“Every dog has it’s day.”
Relegated to the minor Plate competition in this year’s annual humiliation for aged cricketers, we convened on All Alone Road one more time this summer, the dubious “prize” on offer, a trip to Scarborough at an ungodly hour.
Respectful to our visitors as ever, Molly got to work with the club vacuum although one wag was heard to point out that the missus would have given a better blow. In my dreams thought the old lag as he clung to the hoover safe with what he knew was best.
We’d offered Tuna Man salvation from the tv remote and my sofa for the day with the responsibility of scoring. Payment was discussed and agreed upon as a four-pack of John West in brine.
“Yah!” came back the excited reply and the deal was done.
Upset at being left out given our parlous bowling resources, El Presidente Haighy turned up early with his boots just in case, having had a pre-match rub in his favourite horse liniment from devoted wife Dot.
“‘An give them boots a dab ‘o whitener lass” he said as Dot lathered him gently in anticipation of donning the whites once more, the stench well worth an afternoon free of the old soak.
Just in case El Presidente tweaked a fetlock we’d also sent for reserves.
Entrusted with leadership once again, Budweiser Medley duly lost the toss and we were condemned to running around like the old idiots we most surely now are before the real purpose of the day, cakes and more cakes.
El Presidente was sent the message that he was consigned to Critics’ Corner and the whisky bottle again; we’d opted for youth with Old Wily – Lynton Marsden – opening the bowling with West Indies reject Devon from the top end.
It was good to spend another Sunday afternoon with my old mucker Duck. We reminisced about times far too distant to have any real meaning now…when once we strode this turf alluding to greater things…
Molly, now freed from hoover duties, was also in the mood for a chuckle having nabbed some of the free lubes on offer in the dressing rooms.
Never knock a trier but most of the smart money was on a straight knock-out via the rolling pin in a few hours time.
Chiz was patrolling the covers looking like a scruffy teenager with his shirt hanging out. He was quick to point out that this was not some desire to look like one of the kids, more an inability of the shirt to stretch over his well cultivated gut.
Director of Old Farts Cricket – The Curator – was as feisty as ever having promised long-suffering Hon Lady Sec Ms Marsden a romantic weekend in Scarborough watching old men bordering on senility and dementia.
Romance seemed alive and well, unlike the ruddy cheeked Curator who was huffing and puffing like an old steam engine, only going slower. As we were getting flayed to all parts it looked like the dream was fading.
Local recluse and club stalwart Bob Underwood made as rare an appearance as the club fox, the beard a little more greyer each and every passing year. He looked as if he had been feeding a bit better than the fox though.
The spectators were huddled in little pockets hoping bodies stayed intact.
The Critics were there as ever, devoted to the cause, happy to be alive and in the company of El Presidente’s whisky train. What would they do in one short month as another season passed them by?
One of our new recruits for the day was Darwin’s granddad Alan who actually moved a bit better than son Basil, who was still working out his career average as the Cottingham innings came to a close at a challenging 194.
Tuna Man raced across the turf at a clip not seen all summer for his free feed. Those of us that had endured 30 overs of Budweiser’s parachute field placings (put a fielder where the ball dropped last) sensed the opposition had a few more than we wanted.
It was a valiant chase, the highlight being a cameo unbeaten 30 from Tony All Sports Brown still wearing his dad’s sweater and batting under the watchful gaze of the Stiff’s captain, on the odd occasion he glanced up from his phone.
With the rate at 12 an over, things looked bleak but then Old Wily astounded the entire crowd with what was rumoured to be his first ever six hit. The ball sailed over the white line and, just for a brief moment, the dream was on again.
An ECB inspector escorted Old Wily off the ground for a “regulation” drug test.
We got within one clean hit to tie the game but, in truth, had thrown it away well before the last minute heroics.
So no trip to Scarborough this year and rumours abound that this may be our swansong after four eventful years culminating in that magnificent day only two summers ago.
“I’m burning my gear!” said The Curator.
Has the Villas fox had it’s day?
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