“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.
As a child growing up in the Seventies, the summer holidays were greeted with relish and anticipation. The smelly and worn school uniform was unceremoniously dumped in the bin – Oxfam would have rejected it anyway – and I dreamt of never ever going back.
To a young lad passionate about the game, having a cricket field on my doorstep was Heaven sent. So we headed for All Alone Road and six weeks of intense competitive sport, a fair bit of general malarkey and a chance to cop a sight of Mrs Blackburn who sunbathed nude in her garden.
Although we did not have the luxury of a twin-lane practice facility or the comfort of being padded from head to toe in protective equipment – even the mandatory “box” was shared – these seemed minor issues.
To say the facilities were basic back in those days was kind at best; perhaps the most significant improvement did not happen until the late 1980s with the advent of running hot water in the new changing rooms. We were used to stinking as kids so cared little.
We would roll up to play out seemingly never ending games, often with a hard “corky” ball, often without any pads or gloves and well before helmets were ever conceived.
The wickets were a milk crate – assuming Duck had not incinerated it given his obsession with pyrotechnics – and provided by Stevie Dunwell, who lived adjacent to the cricket field and across the road from the Medley family who were cricket mad.
Lads Paul and Craig were encouraged all the way by dad Harry who umpired in the Bradford Central League for many years with distinction and a fair bit of panache. In this day and age he could have been sponsored by Armani.
Harry the umpire was a “not-out” man, that is to say that he generally refused point blank to give LBW (leg before wicket) decisions. Immaculately dressed, umpire’s coat pressed to perfection each week, he possessed a calm aura as bowlers went mad weekly at his refusals to lift the dreaded finger.
Passing away far too young, I am sure there were a few bowlers mumbling in the pews as they paid their last respects convinced he had deprived them of a few career wickets; equally batters mourned his passing.
As soon as breakfasts were wolfed down it was off to the field, relying on jungle drums not Vodafone; somehow we all turned up regardless. Wickets were pitched, teams were picked and battle commenced.
There we were batting for survival in defence of a plastic milk crate with everybody who bowled wanting to be a fast bowler and break bones, inspired by the mighty West Indian team of the time.
Ridiculous long runs and various attempts at scary faces to intimidate the batters were followed by regular howls of appeals to non-existent umpires that merely served to frighten the local watching dogs, our only onlookers till Browny the groundsman rolled up in his coughing and spluttering two-seater.
It was survival of the fittest or, in Stevie Dunwell’s case, “it’s my crate, sod you lot, I’m off!” if he copped a decision he did not like. This often resulted in a kick of the crate and a complete collapse of the game.
The only way to resume was to offer Stevie a “life” – an early example of the Decision Review System (DRS) – so he could continue batting.
He had a regular struggle to curb his temper and one junior match he actually threw his bat at team-mate Jonty Haigh, having been run out by Jonty, there being no milk crate to assault.
Whilst we played out our games on the Kings Road side of the field, over on the Willow boundary resided the older and bigger lads including Rick Lawrence, the Tattersalls and a scruffy little lad called Brennan…who remains a scruffy little lad to this day.
There was also Pete Clarke (current 2nd X1 captain), Nick Gibson (legend), the Tophams and Rolly Baines who never quite got used to his middle stump being flattened most weeks when Saturday came.
As fielders congratulated the bowler, Rolly would run through the shot again and again and again only to be shooed off by his replacement who needed to take guard. Rolly could often be seen at midnight still out on the wicket, mystified.
The big lads were joined by Brent Shackleton who had lived on “our side” but skipped across the border to one of the new houses lining the edge of the field in the 1960s.
Occasionally they let us join them as they played out games over the entire week but this was really just to make us field all day; the pecking order had been established and we knew our places.
In later years, to improve our techniques we also played out long matches at the home of the future First Team Captain, Dave Tattersall, whose family home had a huge driveway constructed out of block paving.
This was likely to crack quicker than a wicket on the sub-continent so we viewed Willow Gardens as a finishing school for all of us hoping to make future England tours of the sub-continent.
With fielders crowding round the bat and bowlers doing passable impressions of the Pakistan spin bowler Abdul Qadir, the pressure to survive was on.
If spin failed there would be attempts at imitations of West Indian fast bowler Michael Holding with Rick Lawrence running in down Willow Gardens before a swift left turn into the drive and a launch of the ball; there were plenty of bouncers and much ducking to do.
Batting against a tennis ball on an uneven surface with fielders under your nose was actually seriously good practice but we just enjoyed the competitiveness of it all.
Dave also worked for United Biscuits so the regular tea breaks – supplied by his lovely mum Winnie – were feasts of broken chocolate digestives and squashed Jaffa Cakes.
As he worked flexitime – not that UB knew and yet to be introduced in the UK anyway – the only threat to play was the lunchtime arrival of dad Denis in the company Jaguar who insisted on retaining his parking slot “on a length”.
He never quite said it but the rumble of the Jaguar meant in no uncertain terms “…piss off you lot, I want my lunch in peace!”
We were never quite sure that Denis shared his eldest son’s approach to flexible working practices so it was always wise to abandon the arena until he went back to work. With the Jag off in the distance, we regrouped and it was game on again.
In the days of no mobile phones there would be few interruptions save for some more Jaffa Cakes at the “tea” break.
Of course there were girls as well plus the first temptations of a bottle of Olde English cider from Mr Patel’s VG shop. But girls were scary and cider tasted shit; cricket was where our hearts lay and there would be much more time for girls later aided and abetted by the cider.
We simply loved playing the game of cricket and when winter came along, before we all vanished into our homes for the long dark nights, with only the Morecambe & Wise Christmas Special to look forward to, there was still floodlit cricket.
People credit the Australian media mogul – the late Kerry Packer – with creating day-night cricket and it’s coloured clothing, white ball and lights but we got there first, at the Villas.
As September shortened the days, we tried to make the cricket season last forever. On practice nights we hauled one of the giant sight-screens across the field stole some line marking from the garage and painted the balls white, ruining the old practice mat.
This was not such a great idea as the screens were white also but by leaving every light on we could find in the changing rooms there was just about enough to get by.
I also had winter nets to look forward to on my parents’ driveways where Our Kid and I would play with the “floodlights” on. These were the kitchen lights and though feint, we never resorted to the light meter and played out some tense matches late into the night.
I remember the pleasure of bowling a snorter past Our Kid’s nose, smashing loudly into the garage door, drowned out only by my hysterical appeal mimicking the great Dennis Lillee, shattering the neighbourhood peace. And then my Mother’s voice shattering it some more.
Soon though, the cold dark nights would arrive and 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 the Jaguar.
Fast forward four decades and perhaps cricket mirrors life; it’s faster, more aggressive and, sadly, often played in a spirit unbecoming of a great game steeped in incomparable traditions and behaviours.
Money at the highest level dominates and the game is a slave to Sky Television. Local leagues are also tarnished by a short-sighted pursuit of status funded at the expense of facilities and any long-term custody of the game.
“Talent” money is not new, it is simply that many who now receive this do so from delusional and desperate clubs clinging to an undefined and uncertain future.
Money is being shovelled into back pockets of average players diverted from ever deteriorating facilities left for someone else to sort out when the roof finally comes in.
On the field, sledging – the art of the verbals – has also been witlessly imported from the professional game but on a base, crude and inane level. Many who attempt it do so being unable to string a coherent sentence together on any normal day so you can only guess the bile that results on a field of play.
It is an increasingly ugly side to the recreational game and leagues appear unable to tackle it.Changing times they may be but cricket is and should remain unique in it’s customs and traditions; the “Spirit of Cricket” enshrined by the MCC is vanishing fast.
Days of innocence they may have been but thankful we remain for all the milk crate brought us.
Leave a Reply