19 – Countin’ on a Micracle
Free from the pressures of an afternoon with First Team Captain Birtsy’s Special School assortment, having now been dumped out of the cup unceremoniously by Guiseley, the choices were numerous for the following sunny Sunday afternoon. Perhaps a boating trip on a deserted lake with my ideal woman, well any woman actually, or maybe a cream tea out in the country ending with a long stroll in the fading sunlight? God, was I turning into some Mills and Boon freak?
Anyway, beggars cannot be choosers so predictably there I was, at the sun-kissed Villas bowl, waiting to be entertained by Captain Patch’s assorted bunch of mercenaries and misfits masquerading as the Villas Second team otherwise known as The Stiffs. I was not quite early enough to get the best sun-trap as the sun kissed Mr and Mrs Massheder had clearly been queuing since early morning lathered in Factor 2 and greenfly repellent, oblivious to the fact that their eldest son’s central contract ruled him out of today’s game; in other words the wife had whisked him off to B&Q and an afternoon discussing decking.
Fair Play Old Chap?
As per the previous week the toss was lost and the Guiseley Stiffs‘ captain clearly shared the same morbid sense of humour as his senior counterpart and had obviously looked at the rag-tag bunch of opposition players, including a dishwasher plucked from the Stoker family café as a late replacement, and thought that a nice long procession towards four or five hundred would be the order of the day. Make this lot sweat in the sun and tuck into some easy runs for the career average. Saddo!
Whenever an opposing skipper elects to do this then, whatever happens for the rest of the afternoon you just smile at the knowledge that eventually he will have to go home to his miserable wife sometime even if he has so obviously prolonged it by batting first against a bunch of no-hopers. In situations like this the normal thought process from the underdog is simply “For God’s sake stick us in, take the win and go home and mow your lawn.” I suppose he must have thought that if that was the first team that turned up last week how bad were this lot going to be? As I said earlier…funny old game.
A Rounded Approach
Villas opened with Stoker, the ex-Zimbabwean international only by virtue of him working on the coffee bar in Harare Airportin a previous life and having cleaned Mugabe’s shoes once. Stoker had so many nicknames that you sometimes forgot he had a real name. Otherwise known as “Cannibal”, “Meat Eater” and sometimes as a “Fat African Elvis look-alike” if you felt brave enough, his run-up to bowl resembled that of an Olympic ski jumper. A careful march back, pose with feet locked together, toes pointing forwards then lift-off delivering wave after wave of gentle dibbly-dobblys that batters all over the world hate. He was a first rate nutter but, some years later, just to illustrate how desperate we had got he had a season as first team captain.
Captain Patch, another fat lad who also went by the nickname of Ranatunga the rotund Sri Lankan captain of the time with a similar pear shape shared the new ball. This was in the absence of veteran seamers, Molly and the inimitable Reg Nelson each with a pathetically poor excuse. So Ranatunga steamed in up the hill, cheeks puffing out like a miniature Browny – except Browny actually ran in quicker – with his arm low enough to cause the umpire to bend over to save being decapitated. This had the look of a long afternoon as the opposition batters started to tuck into the feast ahead. I gazed around the field at the Stiffs and my worst fears were confirmed.
Whatever Happened to Ben Marriage?
Unbelievably, Stoker, the slowest of the slow (of mind and body), patrolled the covers whilst the pride of Villas youth were scattered around the boundary edge. Young Sam Stockill, pin up boy of the Villas juniors in those days, looked disconsolate as none of his legion of female admirers had bothered to turn up; this disappointed Ranatunga as well given Paula, his wife, had gone to watch her beloved Bradford Bulls leaving old Ranatunga looking forward to Sam’s harem rolling up. For Paula watching the Bulls was her equivalent of a porno movie with all that muscle and bump and grind. Patch, never averse to some bump and grind, stuck to the porn hidden behind the pull out brick under the television.
Older brother Luke Stockill wheeled down nine overs of high promise reflecting years of dedicated coaching – call that editorial bias if you like – oh the joys of coaching, usually on endless freezing cold nights and rainy Sunday mornings with stinking, curry-infested hangovers. Just before Ranatunga collapsed he handed over to Ben Marriage who, unlike the first team game, had actually turned up this week, although he constantly had to be physically separated from a young slip of a thing that I later found out did not strictly belong to him. All is fair in love and war…or while the cat’s away…or boys will be boys…you know what I mean. It was at that precise moment I knew why I should have trained as a divorce lawyer with young men like Ben around.
The Lawrence Dynasty
A very young Sam Lawrence, current leader of the first team attack, also patrolled the boundary edge wearing his new Villas replica shirt, the sale of which I had negotiated the sponsorship for by wining and dining our opening bowler’s very attractive boss up until the point of the ink drying on the cheque…as I said all is fair and it was hardly a chore and ll for the Villas. Contrary to popular belief no expense claims were submitted but the banker’s bonus was memorable. And still Sam’s old man, Rick, clung to his moth-eaten, 1986 cup final shirt almost twenty years on resisting all attempts at corporate sponsorship.
Now there was a sound cricketing reason that Sam was on the edge. He was one of the few that could actually throw the ball in without it replicating the path of the dam buster bombs. JB, with an arm so weak he needed three attempts to get the ball all the way in, was by far the worst and needed the equivalent of a driver, mid-iron and a wedge to throw the ball in. Sam just lazily rolled a wrist and in it pinged into the gloves of dad Rick.
Both juniors bowled with great heart but behind the stumps there was a virtuoso performance from the gnarled old pro, known affectionately for years as “Marigolds”. Some claim the nickname came from earlier wicket keeping displays when he kept as if he were wearing a pair of marigolds, others swear that to get the odd game he had to agree to a week of domestic chores to placate wife Julie. Two edges were snaffled, one-handed in front of first slip, which was just as well as the greying monument stood there – Paul “Cav” Cavender, was motionless; I had seen Nelson’s column move more.
The Maddening of the Hot Sun
Down at third man, lo and behold, was JB with shirt out, dirty boots on and sporting more face paint than Shane Warne; team Tramp of the Year…once again. Then came a moment of pure madness from Ranatunga.
“Can you bowl?” asked Ranatunga of JB.
“Can he chuff – go ask a tea lady instead!” bawled back the crowd in unison “have you seen his batting? That’s even worse. Don’t do this to us.” But Ranatunga clearly had a theory and would not be deflected so neighbours hurried inside to put up barricades. Harry Lycett had to be woken from his corporate hospitality slumber in the executive box owned by Steve and Oxana Wolstenholme, who were also accommodating a mysterious Ukranian woman, which many of the lads had also been trying also to accommodate; I do miss her whatever she was called.
And so it came to pass, the Waddilove Cup was reduced to farce as JB attempted to convince the cup-holders that this jerky, stiff armed, face-painted little fellow was actually a spin bowler so imagine the surprise when the first one actually landed. Money was exchanged at a frantic pace on the boundary edge as bets were placed on the eventual total. And then another surprise, Binny the Beast of Santa Monica, on at the top-end resembling Flat Jack or Fat Jack (depending on your view), threatening to give it a real rip…trousers not the ball. The batters were delirious, concentration wavered and the innings collapsed to a mediocre 187 leaving the Villas a great chance of causing a real upset and a halting stop to the Guiseley strut.
An Upset on the Card?
Tea was to prove the highlight of the day, sufficient provisions available to contend with even Browny’s gargantuan appetite although he nearly ended up wearing one of the scrumptious strawberry cream teas after his man management skills fell somewhat short of the mark with the normally placid Beast, attempting to offer bowling advice to a man not blessed with athletic prowess nor powers of recovery. Crumbling scones, delicious chilled cream and skilfully sliced strawberries…England my England.
So the chase began with the Beast and Cav opening up but soon Cav’s off stump was displaying far more life than he had all afternoon flying past the wicket keeper at a rate of knots and the exciting stroke player Luke Stockill came to the wicket…but not for long. Alas the challenge was to prove too much for both Luke and also brother Sam, bringing JB the new all-rounder to the wicket, chest puffed out, pins holding most bones together, reeking of Deep Heat, ready for the challenge.
Run Binny Run!
Progress was painfully slow and Mrs Binns IV was nodding off in the corner, comfortable in the knowledge that the Beast would not be capable of mounting a challenge of any sort later on and then tragedy struck. Old timers will recognise that JB’s vision of a quick single is best countered with a combination of derision and laughter as the little man remains convinced he can do a twenty yard dash in three seconds to this day. Sadly, he caught the lovelorn Beast unawares – who had all on running twenty yards full stop – and never one for being quick out of the traps there simply wasn’t any need for the third umpire. The only worry was if the brakes would work before the boundary wall was demolished and a fuming, ruddy faced Beast ploughed through it.The crowd were dismayed.
Village idiot Jarvo, now in exile at Thackley CC, had been in residence with his bunch of followers all afternoon and we all witnessed first hand why Care in the Community was such a disaster; if only they could be returned safely to their padded cells then all would be well with the world. Clearly they were causing some concern and the scholarly, studious Mrs Lawrence rang husband Rick from the clubhouse pleading for the car keys as the club was full of “undesirables”. Rick tried to explain these were the regulars and few were offended – least of all my dad.
So Near, So Far
Despite a few lusty blows from JB that limped off the square and a cameo from Stoker, Villas finished well short and several marriages were saved from the prospect of further exposure to Jarvo on yet another Sunday afternoon. Meanwhile another Marriage, young Ben, disappeared up the lane arm in arm, showing much more promise off than he ever did on the field. And so, in the course of two weekends, we had been made painfully aware that although we were now enjoying the elevated status of the new league there were many hard yards ahead. In truth we were light years behind clubs of the stature of Guiseley and, at best, we could only hope to begin to close the gap.
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