21- PLAYING FOR LAUGHS
“The man who has no imagination has no wings.”
Muhammad Ali
Sport should always be fun; as the junior team many of us had enjoyed came to an end, we wanted to continue to play Wednesday night cricket. So, we joined a midweek league, very popular back then, a pale shadow now.
The intention was to allow lads out of form an extra chance and to provide a team where First and Second Teamers, plus “guests”, could join together in a more relaxed format.
Inevitably, we were still competitive and we enjoyed a fair amount of success as we progressed. When we eventually joined the Division One big boys we were up against some seriously good Bradford League players.
John The Gasman Discovers Cricket
Crucial to the more relaxed approach were the various wild card picks, generally somebody who had never played cricket in his life but would do anything to get out a few beers.
One of these was my great mate, John The Gasman, who became our specialist number 11 batter, non-bowler and fielder to be hidden from the ball at all costs.
After a hard day down a hole fixing gas pipes, a few beers as reward for enduring a game he knew bugger all about seemed to be a good trade.
However, try as you might, you can never to hide a fielder during a game; one game proved you can run, but eventually you cannot hide.
It’s Raining Balls
We were playing at the old asylum – High Royds in Menston – now converted to trendy flats for modern day lunatics willing to pay a King’s ransom for a shoebox.
Emptied of inmates several years earlier there were rumours of escapees hiding in the trees surrounding this quaint cricket ground. We chose Gasman to field on the boundary edge whenever we played there as he was quite handy. Plus, if anybody was to get banned for punching a spectator far better to lose the token non-cricketer. We could always teach him to score.
It was a balmy summer evening with Gasman dreaming away in the outfield. He was stationed the longest distance from the batter known as long off – on the assumption that the ball should fly over him thereby not requiring any attempt at a catch.
Up it went like a rocket disappearing from view as it pierced the clouds, reappearing to great amusement from all bar Gasman. He focused on the sky, picking out the ball and steadying himself for its return to Earth muttering some last words.
For a few seconds he looked like he was going to try to catch it, maybe thinking if he did it was free beer all night. And then, right at the last moment, as the ball careered back to ground level, he took two steps forward, watched it drop over his shoulder, plug in the soft ground and casually picked it up and threw it in.
Even the bowler laughed.
Reward?
Often the opposition had a “pro”, in this case Menston’s overseas player for the summer. He was a colossus of a Kiwi called Sterling who bowled like the wind. Gasman had not batted all season so the skipper – Bodger Lee – decided to promote him.
The conversation went like this:
BODGER – “You’ve hardly had a bat all season Gas so for being such a good sport here’s a chance to go enjoy yourself”
TRANSLATION – “This bloke will knock your head off but see if you can waste some of his allotted four overs so he can’t knock ours off.”
GASMAN – “Cheers lads I really appreciate this!”
TRANSLATION – “There must be a catch here…bastards!”
We kitted him up so much so he could barely walk as he began a long waddle to the middle that we fully expected him to have to repeat in the opposite direction this time on a stretcher.
Sterling, on the edge of the Kiwi national team, marked his long run whilst Gasman sensed his impending fate and tried to figure out if it would be cool to simply run for the bushes.
With Sterling ready to launch, hard, shiny and bone-crushing new ball in hand, it was like waiting for the executioner’s guillotine to drop.
The first ball whizzed past Gasman so quickly, by the time he had picked up his bat to waft an imaginary shot, the wicket-keeper was tossing it back.
I’m not sure how many balls he survived, but I have never seen a man so happy to be out as he almost ran from the field to rapturous applause. He never put those pads on again.
Weekly we came up against teams that contained several “ringers” and some top players as evidenced by Sterling. We continued in sheer defiance with our policy of an eclectic selection of cricketing all-sorts and those simply in search of a pint.
Unbelievably, we ended up champions of the top division in 1986, albeit assisted by the rain clouds occasionally. Nevertheless, some achievement.
Big Phil Cops One
Clearly, the essence of the midweek team was social although when you came up against a team with a star man the last thing you wanted was to be chasing leather all night.
If you got a chance to dismiss the key man early, then you grabbed it.
One game we were up against a very prolific Asian batter who had been demolishing Wednesday night teams all over Bradford. This night was no different as he smashed us for an explosive hundred but only after Big Phil Smith had dropped him on nought!
As a fielder, Big Phil was in the same category of Gasman. True enough, the batter hit the ball like an Exocet but at a good height for a regulation catch.
Reacting like a startled rabbit, he never moved until the ball crashed into his kneecap like a bullet, causing him to collapse like a tower block, the ball pinging off his knee and forcing a high pitched wail as he collapsed. Nobody could chase it for laughing.
The Watering Can Incident
Our challengers for the title in 1986 were Bradford League big boys Pudsey St Lawrence CC, a fantastic cricket club. They were miles better than us with an array of big guns at their disposal but we had the rain playing for us that year.
Generally it was damage limitation against these guys but they did have one thing in common with us in their choice of captain, a character nicknamed Amos, who was clearly a second teamer at best.
You could never escape the feeling that some of the PSL lot viewed us somewhat dismissively so there was not a lot of love lost between the two sides although we had little to match them on the cricket field.
By now the new clubhouse was up, situated across the field. The old toilets around the back of the changing rooms had limited appeal (unless you were a virologist) and were about to be demolished.
If occasionally you got caught short then most people used the groundsman’s watering can rather than risk malaria. By now the old hut had no running water and this was clearly not what the PSL boys were used to.
Amos let us know that we were failing his superstars. So when he popped his head into our dressing room and asked if we had any water that he could wet his wicket-keeping inner gloves with…well, of course we had. We handed him the watering can and tried to remember not to shake hands afterwards.
In the years since I have sought forgiveness – cricket is like that. Tofts Road, Pudsey remains one of my favourite local grounds and the club a benchmark to what we at the Villas should aspire to.
The watering can vanished years ago…
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