“The great thing about playing team sport is you win and lose together, and the pain is never as bad when you share it.”
Brian O’Driscoll
One year older, one year dafter and that little bit closer to a wooden box, we convened again to commence another Grey Fox Over 50s campaign shorn of a few stalwarts from past endeavours.
Disco Taylor was swivelling his snake hips in the bars of Tenerife doubtless causing an Earth Wind & Fire revival and a resurgence in the mullet hair style.
Tony Brown was sunning himself in Jamaica rather than Church Fenton CC, whilst Molly was in transit back from Epsom and en route to Boot Camp Carol and detox.
As is customary we offered this vision of the future to our overseas player, Whispering Chris, as an insight into what lies ahead many years into the future. Our Kid was in tow too as team photographer, ready to record mercilessly our individual humiliations.
It was a pleasure to offer a lift to our opening bowler, Big Dev; after an hour in the car I realised that I’d met someone so far right of UKIP as to make Nigel Farage look like a politically correct soppy liberal.
The first challenge of the day was locating Church Fenton, situated in the middle of nowhere. Awaiting us were a select eleven from the Wetherby League, so we anticipated a stiff task for our motley crew.
Binns The Curator, newly appointed Director of Cricket (Old Farts Section) was making a balls of his first task of the day, that of finding the ground, despite driving the length and breadth of Britain for a living.
We passed him engaged doubtlessly in sweet conversation with long suffering partner, Hon Secretary Lady Marsden. Steam spewed out of the windows as we guessed they would not be doing the London to Brighton rally any day soon.
Of course my old mate Duck was also lost as is the norm. This is a man who once turned up at Pool CC only to find he was in the wrong dressing room with the wrong team, with us playing down the road at the now defunct Pool Mills CC.
Returning to the fold we welcomed back Stuart “Abdul” Harris, exiled to the East Coast many years ago but still wearing his junior batting pads, coated in Dulux gloss magnolia and wafting a bat thinner than paper.
Still with his impish grin we looked forward to the slayer of England & Yorkshire’s Anthony McGrath way back in 1994 twirling his arm over again.
Our new recruit and “ringer” – if you can call a sixty year-old with no kit such – was an old tormentor of our batters. Jacko – ex of every club in West Bradford – used to bowl slow, slow dibble dobble and took a shed load of wickets, mainly Duck’s, every year.
“F*** me” said Duck as he met his old foe “You’ll probably get me out today as well and we’re in the same team!”
This was what legendary Australian captain Steve Waugh meant when he coined the phrase “mental disintegration”.
Jacko being a fellow Denholmer a la Abdul and Molly, offered the usual effusive, flowery response from natives of that part of Bradford far way on a hill full of sheep.
“Aye!”
Our newly appointed captain Budweiser Medley – on loan from Idle Tracksuits CC – won the toss and explained his tactics to a hushed dressing room.
“F*** me we’re batting! I’m not chasing around in that hot sun all afternoon. Where’s the bar?”
A youngster of prodigious talent several generations ago, Budweiser has battled for years with his addiction to the little brown bottles with the red sticker. A gut resembling a pregnant woman suggests the battle continues.
It was my honour to open the batting once again with our Chairman of Adult Cricket, Chiz, a man even quieter than Whispering Chris.
Back from a week long cruise rubbing oil all over his wife, Lovely Luscious Linda, the man seemed glad to be safe again in the company of men, the only oil on offer linseed.
We got off to a comfortable start, with the old master stroking the ball with the same tenderness Luscious had basked in for the last week.
The outfield was like glass; it was as if our very own Jones The Mower had been weaving his patterns all week, shaving the turf closer than a Latvian lap dancer.
Caressing it to all parts, it was a joy to watch till it ended in a slog that said “I’m shagged!”
In at number three and still in turmoil following the sight of his nemesis Jacko, Duck could barely hit the skin off a rice pudding; Cow corner was never on a pitch match of his many match winning innings. Soon it was all over.
Budweiser soon followed, falling to a shot that a Test Match Special commentator would have described as “a rather agricultural hoik!”
With Mr Calm – PC – bludgeoning the ball to all parts and a cameo from Compo Brennan we reached a respectable, if below par, 168.
As our bowling attack looked unlikely to threaten our Under 13 team, Bet Fred was offering long odds.
The undoubted highlight of the innings was the sight of The Curator running a three with Compo; some judges suggested the little man had been out sprinted by the one wearing the sports bra.
Most thought it was incredible that the bra held fast. Lady Marsden claimed no responsibility.
It was time to savour the teas and pray for rain so we could avoid unnecessary bodily humiliations. The scones would have been well received by Villas food critic James Halliday had he been present, but a burp and a wipe of the lips from Budweiser was sufficient praise.
Our fan club wondered why they could not think of anything better to do on a Sunday as they flooded into the ground.
Soon we were in action again, the cream scones having been decimated. Big Dev and Old Wily Marsden – eighty year-old Lynton – opened our bowling as the Wetherby Wrinklies got off to a flyer. Soon wickets began to tumble though as Old Wily bowled a cunning spell.
Every time the ball went skywards it seemed to end up in the bucket like hands of Mr Calm. Jacko came on and I swear he was off his long run of three paces from the 1980s.
Wickets continued to tumble as the Wrinklies seemed without an answer. Even Budweiser had a bowl, my groin failing me not for the first time, as he challenged Compo for the scruffiest player of the match award.
It began to resemble a stroll as players relaxed just like the olden days a win assured…
Abdul put the horrors of dropping a catch his wife would have taken to one side…
Chiz was still in cruise mode and looked as if he still wanted to party…
Meanwhile, one old man wandered the edge clutching his beer wondering about the selection process for three weeks hence and how to tell the wife he’d lost his shirt at Epsom.
Champagne moment of the day came as a Wrinklie tripped up mid wicket attempting a quick single. Unable to get to his feet he attempted a version of the front crawl to make the five yards to safety and nearly beat Budweiser, not known for his sprinting ability.
In the end we won comfortably, the first of three games against select teams from whole leagues. With returning campaigners into the fold selection will be tricky.
One more fine day in wonderful company.
One Hundred Years Ago
Lest we should ever forget read on.
Leave a Reply