the powers that be saw our potential even if a few of us were less sure.
The early years in the league saw us battle with a varied opposition in terms of playing strength, the common theme being that this was a huge step up. Several teams from the now defunct Leeds League joined us including Pool, Kirkstall Educational and Woodhouse; playing at Woodhouse was like Jer Lane on acid. All of these clubs were used to shelling out money to players and were well versed in the processes involved in engaging an overseas’ player, especially one that could play cricket, a key requirement as we were to find to our cost in later years. In both of these areas we were plainly clueless.
End of an Era
And yet we established ourselves as hard to beat and a competent bunch of cricketers. Gradually, the league began to settle down as the better-equipped clubs started to make progress up the ladder. In truth, many of these teams (if you stripped away the chronic dependence on the overseas’ players) were little better than us. Where we really got a taste of what life was like in the fast lane was generally in the Cup where, surreally, we seemed to draw one of the big guns year after year after year. At least Sunday cricket was limited and the club divorce rate improved.
Having led the side from 1999-2001, I handed over the reins at the end of that season having seen us finish by being demolished by the champions, the moneybags from Pool CC, whose overseas’ player that year passed a hundred wickets in the game against us and scored over 500 runs in the season. It was like having three players in one and when he bowled me in that last game, I swear my middle stump flew to the boundary edge faster than any ball I had middled all year. So quick was he, that our number eleven, Mark “Straw” Hey took guard, watched him run in and quickly ran to the square leg umpire via a diversionary flattening of his stumps. How out? Voluntarily but still with body in one piece.
Gentleman the Draw
And so it was that the new captain, Mick “Birtsy” Birts not only had the twin challenges of being married to Mrs Birts, a woman capable of extreme bouts of sheer gloom and spreading these like a monsoon on anybody remotely close to her, but also of captaining Straw, the only opening bowler in the league that wore a Tag; and not the expensive wrist watch variety. In addition, we faced the eagerly awaited cup-tie against the mighty Guiseley, cup holders and league stalwarts. David against Goliath it certainly was and into the fire we went.
Predictably the game turned into high farce for Villas players and spectators alike. No play was possible on the Sunday, which was just as well as several of the players had had a late night bonding session with the captain who was celebrating a rare weekend away from Mrs Birts. Who wouldn’t? But they were clearly still feeling the sharing of no-Mrs Birts-related feelings of joy the next day.
Consequently the mandatory walking in a straight-line pre-match warm-up was impossible to conduct as Straw kept falling over. Mick Jones had not bothered to get changed and was still wearing his glad rags from the night before and still holding a bottle of Budweiser glued to his wide-open mouth thus exaggerating his usual gormless look. Having had yet another abstemious and celibate Saturday night I guessed my preparations had been in vain. Jellybeans and Lucozade Sport would not revive this lot.
No Play Today… The Bar We Go
So, after Guiseley had declined a drinking competition once play was postponed, in a vain attempt by Birtsy to level the playing field for battle the following evening, the lads decided to make the most of a free afternoon and chose to go out on the lash again. Having retired for my mid-afternoon siesta, the rest is subject to a degree of hearsay and any litigation will be fiercely contested.
Sitting, as I did those days on my rare outings to the office, next to a tea-lady from our neighbouring club Thackley CC, I was regaled on Monday morning by tales of our tagged opening bowler displaying his tadger in the Thackley club mid-afternoon. She also suggested that there had been an element of dope smoking but I think she really meant there were a few dopes smoking. Reports of a simple-looking, bald-headed flasher visiting various local pubs in Idle actually made Sky News by late Sunday.
Monday Evening…lies, Lies And More Lies
Monday arrived, and as the evening start time drew near, young Ben Marriage, a promising product of our youth system (who actually retired shortly after this game), was confined to homework duty and so unable to play. Unfortunately his text message had not reached our captain, still recovering after another two gallons of ale whilst managing to claim overtime in his professional capacity as PC Birts. Perhaps Mrs Birts really did have a purpose and her return may be of some value? Maybe she could bowl nine overs?
Birtsy had also failed to recall our overseas player, Atif, from weekend prayers and did we need a prayer or two. Of course, Atif was actually from just down the road but we told him to pretend he was an overseas even if they would soon see through this scam once he batted. Straw was also AWOL having literally been left holding the baby. This, of course, was all Mick Jones’ fault and if you ever wanted a reliable wingman then Mick was not it. Having called ahead to arrange a pick-up time for Straw, he was greeted by the long-suffering Melissa, Straw’s live-in partner and long-time sufferer of all things Straw.
“What do you want him for tonight?” she asked puzzled.
“To play cricket,” said Mick, clueless to his role here.
“He played yesterday.”
“No he didn’t.” at which even Mick sort of guessed something was not quite right with life.
And so thar she blew. Out the door – on that well-worn path back to the mother’s again – leaving Straw ruing the fact that he never bought the old Dennis Wood book How to Really Con the Missus. All Straw had to say was that we’d battled hard but hadn’t finished and off he’d have gone again, free of nappies for another night. For a man who had recently been witnessed combining child-minding, watching the juniors, scoffing from Molly’s Café, drinking a pint and doing some telesales in the club – all at the same time – we expected more.
Why Winning The Toss When Drawn Against The Big Guns Is Essential
Just before the toss, the Guiseley President introduced himself and welcomed us to the club, enquiring whether we only had nine men because we were over-confident. He offered to field for us but as he was eighty plus we opted for the second team skipper Martin “Patch” Patchett instead, although it was a close decision in favour of the rotund Patch as the old guy would probably have done him in a hundred-yard dash. In truth looking around our dressing room the old guy still had a chance of a game.
Sportingly, Guiseley’s skipper won the toss, noticed our predicament and elected to bat deciding to torture us slowly and ruthlessly instead of opting for a quick kill that we would all have happily complied with. Birtsy claimed he was far too hung over to notice if he even tossed a coin – never mind what side it landed. So, out we went, lambs to the slaughter, nine men, including young Heppy in the team on the basis that his gran was making the cakes for next week’s teas so better keep him sweet by picking him despite the fact that he could neither bat nor bowl.
A Long Night Ahead
Try as we might, after the delirium of an early breakthrough – a wicket not the torrent of Carlsberg coming through opening bowler Rick Slater – predictably carnage ensued. When a decent length ball was swatted casually for six off our other opening bowler Chris Spivey – “take me off Skip it’s not swinging” – we knew there was trouble ahead. Mick Jones, our change bowler, soon confirmed the general impression that we had obviously sent out the reserves by serving up more pies than the local Morrisons.
So, the crowd were treated to the annual return of yours truly with the ball, bowling a line so far outside off-stump that the batters swapped their bats for snooker cues and our keeper went to third slip. At last a slip cordon at thirty-nine years of age and way before Stuart Broad tried bowling wides and got an ECB central contract as a reward.
Heppy, the only fielder remotely fleet of foot amongst us, pulled his groin after one over leaving Chiz to roll back the years prowling the covers and hoping against hope that if it went past him it would have legs enough to reach the boundary without involving any unseemly, desperate running. He would need his strength much later as wife Linda was on heat yet again.
Bring on the Reserves
Patch and Young Marsy, twelve at the time, did their best to compensate for their supposedly senior colleagues but a fat lad and a kid just post-puberty were hardly going to pep up our fielding. And so on a track that 120 would count as a competitive score, Guiseley steamed on past 250 despite a nostalgic spell by the skipper that almost claimed the ex-Undercliffe legend Howard Reeve’s wicket with a full-toss so spell-binding it induced a lobbed return that just avoided outstretched arms and a dive from the skipper that left a crater in the wicket. So bad was the shot that Reevy retired on the spot.
Our Turn
Eventually, the Villas arrived to bat on a sunny Wednesday night only to discover that the expensive covers had had the effect of a giant colander and the wicket was a patchwork of green, greener and even greener patches interspersed with the odd token dry area. The opposition bowlers looked like they had won the Lotto seeing a pitch damper than Slater’s gear having been in his bag since Monday, thus making him the uncontested winner of the Team Pongo award despite Mick Jones still wearing Saturday night’s pulling gear.
Needless to say the opposition score looked a million miles away and we did well to surpass the hundred mark although the critics were heard to say that in their day they would have knocked them off in an hour and no way would any woman stop them from playing cricket. So we skulked away from Guiseley back to league matters with a double weekend coming up that would have the divorce lawyers salivating and the captain absent on a romantic long weekend in Skipsea…oh for a rainy weekend in a caravan by the sea with Mrs Birts…small wonder I love this game.
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