I don't wanna talk
About the things we've gone through
Though it's hurting me
Now it's history
The winner takes it all
The loser standing small
Beside the victory
That's her destiny.
The gods may throw a dice
Their minds as cold as ice
And someone way down here
Loses someone dear
The winner takes it all
The loser has to fall
It's simple and it's plain
Why should I complain.
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The deep wounds of Albury were lingering into Wednesday before Norcross finalised his line-up for the arrival to Potash Farm of the Old Tiffinians. Paul Kane would be making his long awaited comeback, Richard Evans, Ditch's new signing, was to make his debut, Ralph Thomas returned from romantic engagements in Denmark, and Charlie Fellows-Smith was available to make his first appearance of the season in the black and blue of our glorious founder. (Were these colours chosen, as legend suggests, to reflect Edward Alleyn's love of the cornflower, or because attendance at one of his establishments tended to be accompanied by a good thrashing?) Parkin, Hanna, Cockett, and the desperately unlucky Boultbee made way.
England's early exit at the hands of Romania had cleared one obstacle to availabilities and Norcross felt confident that a turn around in fortunes could at last be effected. Indeed so smoothly had the week gone that he was able to catch up on some much needed binge drinking. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday had all passed in a post-England failure fug of intoxication, and Friday, which had been ear-marked for rest and preparation, was hijacked by a surprise visit from an old soak. No matter, slurs Norcross to himself at 4 in the morning. Put them in, bowl them out, score the runs. It is strangely easy to win games at this time of day. Charlie bowls 28 overs for no runs, Cannon picks up a couple of early wickets before being replaced by the ruthless Brearley-Norcross with Ramon, who discovers fantastic form. Bowlers are rotated in a dizzying whirly-gig, and each new change brings a wicket. The batsmen then murder our stricken opponents and Norcross is left with the simple task of knocking off the winning runs, getting a not out for his troubles. The sweet weightlessness of sleep/paralysis interrupted the end of this reverie and within seconds, or so it seemed, the phone was ringing like a pneumatic drill. It was 10.30 a.m. on Saturday. There is only one reason (well two if you count any large bank/telecommunications company/credit card/utility) why anybody would ring Norcross at this time on that day. The first reaction is despair at what is about to come; the second, pretty much like a spy caught behind enemy lines, is a swift calculation of available options. In this case it is pretend you're not in and risk not knowing what's going on, or confront it head on. Norcross went for the former option if for no other reason than he wasn't sure if he could answer the phone in a coherent fashion, and Catherine had gone to buy painkillers. Then, owing to the painkiller deficit, he changed his mind as the pneumatic drill was worse than its inevitable bad news could ever be. "Uh-Huh", he said obstructively, keeping one last option open; find out who it is before committing yourself to the conversation. That way, at a pinch, you can mumble "Wrong number mate" and pull the lead from its socket. It was Alan Eyles. Now Norcross, even in this state (stricken seal cub already down on his uppers) had been prepared for most eventualities. Ramon, for instance, would have been greeted with a bark, snarl and reminder of responsibilities. Ryder would have been negotiated with; "well, get there as soon as you can and we'll just hope we win the toss." Mikshu would at least have an entertaining story of luckless hell to recount. But Alan Eyles doesn't do these sorts of things. "I'm sorry to ring you so early Dan but I thought you'd appreciate the warning. Give you chance to get someone else." "What! Slow down. What's up? What…" Eyles fortunately interrupted this protracted uttering of the word "what" over and over. "It's my back." And as if to validate the fact, "Shirley was really annoyed with me fidgeting all night, but I just couldn't get comfortable and now it's really gone. I'll have a bath and see if it improves, but I wouldn't hold your breath, skip. I think it's best to look for a replacement." Streuth. Replacements are hard to come by at the best of times but a replacement wicket keeper is about as likely as Richmond Town giving a plum LBW in the last over against one of their own players with nine wickets down. Norcross mumbled his thanks, expressed the hope that the bath would do the trick and got on the phone to Zoob. "Now it just so happens you're in luck," squeaked a Zoob/Piglet soundalike flushed with the anticipation of 8 hours of Tristan and Isolde followed by Inkagotterdammerungenspiegeldervolksdam at Glyndebourne that afternoon. "Ramon has cried on." "What", the word was getting familarly over-used. "He's already told." "I don't think he is. You'd better ring him. He cried on for me last night," advises Zoob now taking on a more Joyce Grenfell/Rabbit intonation.
Great, with no Boultbee 'cos he's doing some rugby thing (in June for heaven's sake!), Ramon possibly booked up, and Eyles in a whale-bone girdle, the bright hue of midweek was fast being replaced with a dirty black soot of despond. And to cap it all Norcross was not in the best of problem solving conditions. He rings up Ramon and before the poor lad can say his name barks "whaddya mean you're available for Zoob? You're playing for me; home 1.30." "Oh great", says Ramon, genuinely pleased, it seems, at the invitation/conscription. Back up to 10 but still no wicket keeper and it's 11.15. A yoghurt drink is proferred by Catherine, as an enema presumably. Phone rings again. "I can touch my toes!" "What?" "I'm fine. Had the bath, got out, and I can touch my toes. I'll be OK for the game." All brilliant news no doubt, and Norcross was not about to complain, but at this point he did pause to reflect that he had been dragged kicking and screaming out of bed to lie naked and odourful on his sofa, barely able to prevent himself from vomiting, to be told he had 9 players, when he thought he had 11, and after all did have the 11 he had thought he had all along.
Time passes almost uneventfully now until arrival at the club. For once we were almost all present (Ryder and Charlie notwithstanding), and the opposition were thin on the ground. Eventually Norcross locates a round faced man who is deputising as skipper and they go out to toss. As is customary on these occasions the captains share some anodyne insights about their season thus far and the quality of the team available on the day. Usually this takes the form of a pre-emptive apology from Norcross about missing players and the firsts nicking everyone. Today he had toyed with being upbeat, but given his physical state he opted for a sad faced approach and the usual guff this time alluding to the missing Ansbro, Khan and Walker. Given the OA's position in the table, the Tiffs skipper looks delighted that we might actually be under strength and noticeably skips a little on the spot. Tiffs lose, calling heads, the fools, and are enthusiastically inserted. All going according to plan. In the dressing-room there is a decidedly different atmosphere. Richard Evans turns out to be a muscular looking athletic type. Kane, unable to feed his frantic lust for running owing to injury, has evidently compensated by building up his upper body strength to the extent that he looks enormous with an almost completely triangular back. Fellows-Smith is Fellows-Smith; that is to say a legend. Legends may demand more of captains in certain ways but what they do for team morale is inestimable. In fact the whole team with the exception of Norcross entirely and Ryder a bit seem to be fit and ready for action.
We take to the field and toss the ball to Charlie for the first over up the hill. Within three balls a simple chance is dropped by Norcross at slip. Still not awake and finding the whole thing rather surreal he instantly moves to mid-wicket where he sees out the rest of the innings. One doesn't want to drop catches off legends' bowling. Legends have a habit of letting you know how much they resent having to go through the hard grind of being a legend without having some tuppeny-halfpenny half-witted hay-seed not being awake enough to profit from their years of endeavour. As luck would have it, however, this particular legend had taken a bit of a mauling the previous week and wasn't feeling his usual legendary self, so Norcross was able to make a swift getaway.
The first few overs pass without incident save for a couple of erratic wides from Cannon. Charlie is in the groove from the off, and the fielding is uncharacteristically tight. Then, without warning, Cannon produces a couple of gems. The first one does for the number 2, clipping the top of off stump at pace. His second removes a doughty looking left hander who had only been a bother for two overs. Suddenly Old Tiffs are 20-2 and the OA's have their tails up. At this point the first evidence of Brearley like tendencies rears its head. Despite figures of 5-1-16-2 Cannon is removed from the attack and replaced with Ramon. Now occurs the best passage of cricket we have played all year. Ramon, who has been threatening to do this for the last couple of games, produces an inspired spell of bowling. With The Legend sticking every ball on a spot just outside off stump short of a length at one end, Ramon proceeds to bowl 28 balls without having a run taken off him, and gets the wicket of a tasty looking Indian with an attempted yorker that is spooned back to him at shin height off the bottom of the bat. Three down and scoring at about 2 runs an over, the Old Tiffs are showing the strain. Their white haired opener, a veteran of many championship campaigns, decides to take matters into his own hands. He starts to give Ramon the charge, but blow me if Ramon doesn't whizz one past his nose as punishment for this outrageous conceit. Everyone is on their mettle, and even Dingwall isn't complaining about jogging from Long-off to mid-off between overs. Evans and Thomas are patrolling the covers like caged tigers, Ramon is positively jaunty, and Kane is exhorting in short vowelled Kiwi; "You git him mayit." But it is Eyles who appears to be demonically possessed. A feeling confirmed in Ramon's penultimate over when the grey haired veteran made one show of disdain too many. Again Ramon banged one in short and fast. Grey Boy attempted a pull, the ball rose on him, hit the top edged and cracked sickeningly into his face. Well, sickeningly for nearly all present. He collapsed to the ground with blood developing in great clots around his mouth. His eyes gradually opened as everyone surrounded him, none, though, closer than Eyles. "What happened?" said the dazed and clearly upset opener. Quick as a flash came the reply. "You top edged the ball into your face and FELL ON YOUR STUMPS." Of course, thinks Norcross, he must be out Hit Wicket. But is this really the time to discuss it? After all, the poor old bastard is still on the ground, incapable of movement, and Norcross, I'm sure, is not alone in assuming that old age means you die if someone pokes you in the ribs, so god knows what happens when you smash a ball into your face. Norcross tries now to calm down his players who are all excited at the prospect of taking the fourth wicket, despite the fact that the batsman was clearly not returning to bat today, possibly ever again, save in the great cricket pitch in the sky. But they are having none of it. In the loudest of stage whispers, led by Eyles whom I swear actually drooled on the prone figure of the stricken batsman at one point rather like a hyena alighting upon a freshly slaughtered rhino, they are demanding that their leader get a firm commitment from the umpires that the batsman is out. Ordinarily this would not be too arduous a task, but unfortunately both umpires were, by this stage, the only two people tending to the batsman so interrupting them to say OWZAT didn't seem the most politic of gestures. "Let's just see how it goes," was his feeble response to this pressure. "No Dan, we can't see how it goes. Sort it out," screams Eyles, disappointed that his barely twitching carcass is being slowly escorted away before he has a chance to feed on it. And indeed as Norcross sees the square leg umpire divesting himself of his coat in order to pad up, he charges after him to ask as demurely as possible if he wouldn't mind adjudicating on the appeal. The umpire looks aghast at this impertinence and ruthlessness and sticks his finger out without engaging in any conversation. Excellent, thinks Norcross; four down and only 32 on the board.
Ramon finishes his spell (9-5-14-2) and at the suggestion of the now irrepressible Eyles Ralph Thomas is brought on to bowl. Using his one pace run up and generating a good speed, the batsmen are now tied down for a further ten overs, completed in an astonishing twenty minutes. Our over rate, despite the interruptions for Near Death Experiences, is a remarkable 21.3 overs an hour and the Old Tiffs have no answer. That they failed to panic until the last 10 overs was testament to their composure, but ultimately it was all too much. Dingwall came on for Thomas and continued in the same excellent vein. The fielding was razor sharp and the batsmen dared not take quick singles. Cannon and Ramon both pulled off excellent catches to fiercely hit drives and the drip drip of dot balls was strangling the life out of our bemused foe. Eventually with only 7 overs to go before the 55 was up and four wickets in hand, the Legend, who had bowled unchanged from the bottom end, got his just desserts, extracting two LBW decisions and bowling the number 9. Dingers chipped in and the Legend finished it off in the 55th over. Old Tiffs 122 All Out; innings started at 1.35, innings closed 4.10.
At tea Norcross was barely able to congratulate his mighty confreres. Everything had gone so according to plan he was half expecting to be woken up at home by Alan Eyles crying off with a back injury. Without doubt it was the finest display of the last two seasons; probably better than that. Everyone had contributed either with the ball or in the field. Mikshu's arm seemed to get stronger, Cannon's long barrier actually was a long barrier and we dropped the ball on the way back to the bowler a staggering twice only. In no small part this was due to Charlie's fabulous effort with the ball. He squeezed the life out of batsmen who were looking for quick runs, but he was supported ably by all the fielders (Norcross excepted) and the other bowlers. Even Cannon, who lost his line miserably, had the consolation of picking up those crucial early wickets. Evans looked outstanding in the covers and we bowled to our field, conceding only 9 fours in the entire innings.
Nonetheless, as everyone was repeatedly reminded, the job was only half done. We had been bowled out for less than 122 twice already this season and we didn't want to throw it away now. The advantage of batting second, however, is that you know what you need to do and how long you've got to do it in. Ryder and Thomas opened for the third time this season (a measure of consistency) and both played marvellously. Never looking in any trouble and hitting out on all sides of the wicket, they advance at about 3.5 runs per over to 84 before Ryder falls 3 short of a third consecutive fifty, caught in the deep. His innings had been full of sumptuous on drives and impregnable defence. Even the running between the wickets was not bad, although this is an area we can all improve on. 84-1 but Norcross is still not convinced that victory is in the bag. The clouds were high but Boultbee had arrived; an event often associated with some form of climactic catastrophe. Ralph (37) threw his wicket away with 16 runs still needed, but Norcross (10*) was not to be denied, knocking off the runs with the handy looking Evans (13*) without alarm, scrambling a bye to the now restored Grey Boy at slip before marching off with 13 points in the bag.
Back at the changing rooms the Tiffs skipper comes to shake his hand. "I don't know what went wrong. Sorry we didn't give you much of a game." At this point Norcross fesses up about the team, but this is scant consolation. Humiliated and bemused the Tiffs stay for about 30 minutes before going home to wash away the foul stench of failure.
It was a fantastic performance by all concerned and thanks are due in pretty much equal measure to everyone who played. It showed us what is possible when we all concentrate, fielders backing up bowlers, bowlers bowling to their fields, batsmen not giving it away early on. We can play like that every week, and soon Ansbro and Khan will be available for the rest of the season, so competition for places will hot up. Eyles believes promotion is still possible. It may be with a lot of luck toss-wise and some settled availabilities but first and foremost we need to build on this experience. Not let it become an isolated day in a miserable season but a blueprint for how we can and should play the game. Fast over rates and good fielding will get us a long way in this league. Let's go and do some more damage.
Alan Eyles will be in charge for the next two games and in my absence I feel it may be necessary to appoint a voice of conscience in the event of any further mayhem. This task goes to Mikshu which shows what an almost impossible decision it was. I'm off to bed for a fortnight.
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