As I prepared to leave the gilded world of Barclays Bank after twenty-five largely enjoyable years, what to do next was far from clear. But it did give me a chance to write a few modest books, for personal satisfaction over anything else.
Given we are all going to be in this for some time, I decided to serialise the third book, published in 2013 to celebrate my fiftieth birthday. I’ve reproduced each chapter with only modest tweaks.
The books were never going to threaten J K Rowling but the three of them raised over £6,000 for junior cricket…which is a lot of balls.
2 – THE GREAT MILK CRATE TEST MATCHES
“I tend to think that cricket is the greatest thing that God ever created on earth – certainly greater than sex, although sex isn’t too bad either.” Harold Pinter
Many years after first penning this piece, I saw an old video of an infamous cricket match at our club – we were bowled out for 20 – but what struck me more than the many crap shots was the state of the ground almost forty years ago.
The improvements in the facilities we enjoy have been huge; running hot water would have had several old boys turning in their graves. As kids at the club, the only running hot liquid was behind the tea tent in the stone shack that acted as the Gents and backed on to the “kitchen”.
Playing junior cricket in the 1970s was a different experience from today. For a start we did not have the luxury of a twin-lane practice facility or the comfort of being padded from head to toe.
We had a team bag and even shared the dreaded “box” (abdominal protector) although you were careful who you shared with depending on the latest rumours.
My earliest memories are of being thrown in to bat against the senior bowlers on practice wickets situated on the outfield, with barely a cursory mowing or rolling before the battle for survival began; it was the school of hard knocks.
Wisey
One of the deadliest exponents of this clear advantage of ball over bat was Paul “Wisey” Wiseman who spent a few seasons at the club prior to a career in the Bradford League as player, coach and umpire.
Wisey was a tough competitor and had little in common with the modern day “everyone’s a winner” theme. You either survived or perished and there was no middle ground.
I much preferred batting against him many years later when he was at the end of his career and having to battle up the steep hill at the old Idle Upper Chapel ground. Even if his pace had diminished he still had fire in his belly.
I had just driven him through the covers and, in a fleeting moment, I thought I was David Gower so I held my stance – they call it posing – something batters do to say to the bowler “Hey, that was pretty good wasn’t it? Now bowl me another!”.
Wisey calmly walked up to me: “If you don’t put that bat down Willy, you will be walking home with it up your arse”.
Schools Out
In the school holidays a group of us would turn up at the field to play out never ending games, often with a “corky”, usually without any pads, gloves or other protection.
The wickets were a milk crate – before Duck incinerated it – and were provided by Stevie Dunwell, who tragically passed away far too young. He lived adjacent to the cricket field and across the road from the Medley family.
The Medleys were cricket mad, with lads Paul and Craig encouraged all the way by dad Harry who umpired in the Bradford Central League for many years with distinction and respect from players and officials alike; mum Maureen was a constant supporter also.
Although well respected and famous for a legion of tales, Harry was a “not-out” man; many bowlers felt they got a raw deal as he refused point blank to give LBW (leg before wicket) decisions; I loved him.
At his funeral, I am sure there were a few bowlers mumbling in the pews as they paid their last respects.
We batted for survival in defence of a plastic milk crate; everybody who bowled seemed to want to be a fast bowler and break bones. There was no place for a Child Welfare Officer in those days. It was survival of the fittest or, in Stevie Dunwell’s case, “It’s my crate, sod you lot, I’m off!”
As we did not have a Third Umpire – actually we did not have any umpires – then any debatable decision that went against Stevie, often resulted in a kick of the crate followed by his disappearance and close of play.
The only way to resume was to offer Stevie a “life” – an early example of the Decision Review System (DRS) – and as these always went in Stevie’s favour he would continue batting until the next implosion.
Stevie had a daily struggle to curb his temper; one day he actually threw his bat at teammate Jonty Haigh having been run out by the mild mannered Jonty. The boy played with passion.
Denis Tattersall’s Turning Wickets
To improve our techniques we also played out long matches at the home of the future First Team Captain, Dave “Tatts” Tattersall, whose family home had a huge driveway constructed out of dodgy Chinese block paving.
This was likely to crack quicker than a wicket on the sub-continent and we viewed this challenge as a finishing school. It was good practice for all of us hoping to make future England tours of the subcontinent.
With fielders crowding round the bat and Tatts doing a passable impression of the Pakistan spin bowler Abdul Qadir, the pressure to survive was on. Batting against a tennis ball on an uneven surface with fielders under your nose was actually seriously good practice and we all enjoyed the competitiveness.
Tatts worked for United Biscuits so the regular tea breaks – supplied by his lovely mum Winnie – were wonderful feasts of chocolate digestives and Jaffa cakes. The only threat to play was the lunchtime arrival of dad Denis in the company Jaguar who insisted on retaining his parking slot meaning we had to take lunch too.
We were never quite sure if Denis shared his eldest son’s approach to flexible working practices so it was always wise to abandon the arena until Denis went back to work.
With the Jag off in the distance, we regrouped and it was game on again. In the days pre-mobile phones there would be no more interruptions save for some more Jaffa Cakes.
World Series Started In Wrose
We simply loved playing the game of cricket so when winter came along, before we all vanished into our homes for the long dark nights there was still floodlit cricket. It was here that coloured clothing first started.
People credit the late Kerry Packer (the Australian media mogul who created World Series cricket) with the innovation of coloured clothing, a white ball and lights – but we got there first, at the Villas.
As September shortened the days, we hauled one of the giant sightscreens across the field, painted the balls white, in doing so ruining the practice mats, and played on despite the fact that the screens were white.
By leaving every light on we could find in the changing rooms there was just about enough to get by. Soon though, the cold would arrive and it was time to acknowledge that we would have to wait until next April to begin again.
The milk crate was placed in storage and we would have a few months off from Stevie’s implosions, Duck’s pyrotechnics and disapproving looks from dear old Denis.
Still, we had winter nets to look forward to which originated on our parents’ driveways where we would play with the “floodlights” on. In my case these were the kitchen lights as we had no driveway lights in those days given my dad was desperate for somebody to have the benefit of the cover of darkness to steal his car.
The dreaded light meter was never called and my brother and I played out some tense matches late into the night. I can still mark out my “fast” run-up on my parent’s drive to this day and remember the pleasure of bowling a snorter past Our Kid’s nose, smashing loudly into the garage door, drowned out only by the hysterical appeal mimicking the great Dennis Lillee, shattering the neighbourhood peace.
Rich Man, Poor Man
Several decades on and with facilities we could never have dared dream of; ironically the vast majority of today’s kids are light years behind us in terms of technique and sheer commitment to the game.
Its unique language with a myriad of strategies and tactics are lost on the instant hit generations; consequently, the game is dying a slow death.
Modern equipment – in particular bats – have allowed poor techniques to flourish, the hitting range of these things negating skills needed to develop proper cricketers.
And the game has suffered like many by the demolition of school sport and the increasingly sedentary lives of young children. It demands many of the basic core skills we all took for granted: movement, hand-eye co-ordination, catching, communication and, always, a competitive streak.
Above all, you have to have passion.
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