31 – When You’re Alone
In Critic’s Corner
I have often wondered how you feel when finally you have to admit it’s all over and pack that bag away for the very last time. When it’s my turn, will there be a Critics’ Corner to still sit down in and chew the fat over battles won and lost and tell each other how good we really never were oblivious to those stats that you just cant deny?
As I sit there, occasionally having compiled enough runs that particular day to gain approval and not have to walk past head bowed, shamed by another failure, I never cease to wonder how we never won anything in the olden days. How was this when apparently we had batters on the edge of greatness and bowlers capable of bowling like the wind on occasion like a violent tornado with swing, seam and cut as well. The level of former greatness, it seems, tends to improve the longer the day goes on and the whisky bottle drains.
All Our Yesterdays
That is one of the unique joys of the game of cricket at grassroots level that the egos who rule at the very top seem oblivious to, with their obsession with the fast food variety they now gorge on. The unwinding of a game; like the plot of a thought-provoking film or a five-course meal, engaging the spectators in conversations, albeit mainly utterly ridiculous ones, as the drama unfolds in front of them, these things matter.
How you also replace that unique dressing room experience is also beyond me as it is unlike any other in sport, simply due to the time you spend there as the game evolves. The mindless pranks we have all played over the years have left us in tears of laughter as have the ridiculous variety of “topics” discussed as the rain pours down and the inevitable early exit to the bar looms in tandem with another stinking Sunday hangover.
The Big Society Or Care In The Community?
Arguably a cricket dressing room is unique in that it brings together such a mix of characters you would never ever see together in normal life. I swear that first Saturday of the off-season leaves us all fidgeting moodily adjusting back to life without the likes of Hawkeye, Spivey, Harry and even the critics up there on the hill. And no more childish pranks till next Spring.
I will never forget Webbo screwing down Ando’s Adidas bag to a wooden bench at Bingley Congs one Saturday and the look on Ando’s face as he struggled to lift it, bench and all, and then the look on our faces as the proposed revenge of a ton of manure at our doors was promised and fortunately never carried out. Or the look on the face of the Asian woman who now lives in Ken and Olga’s old house as she stood at her sink doing the dishes one Saturday evening bemused as I scurried around the back of the changing rooms – naked as a jaybird –having been thrown out of the changing rooms. The novelty of showers in those early days meant that somebody invariably came out of the shower only to find all their clothes in the middle of the field. A few tough yards had to be made and my mother did remark that little seemed to have changed since she last saw me like that.
Straw And The Big White Rat
Perhaps the funniest though was the day Straw finally got “promoted” in the batting order by me – simply to enable Dave Singleton to gain revenge for a previous week’s prank; retribution was never far behind you. Straw rushed in excitedly to change from shorts to whites and prove his batting prowess at long last but as he stuck his pads on there was a blood-curdling scream from within; feeling something odd and lumpy in his pocket, he reached in and pulled out the biggest dead white rat you have ever seen. He could not stop shaking for hours and, as a consequence, bowled like a pillock and we almost lost. Priceless.
Clouded Memories
Most of us who still play are adamant that when our time comes, we will not sit there and tell whoever may listen that “in our day” we were any better than we were, but who knows? Maybe at some distant point in the future our memories will fade and fanciful notions might develop. For the record, I have been no more than that average club cricketer that rolls up each Saturday in hope of occasional “greatness” , pays his fiver with no guarantee of anything in return and usually has to contend with anything from modesty to mediocrity. As many of my early school reports suggested “could do better”, then this is a fair reflection.
However, the games needs all comers, from the brilliant to the bloody awful and if you sit somewhere in the mix of all that then so be it. Maybe a lack of ambition never allowed me to realise my true potential and the roots unbreakable with the Villas were always going to limit any future development. So I could have been a lot better but I will have to live with what the record books say and hope for a kind word or two from the odd witness along the way … as long as they have not been added to that plaque in Critics’ Corner.
The Last Word
Perhaps it’s fitting though that the last word should go to an umpire. The timing of this was impeccable as I sought to put the finishing touches to my thoughts here taking place as we struggled on a testing wicket to post a total away at Calverley CC during season 2010. In truth I had been scratching away for almost twenty overs and in so doing making batting look as hard as it could ever get.
Their young opening bowler ran in and bowled an in swinging Yorker that rapped into my pads causing me to fall over somewhat ungracefully. As I picked myself up, the square leg umpire advanced towards me as it was the end of the over. Looking down he simply said: “Good job cameras weren’t here today lad, perhaps not your finest moment eh?”
At last, after nearly forty years playing cricket, sledged by an umpire…is there a free seat up there with the critics?
32 – For You
Woken up by the Tumbler
Any thoughts of a lie-in were shattered by the volcanic rumblings and earthquake-like vibrations coming from downstairs. My mum had fired up the twin-tub again, the most effective wake up call known to man and guaranteed to wake the dead.
In this case the “Dead Man Walking” was I after celebrating a famous win at the Grattan Oval in the Waddilove Cup Final.
It was 1986 and we had just beaten Denholme in a classic and I had booked a day off from life on the road flogging car finance to the motor trade for Mercantile Credit in anticipation of feeling like death, win or lose.
We had celebrated long into the night well before Freddie and the boys took this to new heights in 2005 post the famous Ashes win over the “convicts” and later via the pedalo. But any thoughts I had of maternal pride, love and understanding plus a nice cooked breakfast soon vanished with that unmistakeable look on my mum’s face.
Something was wrong and Dr Grunhalle had erased my mind completely. By the look on her face perhaps a pedalo might be useful.
The Evidence
Holding up last nights pair of jeans she pointed at the muddy knees, picked off some loose bracken, looked up and awaited an explanation. Amazingly, just when I needed him most, Dr Grunhalle’s magic brainwashing powers vanished in a flash and it all came flooding back.
Still, displaying all the true grit that JB had done the previous day to win us the cup, I opted for some of his defiance, defensiveness and obduracy; as it turned out it was largely his fault anyway for a number of reasons.
However, at this particular moment I think I would have rather been fronting up to Spenner and the rest of the Denholme boys than my mother.
“ I fell?” I offered like a nervous jab outside the off stump so early in my “innings”.
“Try harder” she replied with no softening of those features that had terrorised thousands of kids back as a school dinner lady. This was indeed a sticky dog of a wicket…I may not survive till drinks I mused.
Guilty Ma’am!
Now there are times when you just know you are so far into a corner it is time for the hands up and punishment time. This was clearly one of them, especially as I had the hope of tea, toast and the a full day watching the test match on the telly with regular deliveries of refreshments.
I was after all a winner the previous day so surely deserved to live like a king? And then my mum came out with a question I have always remembered and since then tried to ensure that the right answer eventually occurred.
“When do you think I could actually go in that club and hold my head up with the other mothers?”
She actually then went on to ask if I was on some mission to “mount every daughter in the club” and, to this day, the answer to that one is a touch clouded. Back to the main challenge, though.
We had all gone back the previous evening to the Captain’s parents’ house as guests of Lord Denis. Pretty soon I had attracted the eye of a slightly older woman and immediately sensed the obvious…she was ratted. Like an alligator stalking a wounded prey the hunt was on.
Give Me The Moonlight
In no time at all we had found a quiet spot under the stars and were deep into the shrubbery unawares at the time that younger son, Andrew, was watching every moment and later confessed that the Betamax tape he nicked from big brother Dave’s room was nowhere near as good.
We must have sensed something was wrong because we moved down the garden. Then in a flurry of branch, bracken and with cricket gear trailing from his white, imitation leather, Adidas bag bursting through the trees like that wild gorilla in the film “Gorillas In The Mist” came JB taking a short cut to his parents adjoining gardens.
And just like Sigourney Weaver, I must have looked like I had shat myself. Was there a curse on any attempt at open-air nookie at the Villas?
Unbelievably he never saw a thing and it’s a good job he had watched the ball a touch better that afternoon. Almost immediately there was a call out in the darkness with the young lady’s mother seeking out her daughter. We dressed quickly, rather too quickly.
Ladies First
Tactics were needed so I courageously opted for the front door and sent the young lady in through the conservatory to the rear where all the mothers, wives and girlfriends were sat around a very large table playing cards chatting amiably albeit, not for long.
In our rush to avoid the return of mini King Kong, my lady friend had not noticed her vibrant purple knickers protruding from a zip that could have done with a bit more care and attention.
Ladbrokes was not taking bets on the perpetrator of such shame, who by this time was downing a cold one over a game of pool, oblivious to muddy jeans and bits of conifer leaf in his hair.
If my mum’s shame was obvious the poor girl immediately became known as “Conifers” and barely returned to the club. Somehow, JB found his way back and we celebrated on.
A Mother’s Pride?
I suppose that what I am trying to convey is that there were many similar incidents when madness reigned and my mother must have doubted what would ever become of me. And I was not wholly oblivious to this.
If there was one singular motivation behind taking on the clubhouse redevelopment and enduring those endless sleepless nights and five years of grief, stress and general apathy it was simply that this is where my parents enjoy a beer and, whilst it is not everybody’s cup of tea, it is where they enjoy being and I hope they will continue to do so for many years to come.
As a mother she never seeks any fuss and she may cringe when she reads this but, if I’ve never said it, I owe it all to you.
Thanks for your patience, never ending tolerance, belief and for not fussing too much that you never got to wear that big hat splattered in confetti. You know it would all have ended in tears and a council flat down Thorpe Edge.
For you.
Wendy O'Malley says
well another good read Willy.Your poor mother!!!!brought a tear to my eye the last chapter,im sure she is very proud of you no matter what 😉 xx