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…
