Saturdays Without Molly
My first season in the Stiffs since teenage acne and an unhealthy obsession with the blond one in ABBA ended with the eerie sound of what we cricketers call the “death rattle” around 1.15pm last Saturday leaving plenty of time to do M&S before we fielded!
Stumps were splattered as I dragged a wide one on and had to trudge off head bowed with one last fling of the guilt-free bat into the corner of the dressing room cleared in advance by knowing team-mates.
As Shutty later remarked in the bar over post-match analytical beers, I should really know better at my age than to go chasing wide ones. Temptation is a cruel fate.
A mid-table finish after chasing honours for so long was a poor reflection of a season full of highs and the inevitable lows that sport provides. And yet if it really was all about the end result then many of us would have packed in decades ago.
Next Saturday we won’t have a win or a loss to contemplate and drown with beers but nor will we have that inimitable banter and dressing room spirit that eleven individuals (how PC…Ed) concoct come rain or shine between the walls of the inner sanctum.
No more free ranging discussions on world politics, Scottish independence and Kelly Brook’s tits.
There will be no ADHD promoting sharing of the jelly beans, matched only by Marsy secretly popping another Paracetamol after another “unexpected” late night as a few older ones reach for the comforts only Ibuprofen can deliver.
We were nobly led by our paternal guardian Pete all summer and had players supplied not by lucrative central contracts but courtesy of Chiz’s mobile and a directory longer than a dating agency. How wife Linda managed to avoid selection only he knows.
Like a wise old sage, Pete manipulated fragile confidences and massaged egos like an old Thai bride. He also dealt with our eccentric and sectionable fringe – the token mad wicket-keeper – with aplomb.
All wicket-keepers are mad that is not a matter of dispute and our’s – Reverse Rob – is no different. Reverse gets his name because of his passion for the reverse sweep, a shot that requires hours of dedicated practice hitting hundreds of balls.
Reverse has clearly never practised this shot in his life but most Saturdays it is the first one he attempts.
Banter ceases as Reverse strides to the crease, eyes are fixated on him as the next man in knowingly slides his batting gloves on. This may not take that long.
If we don’t know what will happen next then the opposition are often left dumbfounded. Eccentric, wacky even joyous and just very occasionally bat meets ball; watching Reverse is a sheer joy to behold unless you are next man in I suppose.
He strides back having missed one again, shaking his head at the frustration of it all as we smile in unison at this daft old game.
But that’s the essence of sport; we may secretly know we are border-line crap but we just want to believe that we can bat for one day like Alistair Cook and not Donald Duck.
Our leg-spinner Matt -attempting to master an art harder to understand than women, which is largely what we are avoiding by playing the game – will bowl an over of dipping, bouncing and viciously spinning deliveries to confound most.
The next will be peppered all over the park vanishing to all parts.
We batters will smote it to the boundary and in that instance will convince ourselves we could be Kings before chipping the next ball – a juicy full toss – straight into the surprised and grateful arms of the fat lad picking his nose at square leg.
And when that catch we term the dolly goes to grass there is not a hole big enough for any of us to crawl into.
Quite simply, the game brutally exposes our inadequacies for all to see – well at least the token two men and a dog that turn up each week unfailingly – but we play on better men for it all.
And what will the two men – Big Geoff and Our Barry plus Ripple – do next week? With us all season cheering on the lads led by spearhead Our Jordan it’s like having an escort from G4S with Barry riding shotgun.
Personally, I feel a lot less secure walking the streets out of season knowing that Big Geoff is not on my shoulder! Eight foot tall, weighing in at twice Molly and a man who wears shorts in winter, nobody messes with Big Geoff.
So bags are packed away, crap shots forgotten and statistics confirming our worst fears are soon yesterday’s news. As Shutty said so sagely “soon it will be next year and more dreams of glory.”
And then just when you think life has returned to normal there is the inevitable and inimitable text staring at you with temptation writ large on this your first free Saturday for months.
“Ey up lad I’ve escaped. We’re in t’Bear for a few…see you in ten!”
Political Correctness For Dogs?
A fellow coach was relating a tale to me the other day of just how far our ridiculous “reward culture” has spread.
Used to being unable to tell certain youngsters that their future clearly lay in a secure institution or that they would not become millionaires just because Jordan had, he was shocked to find that it was now expected of him to treat dogs – no pun intended – in the same fashion.
Having acquired a dog from Dog’s Trust, thereby saving it from presumably becoming a microwave meal in China, he was perplexed when he asked for advice on the dog’s eating habits which seemed to include most of his lounge furniture.
Apparently, reproaching the dog is not advisable as they can sense disapproval and are sensitive things. You must reward the pampered pooch – presumably with some more tasty DFS – ensuring it feels valued and desired.
Not for the first time…unbelievable!
Trivia Corner
Type in “rich” using predictive text and it comes up with “shag”. Just thought I would share that gem from the padded cell.
Leave a Reply