The Morning After
In and around Bradford, several old cricketers got up last Monday morning feeling stiffer than they could ever remember but with limbs partially soothed by the safe negotiation of their first match in the Grey Fox Trophy 2013, a competition for over fifties cricketers…and no…you don’t get a Parker pen simply for applying. Our thanks to the opposition – the Dales Over 70s – for their sporting and warm approach to the day although I will be consulting the English Cricket Board (ECB) after being sledged by a 75 year old.
It was a surreal start to the match with no sign of any pre-match warm up drills or laps around the pitch, just gentle banter in the changing rooms as strapping was applied with care and pills were popped; that is until the chaotic JB arrived and scattered the contents of his bag like a demented woman seeking her lipstick, destroying the peace in a flash, as he searched for gear untouched since last season.
It was suggested he should have brought a sniffer dog and had he done so he may have found his box at the end of the day, the subject of a “whodunit” but then again, who would want it? Long gone are the days when men were men and shared plastic protectors of genitalia with gay abandon but, at the time of writing, the little man’s little protector had gone missing. Anyway, on with the tale…so to speak…
The crowd had begun to build showing that cricket was alive and well with the young as the ECB keep reminding us all; blankets were arranged over chairs and flasks were unscrewed. The evergreen Mick Adams, 73, whirled down a few balls to show skipper Lawrence just what the team would be missing following his shock omission from the team in favour of T. Brown. Were the rumours true, was Tom Brown, 77, making a comeback, could he stay off the whisky long enough?
Not so because the T. Brown on the teamsheet was the wildcard pick, Tony Brown, famed for deeds on the football not cricket field; however, post smashing a quick thirty, bowling with guile and fielding like a 30 year old he can expect many a call for the rest of the season.
Before we began a crisis erupted in the kitchen; the tea ladies were threatening a mutiny over the ruling that stated teas must cost no more than £2 each. Our Chief Tea Lady strode across the field, battered on the home dressing room door, causing some frantic covering up as we all cowered inside. We looked to husband, Molly, umpiring for the day, to soothe his lovely wife but he simply refused to come out of the umpire’s room, desperately trying to secrete his whisky bottle and find some peppermints. A compromise was eventually reached and we were finally allowed to continue with our silly game.
We won the toss and elected to bat and there I was again, opening the batting with the Old Master, Sachin “Chiz” Hizzett. Both of us were more nervous than we could remember as the 75 year old opening bowler marked out his three yard run up; failure may have necessitated instant retirement and a funeral pyre of recently bought equipment. Adding to the confusion was the sight of umpire, Molly, dressed smarter than any of us had ever seen him; who had scrubbed him up for the day? Did they have Holy Communions for fat forty-nine year olds?
Soon the runs were flowing as the Old Master started to find his timing and we were off to a flyer although after a hard run three it did look as if he may need that portable oxygen tent; it was a joy to watch as he picked off the opposition bowler like a surgeon, piercing the field with precision batting and skilfully retaining the strike to avoid running ever again.
Overly conscious that we did not possess anybody who had bowled in a competitive game for at least a decade we knew we had to amass a sizeable score. With the foundations established in went the big guns with Second Team skipper, Peter Clarke, decked out in hand me down gear from his two lads, sent in to bludgeon the bowling. Having two lads of a similar size means Pete regularly has the best gear money can buy…even if it was his own money. If the lads look good then, eventually, so will Pete.
And then it was time for the moment the crowd had been waiting for, getting excited under their blankets and stirring cups of tea in nervous anticipation; into the arena marched the old legend, Brent Shackleton. Soon the ball was being flailed to all parts as we reached the safety of a score even our bowling would be able to protect; one nervous Dales bowler would spend the tea break wondering the sense of whether he really should have bounced the old great, with a 15mph delivery sitting the old boy on his arse, much to the delight of the Saga Terrace.
It was left to skipper Lawrence to shepherd the tail – which comprised of most of the top order from the 1980s; a one legged JB, the crippled Allan “Duck” Stockdale and our half blind skipper got us well beyond 200 as the Dales players turned thoughts to tea, plump buns and fluffy cakes. Our tail failed to wag though and the Dales claimed a late success with the highly prized scalp of raconteur Tubbs Taylor who would have a long tale to tell explaining how he missed yet another straight one shown on the speed gun at 28mph.
Could we defend 243 in 30 overs? Well after Lynton’s first over the odds were not looking good with a few wide deliveries necessitating full length dives from our skipper behind the sticks. Barracking ensued from the lively terracing as local drunks Lawrence Jnr and Marsden Jnr jeered the efforts of their seniors hoping their days of competing here were long into the future.
Nerves were soothed by a few early wickets from Shackleton, steaming up the hill like a trustworthy locomotive; the run rate dried up and then a magic moment replayed from yesteryear. JB, perched so aptly at the position known as short-leg (aka suicide spot) squatted down as Shackleton puffed up the hill again. The batter lunged forward off his best hip, “Snicko” heard a nick and the ball cannoned off the edge, into the pad and then flew somewhere into JB’s two bellies and three sweaters. We rushed up, turned him on his back and searched for the ball and there it was as the batsman trudged off sportingly mouthing “lucky little bastard”.
Now it was time for the introduction of our “ringer”, Gaddy, from local big money, big eating rivals Thackley CC, who also had his own son, ex-Villas player Tom, watching nervously from the sidelines; although he too claimed not to have bowled in many a year, soon he was hitting a length. With Gaddy bowling though it left us severely short in the field as he was the only one that could actually throw the ball more than thirty yards; if Headingley beckoned we would have to retrieve the ball in shuttles.
Our fielding was enthusiastic but there were occasions when the crowd did get lively, and chasing the ball often brought out guffaws from those tucked safely behind the wind breaks and under the blankets. The shameless barracking of Villas great, Stockdale, as he loped after several balls in the outfield, will be brought up in Committee at the next meeting…once we finish discussing critical matters like the quality of the pork scratchings.
And then it was the moment the crowd had been queuing since dawn for; the big comeback. The last time I had pretensions as a bowler, I had a poster of Chris Evert on my bedroom wall. I marked my old run-up out, the same one that is still etched onto my parents’ driveway, sucked in some air, tried to block out the jeers and taunts from the blanket brigade and urged myself to “bowl like the wind, young man!”
Amazingly, I bowled the first three overs with no “filth” at all, even persuading the skipper to give me more slips than the legend Shackleton – although by now this was because those amassed in the slips were unable to move at all. Shackleton sulked, kicked the turf and Mike Adams left the ground in disgust vowing never to watch a game of cricket again.
Even my Sharapova like grunts and squeals seemed to be in tune with the day; and then the concentration lapsed for one small second and the killer ball they all remembered – the beamer – was unleashed. Victims down the ages have included Alex Wharf (ex-England) and Jimmy Poutch (hard as nails Bradford League cricketer), both hit on the bonce by a head high delivery from me. Fortunately, this time the Pudsey Congs Fourth Team batter had enough time to smile and pat this away. A few balls later, and he smashed one straight back; another catch spilled, one more blackened finger and good reason to squeal now.
The win was secured and all retired happy to the bar happy that we did not have to rely on the rule that states, in the event of no play, the contest should be decided by a poem. So…here is our effort simply for posterity.
To be in the company once again
Of such a bunch of daft old men
Seeking glories once more upon the cricket field
Praying bones and limbs would not yield
Pressure forgotten from battles of yesteryear
No matter as nerves abound with new and greater fears
Can we all do it one more time
See the ball, hit through the line
Gentle banter starts the day, hopeful eyes seek out the rain
No warm ups needed, we all know there will be pain
The toss is made, its time to go, pads on, big deep breaths inhaled
Good news though, by the looks of the bowlers we wont be impaled
Its all over much too soon, like everything good we all now know
Winners again defeating a noble and brave foe
Beers are sunk, the facts and figures irrelevant
Twenty two old men, once more completely in their element
Yet one more mystery to solve for the day
Prized, valued equipment of JB, gone astray
Who on Earth would want his old sweaty little box
And what would now protect his hairy little ….(no more! Ed)
Louis Gacquin says
I work with Molly and that’s the smartest I’ve ever seen him dressed too
Gas man says
Well done to you all,proving there is still life in old dogs. I call you has beens no more, (still look younger than you lot though).