Norcross spent the week preceding the away game to Mitcham on the phone. Work was taking up a quite unnecessary 40 hours, the general election a further 20 hours and the dear Old Alleynian Club the remaining 104 hours. As luck would have it Nigel and Ralph both had to attend stags (weddings to follow on June 9th together with your skipper's own one match absence; note ONE match. Not three or four or seven or nine but ONE), Daud was in San Francisco on business (presumably advising ne'er do wells on how to say one thing, "Yes boss, I'll have it all done by the end of the month" whilst sounding righteously indignant when it's not done, "I couldn't get a clear shot at him. He sneezed and then a cavalcade of majorettes went by and before I knew it he was back in Air Force One."), Phil had promised Beth he would take a break with friends, and Ansbro simply had to see his parents. I apologise if my tone is bitter on this subject. I like my parents and enjoy it when they take the trouble to come and visit, but really. Can't we see them in winter? In summer they're usually happy as pigs in shit anyway. The sun is shining, strange wrinklies are turning up at the door with home made lemonade and they all get smashed in the back garden and slag off their kids. Winter? Now that's different. They like the company, they like saying "Brrrr isn't it cosy with the fire on" and you wouldn't be doing anything else 'cept watching the telly anyway so it's no skin off your nose. But summer. Let me make this quite clear again. Summer. The season of midges and late evenings, of carefree staring into the skies above counting the planes and their inevitable headlong rush to grisly calamity somewhere near Ealing, of cakes and wasps and witty banter, of camaraderie and bloody cricket. Yes indeed. Remember that game? The one that takes up loads of time but gives you a chance to get away from the missus, soak in the calm rhythms of "Nature's Freakish Complexity" (thank you Charlotte) and stick the boot in to a bunch of dodgy Tories in Surrey.
Ah well, ne'er mind, thinks your skipper. It is just for this week (Ha bloody Ha) and gloriously out of nowhere a plotting Patel, this time Sachin, calls to request a game. Still the numbers don't quite add up despite Ditch's protestations that we've got loads of players ("Yes but can any of them actually play cricket") and by Thursday we are down to the bare bones but without any late cry offs we should be OK. There is one place up for grabs and Clarkey assured Ditch that if things were still desperate on Friday night we should give him a call. What with Sachin and Chief Patel already playing and a sure fire Yorkshireman that goes by the name of Farnell being unearthed by the trusty Parkin, things were looking almost decent. Garbett, the fast medium bowling sensation from the rugby club and his mate Hillock would be making their 2nd team debuts. The ever present Eyles, Dingwall and Greg Wilcox would give us some continuity and Paul Kane was back for his first appearance of the season. With Clarkey as well we would have a perfectly passable, if far from ideal, outfit to do battle with Mitcham. "They're the second oldest club in the world you know Danny," said Clarkey when Norcross finally managed to track him down at some party with Countess Martini and Tamara Beckwith in attendance ("Yes Richard, but what's it supposed to be?" "It's a bloody white cube with a straight yellow line down the middle, love. What do you think it's supposed to be?"). "Well I would play Danny. I mean my old man played at Mitcham from 1401 to 1968. But…everything's so shit Danny. I mean, I'm 45 now and the I would play but the wicket's so crap." "It's at Mitcham though", "Yeah but what sort of a team have you got? It'll be rubbish." It bloody will if monsters like you take that attitude, thinks your skipper. "Look you can open the batting and the bowling." "I don't want to open the batting. " "Three then," "Three's fine". Strewth, how much longer. "Well, will you play?" "If I did it would be so I could get some of those photographs off the wall, the ones of my old man, and restore them." Just as long as that's clear then, eh Clarkey. If you played it would be for some sort of distinct personal gain outside cricket. Not for the joy of playing cricket with your fellow club mates. God forbid. But whatever does it for you, I really don't care. Photographs of your Dad? Fine, brilliant even. "So can I assume you're playing?" "Well, pretty much. Hang on. I'll call you back." "How long will you be?" It was 10 p.m. on Friday night and Zoob still didn't know whom I was nicking from his team. "Give me an hour." Excellent, thought Norcross. After communicating what could surely only be good news, save for the poor other ten bastards whom clearly Clarkey had nothing but contempt for, Norcross, Ditch and Zoob closed down radio communications for the night and your skipper at last could get wasted after a truly terrible week. Catherine had, by now, gone to bed so Norcross made do with a bottle Chateauneuf du Pape from the local off licence and supplemented with neat vodka and all the telly he'd taped during the week but hadn't got round to watching 'cos he was talking to reluctant and duplicitous shits with nothing better to do in their lives than string him along with a load of hopeless lies and lame excuses, or worse still bloody answerphones. Actually, apart from the loneliness and the awful feeling that I'm losing touch with Catherine altogether (I think sentences were exchanged this week; four of them concerning the TV licence, one the recently completed census form replete with my over 50 hours a week spent caring for the mentally disabled box ticked - you know who you are - and one about how we never have a chance to talk about anything except how much I hate having to beg people to play cricket) it was a lovely 4 hours well spent. I hear the Americans have a new president. Seems a bit of a twat to me but maybe a quick thirty minutes on BBC2 doesn't do him justice. Clarkey hadn't called but that was pretty much par for the course. No matter, time for bed. Nothing else can be done.
The following morning after 6 hours sleep, Norcross stirred himself, eschewed any pleasures of the flesh (you know, like a piss or a shower) and called Clarkey to confirm his availability. Tina answered the phone. "Oh I don't know Danny. He's still in bed actually. Is it about cricket?" Duh! No, it's about the US energy crisis and its effects on the environment. "You see, ever since he came back from Egypt he's been very ill. He shouldn't really have played at all this week, and I know he's playing away tomorrow. It's affected his stomach…" I kid you not. This was the madness I was confronted with. He can't play because he's so ill he could play for two other people, one earlier in the week and one tomorrow. He's still in bed, not because he's got a hangover after attending the party he was at the night before but because he was afflicted with what exactly? Amoebic dysentery? Lassa Fever? Necrotising Fasciitis? Bloody useless bastardliness? Anyway, it's a no either way. Might have been handy to know last night but hey, what the fuck; I HATE lying in and getting some sleep for a change. Far better to chase after a bunch of 45 year old coming on 14 year olds. There then followed a period of three hours during which I took 16 calls and made 12. Eventually the side was settled and Dave Behar, a fine and very worthy replacement, was seconded from the thirds. Everyone had their lift and at 12.30 Norcross, in tandem with a Farnell who had just bought kit and a Kane, drove off to nearby Mitcham.
Mitcham is a crazy ground. The playing area is on the village green across the road from the clubhouse. We were greeted by an intense woman who ushered us around the corner to the changing rooms. Miraculously the team appeared to have arrived, largely, save for Dingers and Eyles who were negotiating the long walk from the car by piling all their bags on to Linda and sending her on ahead with orders to get the beers in. It had all been godawful but worthwhile. Yes, really, it was all worthwhile, said Norcross to himself. Looking around the changing room there was almost a sense of optimism, of hope. We could open our account perhaps. After all, we desperately needed the points sitting as we do bottom of the table with no points at all. We did have two for a while but Mark Northwood the Treasurer, who has a terribly busy life, was unable to pay our subs to the Surrey Championship, so we lost all the points that both teams had earned hitherto. Luckily the firsts had lost all their games but we had pluckily abandoned one game and called Streatham's bluff in the other. Two hard earned points down the pan.
It occurred to Norcross that there was one part of his stewardship that had been truly awful; winning the toss. Last season he had failed to correctly on any occasion, winning tosses only when he sent someone else out to do it for him, or when the opposition called incorrectly at Potash. So this time he took a vote on it. The result was inconclusive; 4-3 to heads with three abstentions. Norcross, ever the democrat, went with the unsettled will of the people and called, for the first time in his republican life, HEADS. Oh, hello, what's this? Why a tail of course. "Yeah yeah I know, we bat." Back to the changing room to dispense the bad news. Behar and Farnell would open, Sachin at three, Norcross four, Wilcox and Kane in the middle order.
Mitcham opened up with a pretty brisk quickie from the bottom end, and a frankly unremarkable trundler from the other. The first over passed without alarm and Farnell had an opportunity to show off his exemplary technique, moving perfectly into line and moving his feet. This would be a cakewalk. With Chief later in the day ready to exploit worn patches around the right hander's off stump a total of, say, 170 would be pretty challenging. The wicket looked true and we could settle down to a pleasant afternoon's batting. Then the trundler planted one half way down the wicket outside off stump. Farnell smacked the ball off the middle of the bat low to cover's right who dived forward to take an excellent catch; 1-1. No matter. Sachin strode to the crease, looked very comfortable and was promptly bowled off his ankle, the ball ricocheting and clipping the bottom of off stump; 2-2. Oh well. Norcross, who was on the phone to his tailor, cuts short the conversation and walks purposefully to the wicket. The umpire looks up as he approaches and rather worryingly says "Oh hello, didn't see you there. I'm the umpire." Given he was the only man in black trousers and an umpire's coat and had hitherto stood behind the stumps at the non-striker's end, this seemed a rather unnecessary introduction. After an awkward exchange concerning his guard Norcross faced the trundler. His doubty innings consisted of two wides down the leg side, two long hops outside off stump then a straight one which jags off the seam, hits him on the back leg, and may have missed leg stump but the umpire was in no mood to turn down his new employers so 4-3. Good God. Can it get worse? Why yes sir. Behar is caught at gully for nine slashing at a short one. Kane LBW for 1 when his bat gets caught in his pad and way forward anyway. Hillock is run out going for two when a perfect throw from eth extra cover boundary beats him by three yards. Wilcox is bowled off his elbow trying to leave one from the quickie. Dingers digs in and gets us over 30 before Chief is bowled. Dingers then gets a snorter that clips the top of middle stump. He tops scores with a brilliant 15. Garbett looks good until Eyles is triggered by Mr. Magoo 10 feet down the track to a dobber. We are dismissed for a truly miserable 50.
In truth it was not the display of abject incompetence that the figures may suggest. A more than alarming run of misfortune did for us, interspersed with the odd ropey and rusty shot (Behar), bad running (Hillock), and dubious decisions as well as fine bowling from the quickie and excellent fielding. I really can't bring myself to discuss their innings save to report that they got the runs in fine style in 9 overs with all their wickets intact. Garbett looked promising but bowled too short. Their openers got on with it and we got into the bar, having had tea, by 4.45. Bloody humiliating, but strangely I felt we could have played the game again and nothing like that would have happened. Nonetheless we still have no points and are fast getting into serious shit. Next week we have a strong team and are playing at the school, but the buggering about with availabilities looks set to continue until 16th June as Thomas, Norcross, Walker and Ansbro are all unavailable on 9th. I beg any of you who are doubtful to say no to any other commitments and play. If we don't do something soon it's the Thames Valley Asbestosis and Industrial Injuries League for us and then it truly will be a very small thank you and a very long Goodbye from me. Goodbye.
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