A stifling hot day was not what twenty-two over 50s wanted to spend chasing leather across a lush field of green pursuing dreams of yester-year.
The opening game of Villas’ 2014 Grey Fox campaign saw us take on old foes TABS – Thorp Arch & Boston Spa CC – and elect to bat on a sizzler. Fortunately, the bowling was more sedentary than sizzling.
There was little need to warm-up but team veteran Lynton thought it right to set an example, oiled his loins, stuck his Roger Bannister vest on and set off on the obligatory lap before wheezing back to the dressing room for a Red Bull.
Desperately short of runs I adopted my usual Saturday afternoon routine and prayed to the Gods for mercy.
A late selection issue meant that I remained the team youngster as Binny – Mr Grumpy – had gone down with the trots (possibly nerves but rumoured to be our Hon Secretary’s cooking) and so was unable to risk an afternoon behind the stumps without a bucket of sawdust on hand.
Mr Grumpy was even less cheery than usual so goodwill and bonhomie were the last things pouring from him as he strode around the ground, flushed cheeks amongst other things flushing.
The wicket was another batters’ paradise and bowlers’ hearts would be broken once more, even the curator’s whose slower ball later in the day would join the Space Shuttle in orbit; the art of deception had clearly left the great man.
Although officially out for the season, a post-operative Rick Lawrence, with the help of errant younger son Joe, had managed to smuggle some gear out of the house in Joe’s suitcase, neatly packed by his mum with a “Find Somewhere Else To Doss” note.
RSL was donning the whites, dodgy knee or not; all for one and one for all!
There were plenty of other dodgy bones in the dressing room for good company but none in danger of being broken into the pieces Julie would manage once the old boy got home.
New recruit Jeff Wilson was in for the injured (housebound and hen-pecked) Tubbs “The Legend” Taylor and was a ready made replacement for the great raconteur with a range of imaginative tales to make us all wonder if he had actually played cricket or simply smoked weed all his life.
He had loads of gear but we all knew what that could mean. With an array of new bats, it was clear that Jeff was on a twin mission. As JB patched up his knackered old plank in the corner you could tell the little man was secretly tempted even in his dotage.
Jeff brycleemed his hair, tucked in his belly and donned matching sweatbands; the ghost of Tubbs Taylor was alive and well in the dressing rooms. Could he bat? Well, as Tubbs can’t either who really cared?
Eventually Chiz returned from Trap One and we were off to the middle, not exactly to face chin music but more Doctor Death’s Dibbly Dobblies.
Batting with the old master is unique. Unperturbed by the demands of the short-form game, Chiz bedded in for the afternoon as the critics shouted their usual warm words of encouragement.
“Gerr on wi’ it!!!”
“Tha’s not batting in a test match!”
Soon meat pies started to be launched from the main stand.
The crowd were pouring through the gates and Critics’ Corner was full, whisky glasses were clinking and the old boys were generous as ever with their free (and generally useless) advice.
“They should pick this lot for t’First Team” said Granville, already halfway down the whisky bottle.
“No way it’s about time I had a recall, I’ll show ’em” said Brownie, two days on the lash in Critics’ Corner and having the weekend dreams are made of.
As TABS toiled in the sun, a procession of batters tucked in until Gaddy, Thackley CC (retired) became the first wicket of the day to a man in a painter and decorator’s t-shirt.
Jeff became victim number two – new bat or not – and it was time to leave the dressing room rather than risk the tales of what devilish delivery had accounted for him. He had bedded in well to the role of team tall tale teller aka fantasist.
A contented tea was taken as a total of 231 should have been comfortable. Opening bowler, Bob Hodson, tucked into a mountainous array of cakes oozing confidence like the jam from his Victoria Sponge.
In the absence of Mr Grumpy we needed a wicket keeper, well actually just someone to put on the gloves.
JB, fit again from his broken ankle sufficient enough to remind us all of his long-gone sprinting ability, had now pulled a hamstring. Donning the gloves it was noted that a pair of cymbals would be just as effective.
Comfortable for an hour – enough even to allow JB to spill several chances – we copped a late onslaught from the TABS middle order as balls shot skywards.
Bodies chased balls straining every sinew. Diving men over 50 was not a graceful sight and Stocky almost copped one in the face as his legs buckled beneath him running around the edge, landing like a plane minus it’s front wheels, pawing the advancing ball away at the last moment avoiding a monumental dental bill.
Chiz even attempted a dive, missed the fizzing ball by a mile and promptly got whacked on the back of the head by the rebound. Meanwhile Rick scanned the gates fearful of a late arrival from Julie and a whack on the head for him too.
Captain Clarke had to be called on to restore order and victory was finally achieved just in time for daughter-in-law Sarah to be carted away with two empty bottles of Prosecco the damming evidence. The sun lounger made a good stretcher.
A wonderful day with a game played as fiercely and as competitively as bodies in various states of decay would permit had been watched by a crowd of people perhaps savouring an experience that we all know may fade from our lives.
We’d chased around in the sun, got filthy knees and had satisfied faces smeared with sun cream and big happy smiles.
JB & I had had a wonderful spat – to the huge amusement of the opposition – as dummies flew out just like the old days but this time with a knowing wink that life did not quite depend on this today.
As a club we had publicised the fixture across the fifty or so juniors we try our best for and one turned up. Do they really have so many other options or has a sporting culture been destroyed by a lack of competitive school sport and political correctness: I suspect the latter.
And why are we all still stupidly competitive, no matter how far back our own glory days may now be? As JB remarked a few days later.
“Villas in the 60’s/ 70’s was not the east end or Belfast, so why are we so competitive? And where will the current U15’s be in 40 years time re their competitiveness?”
Certainly not pretending to be a wicket-keeper with a twanged hamstring and more chance of catching smallpox than the ball.
Once again sport had given us all one more fabulous day most likely lost on generations to come. It is their loss and such a pity they will never experience what we have been allowed to.
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