Apologies for the hiatus. I'm afraid I suffered a rather unpleasant cold last week rendering me all but useless. Typically, very few people noticed.
In return for my neglect, today we will visit the most bizarre cricket match of my life. It was last summer and, in a strange way, it could only have happened in England.
My team list has been damaged by split tea and a rather heavy jam tart so you will excuse me if I leave you to guess the XI. The answer is probably there somewhere...
Friday 28 November 2008
UCLES v Molecular Biology (20/08/07)
Cricket people love to tell stories.
Sometimes they will spin you a merry yarn about a great contest or amazing triumph but, in all honesty, you’re more likely to hear a tale of the bizarre, bewildering and downright eccentric. One such story could surround a game played on a sad, dim August evening in 2007. A game that ended in complete darkness.
Make no mistake, even allowing for the obvious embellishments that I will employ, this was not an evening of long shadows. It was not a little gloomy. It was not a smidge on the grey side. It was darker than the inside of a coalman’s nose. It was not dusk, it was night. Last Monday night to be precise.
Despite persistent weekend rain, the surface at Emmanuel was just about playable in the way that black pudding is just about a sausage. The surface was tacky in parts and gelatinous in others yet after a season of 9 postponements, the UCLES* side would probably have been happy to play on a lightly skinned custard. From stage left, Ladds arrived to spectate and promptly changed his top on the street, like a gladiator discarding a bloody breastplate.
Having lost the toss, Skipper Steve was politely inserted. Opening the batting were Linsdell and Lawrence – a partnership sculpted in the heady summer of 2004. Think Greenidge and Haynes, Taylor and Marsh, Piglet and Pooh. The visiting Lawrence, taking a breather between overpaid IM contracts, joined a hyperactive Linsdell at the crease to begin what was expected to be a slightly uncomfortable innings.
With the ball, Mol Bol (no relation to Spag…and yes, I will do that joke every year, just accept it) started steadily enough, although from one end a slightly rotund bowler was grunting his way through the occasional short ball. Unfortunately for UCLES*, Lawrence and Linsdell would succumb to said grunter in the space of a couple of overs. Lawrence fell first, after a couple of snapping drives, when he managed to lob a catch to extra cover from a ball so wide it was wearing a notice to warn other road-users. Linsdell then perished attempting to pull the ball onto Madingley Road and UCLES* were 36 for 2.
The star of the UCLES* innings was to be Bean.
Sometimes they will spin you a merry yarn about a great contest or amazing triumph but, in all honesty, you’re more likely to hear a tale of the bizarre, bewildering and downright eccentric. One such story could surround a game played on a sad, dim August evening in 2007. A game that ended in complete darkness.
Make no mistake, even allowing for the obvious embellishments that I will employ, this was not an evening of long shadows. It was not a little gloomy. It was not a smidge on the grey side. It was darker than the inside of a coalman’s nose. It was not dusk, it was night. Last Monday night to be precise.
Despite persistent weekend rain, the surface at Emmanuel was just about playable in the way that black pudding is just about a sausage. The surface was tacky in parts and gelatinous in others yet after a season of 9 postponements, the UCLES* side would probably have been happy to play on a lightly skinned custard. From stage left, Ladds arrived to spectate and promptly changed his top on the street, like a gladiator discarding a bloody breastplate.
Having lost the toss, Skipper Steve was politely inserted. Opening the batting were Linsdell and Lawrence – a partnership sculpted in the heady summer of 2004. Think Greenidge and Haynes, Taylor and Marsh, Piglet and Pooh. The visiting Lawrence, taking a breather between overpaid IM contracts, joined a hyperactive Linsdell at the crease to begin what was expected to be a slightly uncomfortable innings.
With the ball, Mol Bol (no relation to Spag…and yes, I will do that joke every year, just accept it) started steadily enough, although from one end a slightly rotund bowler was grunting his way through the occasional short ball. Unfortunately for UCLES*, Lawrence and Linsdell would succumb to said grunter in the space of a couple of overs. Lawrence fell first, after a couple of snapping drives, when he managed to lob a catch to extra cover from a ball so wide it was wearing a notice to warn other road-users. Linsdell then perished attempting to pull the ball onto Madingley Road and UCLES* were 36 for 2.
The star of the UCLES* innings was to be Bean.
Resplendent in a range of County attire (he had spent the weekend standing very still in Hobbs’ window) PC Bean made a mockery of his team-mates’ struggles with a series of lusty and elegant blows. At the other end though, wickets continued to fall. Wood, Skipper Steve, Ordish and Hemmings all fell in a steady stream and when Bean was out for 39, UCLES* were still a long way from being competitive. A spirited and often elegant late onslaught by Parikh (ably assisted by Walsh and Spittle) pushed UCLES*, puffing and wheezing, past the 100 mark to a competitive but blushingly insecure 122 for 8.Surveying the vast Emmanuel skies, the majority of UCLES* fielders employed the infamous ‘second layer’ – more typically seen in May than August. Pullovers, secret t-shirts and, in the case of Danson (rtd), a couple of newspapers jammed down the corset. The visitors were roared onto the pitch by Wylie and his intoxicated and expectant gaggle of associates.
Even at this stage, the skies carried that ‘end of the day’ appearance and the lights in the pavilion were glowing ominously. Ordish and Danson (rtd) started well, making 122 look a long way off. Ordish in particular was uncompromising and dogged – asking questions that the openers were only just able to deflect and avoid. Despite a confident start, UCLES* weren’t able to grasp the early wickets they would clearly need and although the run rate was rising, Mol Bol still held the upper hand. Parikh, replacing Danson (rtd), finally secured the first wicket courtesy of a bold catch by Skipper Steve at mid-off.
Mol Bol were scampering like mice on a deadline and taking singles where only halves should really have been possible. UCLES* were lively in the field but somehow unable to complete the necessary run-outs. Linsdell in particular was throwing like he was an elephant and the ball a large balloon. Spittle replaced Ordish and after an expensive start he too was causing discomfort as dusk came and then went in the blink of a straining eye. As the 15th over drew to a close, a gargling wind and hissing drizzle arrived, like standing a fraction too close to a car wash.
Fielding became an adventure sport, dependent on sharpness of eye, balance of fortune and courage of conviction. Batting was arguably more dangerous, especially as Spittle threw in a steep and ugly bouncer. The next ball yorker that crashed the stumps was frankly a relief to the beleaguered batsman. Despite gallant and occasionally comic efforts in the field, it was becoming difficult to see how UCLES* could manufacture a victory. On the far side Bean was communicating with the square using a flashlight like a smuggler in an Enid Blyton yarn.
The penultimate over was an exquisite farce. The square-leg umpire, for some reason dressed like Ali G, stood no more than 10ft from the crease and a gaggle of UCLES* fielders surrounded the batsman. Personal safety was sacrificed in a simple attempt to see the ball and Hemmings was particularly gallant, risking his good looks in the interest of an implausible victory. Maybe he felt there was little to lose.
Even at this stage, the skies carried that ‘end of the day’ appearance and the lights in the pavilion were glowing ominously. Ordish and Danson (rtd) started well, making 122 look a long way off. Ordish in particular was uncompromising and dogged – asking questions that the openers were only just able to deflect and avoid. Despite a confident start, UCLES* weren’t able to grasp the early wickets they would clearly need and although the run rate was rising, Mol Bol still held the upper hand. Parikh, replacing Danson (rtd), finally secured the first wicket courtesy of a bold catch by Skipper Steve at mid-off.
Mol Bol were scampering like mice on a deadline and taking singles where only halves should really have been possible. UCLES* were lively in the field but somehow unable to complete the necessary run-outs. Linsdell in particular was throwing like he was an elephant and the ball a large balloon. Spittle replaced Ordish and after an expensive start he too was causing discomfort as dusk came and then went in the blink of a straining eye. As the 15th over drew to a close, a gargling wind and hissing drizzle arrived, like standing a fraction too close to a car wash.
Fielding became an adventure sport, dependent on sharpness of eye, balance of fortune and courage of conviction. Batting was arguably more dangerous, especially as Spittle threw in a steep and ugly bouncer. The next ball yorker that crashed the stumps was frankly a relief to the beleaguered batsman. Despite gallant and occasionally comic efforts in the field, it was becoming difficult to see how UCLES* could manufacture a victory. On the far side Bean was communicating with the square using a flashlight like a smuggler in an Enid Blyton yarn.
The penultimate over was an exquisite farce. The square-leg umpire, for some reason dressed like Ali G, stood no more than 10ft from the crease and a gaggle of UCLES* fielders surrounded the batsman. Personal safety was sacrificed in a simple attempt to see the ball and Hemmings was particularly gallant, risking his good looks in the interest of an implausible victory. Maybe he felt there was little to lose.
Only Spittle continued regardless, hurling the ball through the darkness. One huge appeal for LBW was rejected on the basis that the umpire could not see the batsman. With the scoreboard long lost in the gloom, three Mol Bol players stood on the boundary shouting the score after each ball. Finally, after the most ridiculous half hour of sport since ‘Javelin Catching’ was admitted as an exhibition event at the 1976 Olympics, the winning run was struck somewhere and a game that had ended as a contest a long time earlier finally ended for real.
The only time I can ever remember playing cricket in such light was back in the early 1990’s when Clifford Smoothy and I wiled away an evening on the Camping Close in Linton with a golf ball and a large Willow tree branch. I can still remember a lofted straight drive that missed his head by a matter of inches. Ahhh, the ridiculous idiocy of youth.
A decent all-round effort from UCLES* but 122 simply wasn’t enough. 150 would have been very competitive but then again we’d probably still be out there.
As I strolled to my car I passed Ladds leaning on the railings and staring desperately out across the darkened field. For a moment I considered tapping him on the shoulder and telling him that we’d finished but, then again, why spoil his fun? You never know, we may even have won the game he thought he could still see…
The only time I can ever remember playing cricket in such light was back in the early 1990’s when Clifford Smoothy and I wiled away an evening on the Camping Close in Linton with a golf ball and a large Willow tree branch. I can still remember a lofted straight drive that missed his head by a matter of inches. Ahhh, the ridiculous idiocy of youth.
A decent all-round effort from UCLES* but 122 simply wasn’t enough. 150 would have been very competitive but then again we’d probably still be out there.
As I strolled to my car I passed Ladds leaning on the railings and staring desperately out across the darkened field. For a moment I considered tapping him on the shoulder and telling him that we’d finished but, then again, why spoil his fun? You never know, we may even have won the game he thought he could still see…
Tuesday 18 November 2008
'Coming Back to Me' - Marcus Trescothick
In many ways, Marcus Trescothick’s autobiography is like many sporting memoirs – predictable, simple and unremarkable.
It details an impressive enough test career (a average of 44 compares very favourably with English batsmen of his generation), the occasional mouthful of dressing room gossip and the obligatory pictures one-third and two-thirds of the way through words that somebody else helped write.
What makes Trescothick’s turn at the book-signing trestle table a far more interesting prospect is however his unique perspective on the pressures and perils of modern sport. Put simply, international cricket almost broke Marcus Trescothick and ultimately, desperately, when all other options were exhausted, he had to admit that it hurt.
For most people, ‘homesick’ means nothing more than crying yourself to sleep on a Year 6 Easter trip to Walberswick, but Trescothick’s childhood discomfort with all things alien and new never really left him. Incessant, often intense cricket, a fierce media spotlight and the glowering, shifting walls of a 1000 faceless hotels have made the life of a test cricketer more emotionally and physically testing than serving in most European armies.
Trescothick’s time on tour with England – including the junior ranks – had always begun with a sombre and reflective few days until the rigours of the sport provided a distraction and a fresh focus. But with fatigue setting in and a young family at home it only took a handful of pieces of misfortune to send Trescothick spiralling from the imbalance and uncertainty to downright collapse.
Maybe misfortune is a bit glib. Stuck in the beautiful yet hideously unfamiliar sub-continent the last thing you want is a wife with post-natal depression, a father-in-law with a near-fatal head injury and, at a time of genuine social and political instability, an exploding gas canister on the edge of a cricket field in Pakistan.
Trescothick’s lifelong struggle with what was ultimately diagnosed as anxiety and depression had reached its nadir and, wrecked by catastrophic thoughts, panic attacks and nights without sleep he had no choice but to return home – first from India and then, after a false dawn of recovery, Australia.
Returning from the 2006/07 Ashes series all but brought the curtain down on Trescothick’s England career. If he couldn’t tour, then he couldn’t be an England player, simple as that.
Not that Trescothick didn’t try again - more pills, more counselling and more brave but false hopes. As recently as March this year, he found himself melting away in the corner of Dixons at Heathrow’s Terminal 3, faced with the prospect of a long flight and a pre-season tour to Dubai with Somerset.
Trescothick comes across very well. A thoughtful family man, observant, self-effacing and even witty, he is the striking antithesis of those brave new cricketers being endlessly carved by mercenary media moguls. Indeed he is probably one of those players (like Ian Wright in a football shirt) that made us all dream of being a contender long after it was ever realistic.
Trescothick is a player carved in England. Traditional, strong and loyal, he loves nothing more than a Somerset win and a night out with his Somerset team mates before a short trip to his Somerset home to spend some time with his Somerset girls. He just also happens to be as good an opening bastmen as England have produced this century.
History should judge Trescothick well. His record will hold up very well in the years to come. Although those able to tolerate the near constant cricket will dwarf his one-day stats, one does wonder how many more players will make 5000 test runs for England.
His sad demise (and make no mistake, this book is not a tale of weakness and woe, but of genuine physical fallibility) will be a badge he has to wear for the rest of his probably prolific Somerset career. But if we are looking for yet another reason to bemoan the modern sportsman we won’t find it here.
Trescothick is everything a sportsman should be, maybe even everything a man should be, and just as some players have careers shortened by busted ankles or tiring backs, his personal Achilles Heel, so to speak, was between the ears.
And we shouldn’t think less of him for that. Indeed, for a man that grew up in an era of pulling yourself together, he should be commended and admired for his dignity, his humility and for holding his hand up and asking for help.
It details an impressive enough test career (a average of 44 compares very favourably with English batsmen of his generation), the occasional mouthful of dressing room gossip and the obligatory pictures one-third and two-thirds of the way through words that somebody else helped write.
What makes Trescothick’s turn at the book-signing trestle table a far more interesting prospect is however his unique perspective on the pressures and perils of modern sport. Put simply, international cricket almost broke Marcus Trescothick and ultimately, desperately, when all other options were exhausted, he had to admit that it hurt.
For most people, ‘homesick’ means nothing more than crying yourself to sleep on a Year 6 Easter trip to Walberswick, but Trescothick’s childhood discomfort with all things alien and new never really left him. Incessant, often intense cricket, a fierce media spotlight and the glowering, shifting walls of a 1000 faceless hotels have made the life of a test cricketer more emotionally and physically testing than serving in most European armies.
Trescothick’s time on tour with England – including the junior ranks – had always begun with a sombre and reflective few days until the rigours of the sport provided a distraction and a fresh focus. But with fatigue setting in and a young family at home it only took a handful of pieces of misfortune to send Trescothick spiralling from the imbalance and uncertainty to downright collapse.
Maybe misfortune is a bit glib. Stuck in the beautiful yet hideously unfamiliar sub-continent the last thing you want is a wife with post-natal depression, a father-in-law with a near-fatal head injury and, at a time of genuine social and political instability, an exploding gas canister on the edge of a cricket field in Pakistan.
Trescothick’s lifelong struggle with what was ultimately diagnosed as anxiety and depression had reached its nadir and, wrecked by catastrophic thoughts, panic attacks and nights without sleep he had no choice but to return home – first from India and then, after a false dawn of recovery, Australia.
Returning from the 2006/07 Ashes series all but brought the curtain down on Trescothick’s England career. If he couldn’t tour, then he couldn’t be an England player, simple as that.
Not that Trescothick didn’t try again - more pills, more counselling and more brave but false hopes. As recently as March this year, he found himself melting away in the corner of Dixons at Heathrow’s Terminal 3, faced with the prospect of a long flight and a pre-season tour to Dubai with Somerset.
Trescothick comes across very well. A thoughtful family man, observant, self-effacing and even witty, he is the striking antithesis of those brave new cricketers being endlessly carved by mercenary media moguls. Indeed he is probably one of those players (like Ian Wright in a football shirt) that made us all dream of being a contender long after it was ever realistic.
Trescothick is a player carved in England. Traditional, strong and loyal, he loves nothing more than a Somerset win and a night out with his Somerset team mates before a short trip to his Somerset home to spend some time with his Somerset girls. He just also happens to be as good an opening bastmen as England have produced this century.
History should judge Trescothick well. His record will hold up very well in the years to come. Although those able to tolerate the near constant cricket will dwarf his one-day stats, one does wonder how many more players will make 5000 test runs for England.
His sad demise (and make no mistake, this book is not a tale of weakness and woe, but of genuine physical fallibility) will be a badge he has to wear for the rest of his probably prolific Somerset career. But if we are looking for yet another reason to bemoan the modern sportsman we won’t find it here.
Trescothick is everything a sportsman should be, maybe even everything a man should be, and just as some players have careers shortened by busted ankles or tiring backs, his personal Achilles Heel, so to speak, was between the ears.
And we shouldn’t think less of him for that. Indeed, for a man that grew up in an era of pulling yourself together, he should be commended and admired for his dignity, his humility and for holding his hand up and asking for help.
Monday 17 November 2008
Down the ground
What better antidote to a frost-scraping morning, than a bounce into May once more. This time we're in 2004 and let's take a close look at that UCLES side in a 'Where are they now' style feature - much like the inane way a Sunday supplement magazine would produce a piece about Grange Hill.
Linsdell - Still working for Cambridge Assessment, in the Catering department.
Robinson - Still working for Cambridge Assessment, in the Menswear department.
Wylie - Currently in hiding after an incident with a bridesmaid, an autograph and two dead fish.
Dagless - Took a new post in 2006 as the keeper of the Duke of Edinburgh's bathrobe.
Lawrence - Back in Australia, straightening chairs and putting away trestle tables.
Visage - Back in South Africa, on the run from the police for misuse of Angel Delight.
Richards - Still working for Cambridge Assessment, in the Compartment department.
Braithwaite - Back in the North East, mainly working as a puppeter.
Thomson - Now Head of Tins at Frey Bentos.
West - Still working for Cambridge Assessment, in the Wardrobe Department.
Danson - Retired. Living in Stevenage under the name Steven Age.
No wasn't that silly? Made me smile mind...
My promised review of MT's autobiography is on its way. I thought it only sporting that I should finish reading it first...
Linsdell - Still working for Cambridge Assessment, in the Catering department.
Robinson - Still working for Cambridge Assessment, in the Menswear department.
Wylie - Currently in hiding after an incident with a bridesmaid, an autograph and two dead fish.
Dagless - Took a new post in 2006 as the keeper of the Duke of Edinburgh's bathrobe.
Lawrence - Back in Australia, straightening chairs and putting away trestle tables.
Visage - Back in South Africa, on the run from the police for misuse of Angel Delight.
Richards - Still working for Cambridge Assessment, in the Compartment department.
Braithwaite - Back in the North East, mainly working as a puppeter.
Thomson - Now Head of Tins at Frey Bentos.
West - Still working for Cambridge Assessment, in the Wardrobe Department.
Danson - Retired. Living in Stevenage under the name Steven Age.
No wasn't that silly? Made me smile mind...
My promised review of MT's autobiography is on its way. I thought it only sporting that I should finish reading it first...
UCLES v Economics & Geography (11/05/04)
There's often something very special about the early games of a cricket season. And when I say special I of course mean wet. St. Johns playing fields are renowned for being moist, existing as they do under their very own toupee of grey cloud, and Tuesday night was no exception. The pitch was brown and sticky like a sticky chocolate brownie whereas the outfield had all the consistency of a three-day-old apple crumble.
Against this background of bizarre food-based metaphors Skipper James lost the toss and UCLES were asked to field. This decision was made easier for the Economics and Geography skipper by the fact that most of his side were a little late - presumably reading a dull text book over a small latte in Borders.
Skipper James opened with Danny Danson and Dave Richards - the latter arriving a little late following Skipper James' geographically-challenged directions. Unfortunately for UCLES, the senior bowlers began a little erratically, struggling to land the ball sufficiently close to the stumps to satisfy a very enthusiastic home umpire and extras sprinted into double-figures. However, as time progressed and vertebrae loosened so the old magic returned and at the end of their first 10 overs the home side had barely scraped past 40, with Danson (1 for 24) and Richards (1 for 19) both rattling the woodwork on one occasion.
On a cake-based pitch that was never likely to produce a large volume of runs, much was going to depend on UCLES change bowlers and in Dave Braithwaite and Steve Robinson the visitors had the men for the hour. Braithwaite (2 for 20) particularly starred, ably supported by the ever-reliable Robinson (1 for 26) and the Economics and Geography total of 89 always looked a couple of dozen short. Particular comment should also be made of the UCLES fielding which, on a very difficult outfield, was admirably enthusiastic. On some occasions however, enthusiasm is no substitute for being able to catch and a number of sharp chances headed groundwards.
Trevor Lawrence was quickly uprooted as UCLES began their reply, the gritty Australian playing on to his stumps from a ball that pitched on Madingley Road. Linsdell and Wylie then steadied the ship against an average bowling attack, taking advantage of some Vicar of Dibley fielding from the home side. Just when it seemed that the path to victory was clear and well-laid, so Wylie departed in unfortunate circumstances - run out whilst backing up by a combination of a Linsdell straight-drive, a bowler's foot and some impressively fair umpiring from Mr Richards.
Paul Dagless replaced Wylie but fell cheaply - bowled by one of the few good deliveries of the UCLES innings. Any thoughts however of a capitulation were quickly dismissed by Steve Robinson who joined Linsdell to guide UCLES through to a generally comfortable seven-wicket triumph.
Against this background of bizarre food-based metaphors Skipper James lost the toss and UCLES were asked to field. This decision was made easier for the Economics and Geography skipper by the fact that most of his side were a little late - presumably reading a dull text book over a small latte in Borders.
Skipper James opened with Danny Danson and Dave Richards - the latter arriving a little late following Skipper James' geographically-challenged directions. Unfortunately for UCLES, the senior bowlers began a little erratically, struggling to land the ball sufficiently close to the stumps to satisfy a very enthusiastic home umpire and extras sprinted into double-figures. However, as time progressed and vertebrae loosened so the old magic returned and at the end of their first 10 overs the home side had barely scraped past 40, with Danson (1 for 24) and Richards (1 for 19) both rattling the woodwork on one occasion.
On a cake-based pitch that was never likely to produce a large volume of runs, much was going to depend on UCLES change bowlers and in Dave Braithwaite and Steve Robinson the visitors had the men for the hour. Braithwaite (2 for 20) particularly starred, ably supported by the ever-reliable Robinson (1 for 26) and the Economics and Geography total of 89 always looked a couple of dozen short. Particular comment should also be made of the UCLES fielding which, on a very difficult outfield, was admirably enthusiastic. On some occasions however, enthusiasm is no substitute for being able to catch and a number of sharp chances headed groundwards.
Trevor Lawrence was quickly uprooted as UCLES began their reply, the gritty Australian playing on to his stumps from a ball that pitched on Madingley Road. Linsdell and Wylie then steadied the ship against an average bowling attack, taking advantage of some Vicar of Dibley fielding from the home side. Just when it seemed that the path to victory was clear and well-laid, so Wylie departed in unfortunate circumstances - run out whilst backing up by a combination of a Linsdell straight-drive, a bowler's foot and some impressively fair umpiring from Mr Richards.
Paul Dagless replaced Wylie but fell cheaply - bowled by one of the few good deliveries of the UCLES innings. Any thoughts however of a capitulation were quickly dismissed by Steve Robinson who joined Linsdell to guide UCLES through to a generally comfortable seven-wicket triumph.
Saturday 8 November 2008
Back of the hand
Sorry for the lack of blog last week, I was on holiday. Nothing more sinister than that. That said, my holiday was itself quite sinister and it rained non-stop. But that 'tis another story.
Also another story is Marcus Trescothick's autobiography, 'Coming Back to Me'. I shall have finished it by this time next week and if time allows I shall sprinkle some thoughts on this here bloggage.
Just a gentle sidestep into last season this morning, and yet another joyous hike to Sanger. UCLES* took to the duck's toilet as Skipper Steve, Linsdell, Brock, Ordish, Lane, Walsh, Siyambalapitiya, Gill, Ferry, Parson, Dewis.
Also another story is Marcus Trescothick's autobiography, 'Coming Back to Me'. I shall have finished it by this time next week and if time allows I shall sprinkle some thoughts on this here bloggage.
Just a gentle sidestep into last season this morning, and yet another joyous hike to Sanger. UCLES* took to the duck's toilet as Skipper Steve, Linsdell, Brock, Ordish, Lane, Walsh, Siyambalapitiya, Gill, Ferry, Parson, Dewis.
UCLES* v Sanger Centre (26/06/08)
If you take a man from the gutter and feed him from the table of royalty then eventually he will be disgusted by the prospect of a decent but simple soup. And so, inevitably, after a cricketing diet of the immaculate and unmerited, we have to go to Sanger.
Ultimately it is one of those unavoidable things in life, like visiting the dentist, cleaning the toilet or forgetting where you had buried the cat in 1983 and accidentally digging up the bones in front of the grandchildren when making space for their new sandpit.
Don’t get me wrong, it is a perfectly attractive place to play cricket, with sweeping ripples of green and the fluttering peace of a pond and all its contents. It is, in the end, the vast and unexplored mysteries of the pitch that makes trips to Sanger such a cause of deep sighs and general grumpiness. That and having to get changed in a toilet like a low-budget Superman.
And last Wednesday night’s pitch was no exception, treated as we were to a lightly combed shredded wheat affair with single strands of hay wobbling in an over-zealous breeze. To the bowler it offers a sly wink and a secret handshake yet to the batsman it snarls, curls its lip and threatens like a cat staring into the goldfish bowl. Skipper Steve once more achieved the runners-up spot in the toss competition and UCLES* were asked to field.
Ordish and Ferry began proceedings with the ball and for the first half of their innings the batsmen scratched and sniffed like a trap-circling mouse trying to weigh up the cheese v decapitation gamble. Extras were leading the way as wind and wildness battered Lane behind the stumps. Bounce was both irregular and optional as the pitch began to show the petulance of a spoilt five-year-old at her own birthday party.
Despite the difficulty the batsmen had in gathering runs early on, chances were at a premium and it took a suicidal single and a loopy Linsdell lob to conjure a run-out and break the deadlock. A second wicket feel soon after as Linsdell stooped to pocket a mis-timed drive to give Ferry his first UCLES* scalp.
Skipper Steve continued to rotate his bowlers in an effort to produce more wickets but ultimately only a second run-out materialised and UCLES* were powerless to prevent a big-hitting Sanger batsman from taking advantage. Some clean hitting and good fortune thus took Sanger to 152-3 in their 20 overs, a whopping total on a pitch that would have given you some belief in the defence of 100.
Linsdell and Siyambalapitiya began the reply, both slightly alarmed that the wicket keeper had chosen to wear a helmet despite standing 20 yards behind the wicket. Siyambalapitiya fell early on, yorked by a gentle in-swinger but Brock helped keep UCLES* in contention with another impressive cameo. Brock’s departure brought Skipper Steve to the crease and he stood beside Linsdell to look ponderously at the scoreboard like a middle-aged couple whose caravan had fallen into a ditch.
With Sanger still drunk from the thrill of making more than 150, the long-serving pair were able to keep victory on the agenda with some decent striking and devilish running. Linsdell slapped a leg side six before holing out on the long-off boundary looking for a repeat. The exact same fate befell Skipper Steve a few overs later as he attempted to repeat a crushing six over wide long on.
Despite the fall of wickets, the run chase had now become a little too close for comfort for Sanger and their over-zealous skipper proceeded to throw a magnificent tantrum at his own fielders, complete with arm waving, screeching and that broken voice that comes when people get really upset but desperately don’t want to cry. Impressively, they continued to ignore his instructions, wobbling about the field aimlessly like sheep with ADHD. Laughing at him would of course have been unhelpful so the watching UCLES* fielders unhelped as much as they could.
Slowly toys were returned to the pram from which they came and wickets began to fall. Fortune certainly abandoned the brave as Lane was run-out attempting a single to the wicket keeper and Dewis found a fielder with a neatly timed leg glance.
With a handful of overs remaining, attention turned to Ordish who made his intentions clear with a lusty hoik into the trees. But for all his power Ordish was swiping rather than striking. Had he been in charge of the dinner gong, then the duck chowder would have been cold long before Lord and Lady Fockingham had reached the table.
Parsons strode to the wicket as last (wo)man but with 18 needed for victory from the final 3 balls it was always going to be something of a challenge. In the end, she missed a straight one and, once more, UCLES* had failed to chase down a total at Sanger.
As the teams departed the field, Skipper Steve rather boldly asked the Sanger captain if he had calmed down, rather like when my Dad asks my Mum if she is still ‘excited’ after they’ve had a row. Fortunately Steve’s question was met with a wry smile, rather that the saucepan full of mashed potato that once faced my father.
Ultimately it is one of those unavoidable things in life, like visiting the dentist, cleaning the toilet or forgetting where you had buried the cat in 1983 and accidentally digging up the bones in front of the grandchildren when making space for their new sandpit.
Don’t get me wrong, it is a perfectly attractive place to play cricket, with sweeping ripples of green and the fluttering peace of a pond and all its contents. It is, in the end, the vast and unexplored mysteries of the pitch that makes trips to Sanger such a cause of deep sighs and general grumpiness. That and having to get changed in a toilet like a low-budget Superman.
And last Wednesday night’s pitch was no exception, treated as we were to a lightly combed shredded wheat affair with single strands of hay wobbling in an over-zealous breeze. To the bowler it offers a sly wink and a secret handshake yet to the batsman it snarls, curls its lip and threatens like a cat staring into the goldfish bowl. Skipper Steve once more achieved the runners-up spot in the toss competition and UCLES* were asked to field.
Ordish and Ferry began proceedings with the ball and for the first half of their innings the batsmen scratched and sniffed like a trap-circling mouse trying to weigh up the cheese v decapitation gamble. Extras were leading the way as wind and wildness battered Lane behind the stumps. Bounce was both irregular and optional as the pitch began to show the petulance of a spoilt five-year-old at her own birthday party.
Despite the difficulty the batsmen had in gathering runs early on, chances were at a premium and it took a suicidal single and a loopy Linsdell lob to conjure a run-out and break the deadlock. A second wicket feel soon after as Linsdell stooped to pocket a mis-timed drive to give Ferry his first UCLES* scalp.
Skipper Steve continued to rotate his bowlers in an effort to produce more wickets but ultimately only a second run-out materialised and UCLES* were powerless to prevent a big-hitting Sanger batsman from taking advantage. Some clean hitting and good fortune thus took Sanger to 152-3 in their 20 overs, a whopping total on a pitch that would have given you some belief in the defence of 100.
Linsdell and Siyambalapitiya began the reply, both slightly alarmed that the wicket keeper had chosen to wear a helmet despite standing 20 yards behind the wicket. Siyambalapitiya fell early on, yorked by a gentle in-swinger but Brock helped keep UCLES* in contention with another impressive cameo. Brock’s departure brought Skipper Steve to the crease and he stood beside Linsdell to look ponderously at the scoreboard like a middle-aged couple whose caravan had fallen into a ditch.
With Sanger still drunk from the thrill of making more than 150, the long-serving pair were able to keep victory on the agenda with some decent striking and devilish running. Linsdell slapped a leg side six before holing out on the long-off boundary looking for a repeat. The exact same fate befell Skipper Steve a few overs later as he attempted to repeat a crushing six over wide long on.
Despite the fall of wickets, the run chase had now become a little too close for comfort for Sanger and their over-zealous skipper proceeded to throw a magnificent tantrum at his own fielders, complete with arm waving, screeching and that broken voice that comes when people get really upset but desperately don’t want to cry. Impressively, they continued to ignore his instructions, wobbling about the field aimlessly like sheep with ADHD. Laughing at him would of course have been unhelpful so the watching UCLES* fielders unhelped as much as they could.
Slowly toys were returned to the pram from which they came and wickets began to fall. Fortune certainly abandoned the brave as Lane was run-out attempting a single to the wicket keeper and Dewis found a fielder with a neatly timed leg glance.
With a handful of overs remaining, attention turned to Ordish who made his intentions clear with a lusty hoik into the trees. But for all his power Ordish was swiping rather than striking. Had he been in charge of the dinner gong, then the duck chowder would have been cold long before Lord and Lady Fockingham had reached the table.
Parsons strode to the wicket as last (wo)man but with 18 needed for victory from the final 3 balls it was always going to be something of a challenge. In the end, she missed a straight one and, once more, UCLES* had failed to chase down a total at Sanger.
As the teams departed the field, Skipper Steve rather boldly asked the Sanger captain if he had calmed down, rather like when my Dad asks my Mum if she is still ‘excited’ after they’ve had a row. Fortunately Steve’s question was met with a wry smile, rather that the saucepan full of mashed potato that once faced my father.
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