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.
