With inimitable timing we approached last Saturday’s crunch arse-end of the table game with seven regular picks missing from our First Team.
The journey to the game was to be a test of character too, shorn of the pleasure playing for the Dead Men brings via my chauffeur duties to Harry our much loved scorer.
Once again I was in charge of transporting our Antipodean, still struggling with the notion that Bradford is not a twenty-four hour city, at least not for anything legal.
Earlier in the summer I disabled my door chime to try to get an unbroken night’s sleep as Adelaide’s only descendent of Count Dracula frequently returned in the wee small hours.
He claimed it sounded like a Chinese takeaway; drier than a prawn cracker I suggested there were not many open at six in the morning.
I fear our “agent” – Snake Skin Stu – sold him an upside down fake Rolex. Next year the “guest house” doors are to be timed to lock at midnight and a sleeping bed placed in the greenhouse for the summer’s incumbent.
Either that or I shall employ a fearsome landlady. I have already asked Molly if Mrs Molly will move in with me though he signed the transfer documents rather too quickly.
Our young scorer was also my responsibility and as I set off both their heads dropped in unison, fixated on brightly lit screens full of pointless conversation crushing crap.
I remain convinced most youngsters would survive longer without water than their mobiles.
Halfway around the Leeds ring road I swear I had heard more noise from a funeral cortege. How I longed for Harry bemoaning his useless Bradford Bulls, his bad back and tales of “Our Lass” and their trips cruising around the world.
Meanwhile I was cruising with two mutes until all of a sudden a grunt came from beneath the Antipodean’s cap worn Bradford drug dealer style.
“Got one!” he offered, sideways cap twitching.
Feigning interest I enquired what he had “got” and wished, in an instant, I had not bothered. It seems they were playing a game unknown to me and most with a broader outlook on life or actually with a life – Pokemon Go.
He explained they were collecting “characters” en route; how I wished I could have collected a few too, especially those that could speak.
I spotted a large lamp-post and considered if the team would manage with nine players and no scorer. Reasoning there would be nobody to pay the league fine, I averted my gaze back to the road.
Fortunately salvation was at hand as I had been trialling my new CD “Dark Nights Are A Coming” and so slipped it in silently, smoothly and without protest. Shirley Bassey, Coldplay, Tony Bennett and more flooded out and soon life was good again.
I pumped up the volume to drown out the occasional cyber-induced grunt as imaginary furry creatures were being slaughtered and all because I was driving to a cricket match.
“I’d like to run away from you, but if you never found me I would die. I’d like to break the chains you put around me, but I know I never will.”
And then the ultimate break-up song of all – “The Winner Takes It All” – sung by a heartbroken Agnetha, all flowing blond locks, smudged mascara and saying to the eighteen year-old me “come rescue me young boy” way back in 1981.
I tried to explain the lyrics and the heartache behind them to young Kara, a life ahead with who knows what to comprehend.
“Sounds like another whining Sheila!” came forth from under the cap, as he went back to poking his screen.
I realised this cultural fest was wasted and longed for Bruce and Born To Run.
Avoiding the lure of any more potential crash-sites, we arrived at Alwoodley to find the rest of the team devouring Ibuprofen like jelly beans.
If you listened hard you could imagine the team song being hummed as we changed…“who do you think you are kidding Mr Hitler?…” Dad’s Army was in town and ready for battle.
Molly was stood naked showing off his Crete tan and evidence of the biggest pair of Speedos on the planet or at least an aversion on Mrs Molly’s part to rub sun-cream where the sun don’t shine.
I suggested he cover up; he suggested I “fook off”.
So good to share a Saturday afternoon with the old lag, his appearances limited by Mrs Molly’s newly negotiated central contract. Sales of Saltaire Blonde have collapsed at the club and our ruination is nigh.
It had the look of a long day under a baking sun – a sight as rare as a teetotal Australian in daylight – and our “warm-up” routine suggested we were conserving energy as Molly and Pete sat down for a cuppa in the shade.
If only they had invented solar-powered cricket shirts.
We lost the toss and wandered out caked in sun-screen and praying for a good day or a quick and pain-free heart attack.
Over seven hours later, two teams with few pretensions to the future of cricket, had fought it out gamely and honestly till the very last ball and a tie was the end result. This in an age where all concerned agree the game should be shorter and faster?
The main reason is an idiotic rule change that means leg-side wides are now enforced on us as they are the professionals. Fine for the pros who practice more in a day than the average club cricketer in a season but ridiculous for us.
We are now extending rather than shortening the game and small wonder the game continues to lose people.
At this rate we will need floodlights and the umpires will be wandering the streets, unable to get back into their care homes, pointing upright fingers at local drunks wandering home.
Even Mrs Molly struggled to believe her man, the master of a thousand excuses, as to this late finish. And all I had was twenty more minutes to look forward to with the Pokemon Twins!
I reached for Shirley and was lost in an instant.
Leave a Reply