The Long Walk Back
I’ve written this piece numerous times during the last decade. Somehow, I always ended up canning it, ploughing on, head down, front foot forward, if you’ll allow the pun. It is a highly personal piece but I hope you will allow that.
After almost fifty years as a one club cricketer and many as a volunteer, it is time to walk away from my second home and mini-stage, on the odd occasion the Gods favoured me. It is time to say goodbye.
Why the need to write about this? There are many reasons; had it not been for lockdown, I may well be grinding through another season, hating it evermore. Grassroots life can do that – very few realise what it takes to keep any club alive.
The Volunteers
Each year our responsibilities seem to grow as the joy we once derived withers. I think I first sat on a committee barely into my teenage years so my time is served. Guilty of taking on too many roles, like so many in clubs up and down the country, I have got more frustrated year by year.
I’ve been horrible to be around March till September and the list of personal apologies due is a long one. We suffer in silence, often because it is “easier” than watching jobs not getting done. I’ve had more broken promises of help than a hundred year-old spinster.
Amongst others, my current jobs range from treasurer to junior coach, administrator, child welfare officer, chief beggar of funds, landlord/chef/chauffeur to overseas guests all summer and numerous others.
Lockdown was like a slap in the face with three nights a week and my whole weekends returned with interest. The brutal truth was I had not missed playing, supposedly the fun bit.
The Bare Necessities
A Treasurer’s job is a twelve month hook and to all of you who have stuck your hand in your pockets to support us, I thank you sincerely, you have been brilliant.
Yet it is so hard to keep asking for money when the very people who benefit – the players – can rarely be persuaded to spend a quid on a raffle ticket or even buy a can of coke. It is utterly deflating.
The Kids
I’ve been a junior coach for twenty-two long years. In the beginning, whilst not without frustrations, I worked with kids who wanted to play, learn and compete. We still coaxed only a tiny fraction into senior cricket but it was fun, with afternoons at my desk conceiving coaching drills rather than chasing sales targets.
These days we are a child-minding service – that is an inescapable truth – and behaviour can be appalling. You spend week after week repeating the same things only to end up thinking you must be speaking a different language. If I am guilty of expecting too much then it is definitely time to go.
I’ve also worked in schools for the last decade but sport is now simply a timetable filler in state schools, a betrayal of generations.
I have been verbally abused by parents more times than I can remember and other coaches tell me the same woeful stories; why do we do it? How can we, as volunteers, be on the hook for so much that is not within our control?
The Administrators
Over the years I have railed against the administrators of the game, nationally and locally, for their failure to understand why cricket is in terminal decline but here is not the time for another rant at the wilfully blind.
Arrogance and crass ignorance will coerce clubs into fielding cricket teams this weekend in the midst of a global pandemic. This does not augur well for the future of some leagues if these are the best available people as custodians of the game.
The End
So that is it and if anybody thinks they can tease me on to a field again, take a minute to wonder where you are going if you need to sign a fifty-seven year-old.
It is to the dressing room where I started and I finish, not as a wide-eyed kid bursting with enthusiasm but a weary man who has ended up hating the very game he once lived for.
I am surrounded by old team photos, some players no longer with us but who still live long in my memory. Fortunate over the years to have shared a dressing room with and played against some fantastic blokes I have been. Hard, competitive, skilful, bloody funny and uncompromising too, but always there for a beer, win or lose.
These days players vanish in a flash, oblivious to what they leave behind for others to tidy up and with no interest in spending a few quid in the bar to ensure there is a new ball next week. Many have no understanding of what it takes to keep a club alive. You cannot enjoy a team culture when you need thirty players to get through a season.
Strangely, some of the best times we ever had was when the rains came and we scurried off into the dressing rooms. These occasions led to so many tall tales and laughs, forging lifelong friendships; in recent years I’ve sat wishing I was back then.
In September 2015, I shed a tear or two when our little club became Yorkshire Champions at glorious Scarborough, even if was the Geriatric Cup. Some of my oldest mates were in that dressing room, a few wonderful old “enemies” too and most others who mattered were there to watch.
To all of you my sincere and heartfelt thanks for a lifetime of memories and a sporting life I will treasure.
I’m done.
Graham Morgan says
Hi Steve
A sad day for you and your club. I can understand the slow decline from your cricket honeymoon to your divorce. Your generation may be the last to serve the game so unselfishly. I am more than ready to meet up for a beer to mark your decision. Respect to you and thank you on behalf of the generations you have supported
Christine Harrison says
It’s sad that something you’ve loved has become nothing but a burden. I’m sure that you’ll be missed. Now that you have some spare time in the summer, you can find something else to pour your enthusiasm into. Keep smiling .