The All Alone Oval was not a place for the faint-hearted last Saturday as Villas’ Second Team narrowly edged out close rivals Ben Rhydding in the title decider.
Played out under a beautiful autumnal sun with the ground looking more stunning than a debutante, a captivated crowd was spellbound for much of the afternoon.
I spoke with veteran sage and team trundler, the lycra-loving Molly, for his insight into a marvellous day for the club.
He began by confessing that the game had dominated his every waking thought in the run-up to it, so much that he’d even stopped stalking BBC weather girl, Keeley Donovan. There was all winter to look forward to.
“I told Our Lass as well that there’d be no hanky panky in t’run up to t’game” he winked “as I didn’t want to upset her routine too for the last eighteen years either!”
The team was at full strength led by Marsy who also had stayed in the night before, unable to be tempted by the excitement of the Royal Oak quiz night.
Chief food critic James Halliday was in a tense mood. Word had got back to the opposition that he had savaged their teas in his weekly post-match review several weeks ago.
“Throw ’em out of the league” he had raged as he had marked them down with nil Halliday Stars “you can’t call that a cup of tea!”
The Management Committee have enforced new rule 10377 engaging the acerbic foodie as the League Tea Inspector for season 2017, decreeing that any club not using Yorkshire tea or with mouldy buns be thrown to the Dales Council League without mercy.
Matty Nowell was his usual laid back self, an air of calm over the dressing room, meditating calmly in the corner, his wild days well behind him.
“Nay I can’t tell when he’s awake or not” said an exasperated sage.
Villas batted first but after a bright start with veteran Whiskers Johnson – “I’m only twenty-four” – and 13 year-old embryo Darwin King, things started to falter very quickly.
A clutter of wickets fell including the iconic and revered powerhouse Jones, those Popeye forearms unable to destroy this attack as so often this season.
A late flurry arrived but with only two main contributions – Whiskers (33) and Basil King (29) – 138 all out looked below par. The assorted critics looked on with flat beers, heavy hearts and the prospect of a quiet night in with the wife.
Captain Marsy went with the unusual opening combination of the sage and fiery “Fred” Clough but the opposition got off to a flyer as Our Jordan stood chained to dad Big Geoff and dog Ripple awaiting a bowl.
Eventually Our Jordan came on to bowl but with his last haircut in 2011 he could barely see his way to the wicket. Ripple looked on in disgust.
On came Marsy with his classical belly-on action from his favoured top end and a vital match-winning spell. Wickets were tumbling at last as Villas seized control of the game.
And then came the almost inevitable opposition recovery. I asked Molly how the old ticker was as they started their fightback with the last two at the wicket steered by the rotund, ruddy-cheeked veteran Jennings.
“Well I must’ve looked worried as PC came across and reminded me that if we lost then t’club would be like a ghost town and I’d be supping the barrel of ale I’d ordered on me tod!
The team needed a lift and who better than the twin apron-clad motivational gurus to stride onto the pitch at drinks. On they strode to the March of the Valkyries over the tannoy followed by a public service announcement by our scorer Harry.
“Lads…go f*ck ’em!” he implored as the ground hushed. It was like being in Pyongyang, addressed by the Great Leader.
Critics’ Corner was at fever pitch too as Granville slurped another whisky.
Club President Haighy had brought his cut glass decanter and glasses, presented only a week ago for a lifetime’s service to the club, and was now lobbing them in the air each time a wicket looked likely.
Thankfully his catching was better than on the field as the home side wobbled.
Even the team runt was now giddy imploring his Dad to show a lead as they shared their secret drink – as yet untested by UK Anti-Doping – although Dad has called son a dope more than a few times this season.
On came Basil looking like a young Norman Gifford (Google that one) getting the ball up into the air above the batters’ eyes as all of a sudden the opposition batting started to crumble.
Only one more wicket was needed with Ben Rhydding still needing over thirty.
And then a moment that sums up the spirit the club tries so hard to foster.
The batter danced wildly down the wicket induced by another teaser from foxy Basil and continued foxtrotting past the ball on the way back to the dressing room and defeat. Keeper Jones smashed the stumps with joy…game over…no!
The square-leg umpire – our very own injured nutty Rob – was already celebrating, broken digit giving the “out” decision, good hand clutching a beer, a wild jig breaking out. No need for the third umpire here!
Then, in a sporting gesture unequalled, Jones called the batter back having admitted to breaking the stumps minus the ball. The spirit of cricket, so often waffled about on high without true meaning, was there for all to see.
I asked the old Sage how to sum up his feelings as the total got closer.
“I were shitting meself!” he put it succinctly. Richie Benaud eat your heart out.
And then up went the ball skywards only this time to the reliable bucket like hands of Clarke. He clutched it tighter than daughter-in-law Sarah a bottle of finest Prosecco.
Villas had won by seven runs and the crowd plus stand-in umpire went wild.
Dressing rooms are special places to be on days like these and this day was no exception. And no Villas dressing room would be complete with Harry our 12th Man.
With us through thick and so much thin, this win was as much for him as anybody clad in whites.
Perhaps the last word then to the old sage who thought he’s seen it all before.
“Nay lad I were more choked than t’day Little Bull in Denholme shut!” he said, eyes misting over once more. “Tha’s not many more days in t’sun for old ‘uns like us!”
Well done boys…proud of you all.
Villas Calendar – Late Entry
I give you this offering for our topless section.
And Finally
We end on a very sad note with news that our friends at Upper Wharfedale CC have resigned from the league. Their fate could befall any club, anywhere.
Never has the old maxim been so true.
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