" It was late afternoon. Still late afternoon. It would always be late afternoon. The Old Man was holding on with all the tightness of the years. His hands had long since stopped feeling the pain. But occasionally he was reminded.
'Do you need to rest Old Man,' the Boy said. 'I always need to rest,' the Old Man said.
'Tell me about the great Maurice Leyland,' the Boy said. 'Aye, he were a one,' the Old Man said. 'Leftie like you. But by 'eck could he play. On a bugger of a track at Barnsley. It was 1938. The Aussies had brought that bastard, what was his name? Fleetwood-Smith. Ee, he could twirl it. Round and round he would turn that ball. Round and round like it would never stop. Just round and bloody round.' The Old Man stopped. He stared out into the trees as if he had just caught sight of something. A vision of his past. When men soaked their skin in Surgical Spirit and toughened up their hands with Burdock and nettle juice. 'When this is over,' the Old Man said. 'When we've scored them bloody runs. When we've won this bloody game. When it's over and our work is done. When the clapping and drinking has stopped. Remind me to stop off in them bushes. I think I saw a fifty pence piece.' "
From The Old Yorkshireman And The Sea by Ernest Hemmingway.
|
The week had been one of encroaching uneasiness. Zoob was away in Cheshire lifting cushions for Caroline, Ditch was strangely quiet and Andy Mckee had passed over 1st XI duties for the week to Julian White. The team was pretty settled, and had indeed been finalised by Monday night. Norcross himself had a few real life things to attend to, and so had neglected the final piece of his jigsaw; Easter. There had been talk of him moving to the 1sts as predicted after his glorious showing against Oxshott, and again it was mooted, this time by Julian. Caspar would come down, Eyles would be brutally discarded and Nasser would bowl. Fair enough. By Friday night, all real life matters successfully attended to, Norcross checks with Julian on the state of play. "Oh, sorry Dan. No, we decided to keep Caspar." Frantic rush to the phone, sheepish father and then Easter himself on a mobile later and we are back down to ten players.
A brief bit of background may be necessary at this point. Norcross had had an unusually good day on the Friday and was celebrating his good fortune in rumbustuous style whilst maintaining a prudent proximity to his phone lest any hayseeds should cry off. Indeed before the Easter episode at about 7 p.m. Matt Wood had cried on, but Norcross' preference was for Eyles whom he suspected still thought he was playing anyway in the absence of Caspar. It is not a celebratory style to suit all tastes. It entails stocking your kitchen with enough drinks of variety and strength that there can be no likelihood of leaving the flat again. It frequently is accompanied by short term visitors who avail themselves of what's going on for a couple of hours before they head for more outdoor pursuits. It is not a style that entirely suits Norcross either but four summers of Friday night surprises has left your captain positively agoraphobic. All was not lost, however, so he rang Eyles to tell him the good news. Answerphone on. Now you can only wait. It is the worst part of the whole captaincy thing. You can try ringing again, and inevitably will do so, but Norcross was mindful that Eyles was in a sensitive state anyway about his position in the team, and having been dropped himself two summers earlier by Branson, he was acutely aware of the bitterness, despair and self-loathing it can engender, especially when the man in question is virtually a club legend (though in this case more for his social capacities than anything else). By 1.30 a.m. he decided he had to try again but left the most hopelessly inebriate message imaginable that probably only just fell short of a proposition of marriage.
The next day Norcross stirred after a fitful four hours sleep to discover a fermenting body on his sofa, 25 CD's out of their cases and a mountain of full ashtrays. Eyles was tried one more time, but although the messages had clearly been heared, there was to be no response; the traditional warning signs of the scorned man. So, in the absence of Wood's number, Luke Wilcox was invoked. What a pleasure it is to have such men returned to the fold. "Sorry it's so late in the day and all that but do you fancy popping down to the club just in case? Eyles may be coming anyway you see so I don't know if you'll get a game but…" "No worries, just give me a call if you need me. I was only going to be in watching the golf anyway." With that simple call all problems were taken care of and Norcross could settle down to a liquid breakfast comprising coffee, juice and Nurofen. He had 12 hours to recover before Dingers' 50th birthday bash in the evening.
On arrival at the ground there was an alarmingly small OA contingent, i.e. none. No Dave the groundsman, no Ditch, no players. There was an even more alarmingly large Old Paulines contingent, i.e. four. Old Paulines are one of those teams you want to play every week. They are charming, polite, play the game in a good spirit and all that, but above all, they tend to lose to us. And most accommodating of all, they tend to lose even when batting second, owing to a tendency to play the game in such a good spirit that their tail believes in victory despite the obvious evidence to the contrary. They also bring an umpire that doesn't cheat.
Norcross' alarm began to dissipate as his team arrived, and by one o'clock everyone was present bar Dingwall and Ramon. As time ticked on and still no sign of Eyles, Norcross rang Luke and broke the good news to him, he was getting a game but with Zoob, as Nabil Kibriya had turned up so early it only seemed right to thrust him once more into the fray. The team was finalised at 1.20 and the captains, or at least the OA captain, the Old Paulines captain was delayed, went out to toss. Heads was the call, as befits a good chap. Tails was the result. Norcross rather lost it briefly, punching the air and clenching his fists before remembering that it was a game of cricket between two mid table sides, and accordingly offered his stand-in opposite number first use of a blameless track on a warm summer's day.
The OA's opened up with Ramon from the top end, sporting a brand new pair of boots and state of the art shades, the latter rather giving him the appearance of a riled and dangerously psychotic Californian traffic cop. At the bottom end Richard Clark was making a welcome return. Norcross had discussed Clark's role during the week and was told that he (Clark) wanted to be able to experiment. He had a few balls he wanted to try out but never got the chance in the 1sts. Slightly concerned that what Richard wanted to "try out" were googlies, flippers, even Chinamen, but also hugely intrigued, Norcross had decided to bowl him into the ground if at all possible.
The opening exchanges were somewhat disappointing. Both batsmen showed rather too much confidence and ability, and it began to dawn on Norcross that Paulines' advanced position in the table could well be merited. Although neither bowler was giving away runs, neither batsman was getting prematurely frustrated and wacking a good length ball to cover. Meanwhile Ramon was beginning to slow down noticeably. In the tenth over, with the score on 17, finally the right handed Pauline lost patience and hit a good length ball from Ramon to cover where it was safely pouched by the dependable Bhavish Patel. Ramon then very untypically sat on the pitch and began removing his right boot. Normally upon taking a wicket a new aspect to Ramon's face is revealed; a wide grin, high fives and reminder of his season total to date. So what's with this latest ritual? "I've got to come of Danny. I've buggered by toes. They REALLY hurt." Nonsense, thinks Norcross. The toes are examined and indeed skin has been ripped off them. Strange, even for new boots. Then Ryder I think it was, though it could have been Doud, or indeed anyone with two eyes in his head pointed something out. There appeared to be a stud tightener sellotaped to the inside of Ramon's right boot. Surely the offending article! Perversely not so according to Ramon, who went off to strap his feet up with bat protection tape. Sure enough he would have to come off, and Bhavish dully replaced him.
There then followed our best period of the game. Bhavish began tightly and in tandem with Clark they were exerting a pressure that the Paulines could not resist. Clark produced a screamer to clip the top of the other opener's off stump, and then cut one away off the pitch which was edged and brilliantly taken at first slip by Norcross in his midriff and held there by the spongy support of 14 years' of physical abuse. The first slip catch held since Hardy's emigration. Then Doud Khan, after dropping the number three at extra cover, produced a brilliant feint, slow down, stumble and dummy that convinced the batsmen a third was there for the taking before unleashing an accurate throw to the bowler's end that accounted for the number five. Old Paulines were suddenly 29-4 and displaying all the characteristics that make them such welcome visitors at Potash. Unfortunately the reprieved number 3, in tandem with the gutsy and unnecessarily competent number 6, put together a very useful stand, finding the boundaries with regularity, being especially punishing to Bhavish, Dingers and the recalled Ramon. In 12 overs they put on 59 and our early dominance was in danger of being wasted.
Clark was tiring now and our over rate was a disgraceful 16.5 an hour. If the Paulines could survive the full 55 overs we would almost certainly have been batted out of the game. Just as Norcross was contemplating a change to spin, Clark produced his most vital delivery, despatching the pugnacious number 3, ironically with assistance from the previously errant Khan. A massive heave sent the ball high and out towards deep extra cover; Khan running back and with the ball dropping over his shoulder, kept his composure and pulled off a magnificent catch; 88-5
Still it was not plain sailing, however. The Paulines captain now came to the wicket and a further dangerous partnership was developing. Clark was duly hauled off and Nigel Walker, leading wicket taker and mesmeriser of tailenders, was summoned. Immediately he repaid his captain's faith; the doughty and skittish number 6 falling to his heavily disguised arm ball. We had a crucial breakthrough now and were surely in sight of the famed Paulines' fragile tail. But still they refused to buckle completely, combining lusty blows with sensible defence until Nigel struck again, this time disposing of the skipper, caught behind by Imran Nasser. Dingers was back on at the top end and slowing things down whilst Nigel was attacking with a smorgasbord of long hops, full tosses and unplayable sharp turners. Eventually we picked up the eighth wicket and Dingers wrapped it up with two LBW's; 146 all out in 46.2 overs. An excellent opportunity for victory, especially with such a strong batting line-up. Nigel ended with the best figures (3-25) but Clark's 15 over spell, 3-27, was the pick.
Over tea Norcross looked around his team and counted up at least 215 runs. Nabil Kibriya would bat at eight with Dingers, Ramon and Nigel making up the tail. Doud munched gluttonously on a third chocolate doughnut, the sun shone, two umpires; does it get any better? As our openers, Bhavish and Ralph, went out to bat Ramon, Nabil, a now portly and slightly heavier legged Doud and Imran gamboled around the grass in front of the pavilion, preparing themselves throroughly for the task ahead with a game of football. Their girlish whelps filled the air rather like children at the seaside when the tide comes in. Before long, Ralph had returned to the pavilion, a victim of a terrible ball, closely followed by Nabil who had aggravated a gash down the left side of his thigh. No matter, Clark and Bhavish were together. Then Bhavish was the victim of an even worse ball. No matter, the mighty Imran would solve the problem. This he did briefly, pulling anything short and running swiftly between the wickets with the resurgent Clark, but he fell complacently. Ryder and Clark stitched things back together in a useful stand that took us to 68-3 before Clark was well caught in the gully cutting a short one, Doud was LBW and Norcross came to the wicket at 68-5, not even half way to the target and not that much batting to come. He proceeded to play his worst shot of a thoroughly disappointing season, getting a leading edge on a leg side full toss which tamely ballooned back to the bowler. Nabil's stay was all too brief, bowled playing back to a full length straight one, and Ryder, having got himslef in and played with assurance and pugnacity for his 29, promptly got out caught at extra cover: 93-8. Norcross returned to the changing-room and paced around for a while. He began to understand now how all those England captains of the 90's felt as they were asked to explain away another national humiliation against Zimbabwe or Sri Lanka. What's going wrong? Why can't we bat? Or more importantly why can we bat well in between the balls we get out to? Mental toughness is surely the key, and he began preparing a club Darts tour to the roughest pubs South Yorkshire.
Back out in the middle Dingers and Ramon were gradually repairing the damage. When the eighth wicket fell we still needed 54 runs, but there were about 22 overs remaining. Mindful of this, Ramon was playing very securely, leaving the wide balls and defending the straight ones. Dingers was propping forward and the Paulines captain was beginning to show signs of frustration. The field was getting ever closer, and still no runs were coming but the gaps were beginning to show. The required rate was also creeping up but still within acceptable limits. With ten overs to go 38 runs were needed. Still they tried nothing rash. Between overs Ramon would go to Dingers, words would be spoken and another over would be safely negotiated. By now the Field comprised 3 slips, a gully and two men close in in front of the bat. The odd bad ball was being despatched now by Ramon, mostly on the off side and along the ground. Dingers was picking up twos into the gaps. With five overs left the target was 24 and by now Ralph, who had had a couple of beers was cheering every run and bellowing at every four. Norcross simply paced around and around the scorebox. Half the team had assembled around Linda and after every ball someone would be saying "What's Ramon got?" "What's the score?" "Have you seen the bar keys?" "Has anyone got a mobile?" Now they began to up the rate. Dingers, exhausted by so many twos struck out. Ramon cut a short one down to the third man boundary. Still they would go and talk. 12 needed off three overs. All the while Nigel was waiting to bat. As the target got ever closer, the more he would puff. Ralph had turned into an 18 year old cheerleader and even Linda was chewing her fingers. Dingers launched an assault and the ball went flying to the long off side boundary. Then a two past extra cover and a single to retain the strike. Five needed, two overs to go. Various tactics were now being discussed. Nigel was being informed that under no circumsatnces was he to be not out with the scores level, a concept he found unsurprisingly difficult to take in under the circumstances. First ball is short. Dingers leans his weary body back and thumps it over square leg for four. The scores are tied; we are guaranteed points. The third ball is almost identical and gets the same treatment. Unbelievable. A victory by two wickets and an unbroken 9th wicket partnership of 57.
It was a trully magnificent performance by the veteran and the youngster. They showed us all how easy batting can be as long as you put your head down, play yourself in and then try to hit the inevitable bad balls that come along. The rest of the batting order were put to shame and it will be hard to resist the temptation to bung these two higher up the order in future. Ramon returned to the dressing-room and soon it became clear what their mid-wicket chats had been about. He was in a filthy mood despite his heroics and his lip was curled in disgust at his congratulating team mates. "It shouldn' be down to us should it." The Old Man had clearly been instilling some grade A Yorkshire contrariness into the boy. In fact his attitude was so alarmingly prefessional the rest of the team seemed to bow their heads in respect for a moment. He was, of course, right.
We returned to the bar minus Bhavish, Imran and Nabil (the latter without paying again, I'm sure) where our charming opponents were already waiting for us. We swapped horror stories of other teams and passed a convivial hour and a half together before heading off for Dingers' bash; though Norcross did feel a twinge of guilt at using one of his opponent's mobiles to call in the score to the results hotline.
Charlie Fellows-Smith had joined the throng and was merrily munching away on left over tea and the complimentary lager jug bought for us by our opponents. Ralph was somewhat pie-eyed by now and his mental state was not helped by F-S leaping back and forth, talking in a high pitched Essex accent as he replayed Graham Gooch's masterclass on the verandah. Seldom is "The Legend" quite so frivolous so early in the evening but explanation was provided when he stuffed a mouldy copy of the Telegraph under our noses and proudly announced that he had scored his first First Class Match, MCC V. New Zealand A in The Parks. By 9.30 we were ready to head off to Croydon for Dingers' party. Catherine drove Norcross, Charlie, Ralph and Ryder. No mean feat as Charlie was high on success, Ralph was giggling like a schoolgirl, Phil was intermittently shaking rather in the style of Ted Heath and Norcross was drunk. After an absorbing and circuitous thirty minutes they arrived at the Bedford, but nothing had prepared them for the joys, contrasts and juxtapositions that were to fill their next three hours.
The Bedford is a small, cosy pub set amidst the industrial wasteland that is East Croydon. The five woosy travellers disembarked and instantly became aware of siren melodies emanating from within. They entered and immediately caught sight of Dingers and Linda. Or at least they thought it was Linda. And Dingers. Linda had discarded her LL Cool J funky jacket and baseball cap and was gliding across the floor in a decidedly fetching evening dress. Dingers was decked out in full black tie and was bellowing into a microphone with the twinkle of a young Tom Jones. Norcross was dumbfounded. Was this the same man who spent every Saturday afternoon with a pipe in his mouth muttering discontedly at all and sundry? Sat no more than 12 feet away from him was a throng of adoring listeners including the Wronged Eyles. Within moments Ramon, Ditch and Charlotte had arrived and Eyles was passing drinks back from the bar with gay abandon. Norcross could scarcely contain himself. This was like some kind of heaven; a place that could transform Dingers into the happiest man alive. Charlie and Eyles put there names down for karaoke and we went upstairs to eat the fantastic sandwichless spread that Linda had laid on. Charlie, naturally, stationed himself on a table and surrounded his jowels with four plates piled high with curry, bhajees, samosas etc., but had to cut his feast short to sing D I S C O with Eyles. This was now getting so surreal that Norcross suspected Ryder of spiking his drinks. A large man in a kilt then sang backing vocals as a Pip alongside Eyles, to Dingers' Gladys Knight. Eyles' wiggle and long eyelashes would not have been out of place in Bangkok, as Charlie undoubtedly commented. But wait, there is more. Ramon and Charlotte now took centre stage to sing a very moving mutual serenade, You're The One That I Want; Charlotte providing the tune, Ramon the longful eyes. By now we were all bellowing to any song that came on, but none so loud as the true highlight of the evening. Dingers took the microphone for one last time to give us his special rendition of Wild Thing. Strutting around like Mick Jagger in a tuxedo he finally sank to his knees, stretched out an arm, pointed a finger at Linda I think, but it could have been any of us, and growled the last line: Wild Thing, I think I love you. Norcross fully expected to wake and find two Egyptian eunochs gently fanning him. Wow. An absolutely wonderful evening. Great food, free booze (I think we all owe Eyles a fortune!), karaoke and 13 points. Ramon and Dingers posed fittingly for a photo, both now quite over their earlier moods. Catherine and your skipper bade farewell and headed back to town singing tunelessly in the car. His only regret, though probably not anyone else's, was that he didn't sing Let Me Entertain You when he had the chance. A big thanks to Linda and the Bedford for a great party, but most of all, for batting, bowling, grumping, cajoling Ramon, crooning and all this at 50, Wild Thing, We think we love you.
|
