Alcohology Vs Smith & Nephew
It was a glorious late summer’s evening. A flotilla of threatening cloud was busily scudding overhead, having mercifully decided not to precipitate on our particular corner of
Anticipating a final thrash on our beloved wicket, sticky and soft though it had unfortunately become of late, we were understandably disappointed to learn that the GSA Vs Heavy Rollers match was scheduled to take place on this well-worn track instead. We were informed of this fact by the new league champions in a manner which some less charitable than myself might deem mildly gleeful. I ascribe their pleasure more to a palpable relief on their part not to be suffering the fate which now befell us, namely to play on the artificial wicket instead. We would have been just as pleased, if perhaps slightly less triumphal, had the positions been reversed.
So we manfully accepted our misfortune and made for the distant astroturfed horror, bracing ourselves for an evening of variably bouncing, sandy balls. It was then that our Captain reconsidered the situation and contacted the groundsman, making a request which few of us thought likely to succeed. However, after a few moments’ earnest discussion, Atha proudly snapped shut his mobile telephone and announced that tonight’s game would take place on the hallowed strip of the first team’s pitch. A frisson of excitement ran through every one of us. Like schoolchildren given a half-day holiday to celebrate a royal birth, we hurriedly collected our equipment and scampered to the fabled place. Leaving the horrid practice wicket behind, we rounded an imperiously solid hedge and were greeted with a magnificent sight.
Before us lay a stunningly green sward of beautifully mown heaven. In the distance, we could see the other teams warming up for their match, and I must admit that a less than honourable sentiment was expressed, for which the Germans have perhaps the best word. Schadenfreude was permitted, briefly, to permeate our conversation, as we surveyed the wonderful scene before us. In the centre, the very heart of sporting desire, lay the wicket itself, protected from the recent rains beneath its three-piece, articulated, wheeled covers. In raptures of uncontrolled joy, we gladly pulled them through the outfield, anxious to view the splendour beneath. This blissful moment was to be slightly delayed, owing to the unforeseen weight of our burden, but fatigued though we were by the task nothing could sully the unadulterated delight of setting eyes on that light brown, rock-hard, flawless track of destiny.
Team sprits were understandably high. Setting up camp by the scorer’s hut, we eagerly discussed tactics as we warmed up. Never have bowlers so rigorously loosened their shoulders, never have batsmen so assiduously practised their shots, and never have Captain Atha’s calves been so thoroughly stretched by the administrations of his willing teammates. Fresh from Tuesday’s victory, and enthralled by the illustrious surroundings in which we found ourselves, we felt that nothing could stand in our way. Requested to field, we assumed our customary positions with a promptness born of a season’s meticulous drilling. The stage was set, the players were in place, and the final contest began in a veritably electric atmosphere of excitement.
It pleases me greatly to report that all did their duty and stepped up to the mark. Firing the opening salvos, Atha and Millward maintained the aggressive brilliance which was been their hallmark. Try as they might, the batsmen could not dominate the attack. Unable to strike out against such menace, they opted for safety instead, forced into a series of hurried blocks and fends which garnered few runs and testified to the vigour of our bowling. Atha withdrew after two sorties, to save his energy for the evening’s denouement. Millward, however, bowled his whole session out, finally bullying his victim into a disastrous lofted scoop which sent the ball soaring into the sky and plummeting straight into the hands of the Charnonator, deep in the outfield. Ending his final spell of the season with 4-1-12-1, the steely, grim visage of our tame Berserker broke into a broad grin which, to those who didn’t know and love him dearly as we do, might have seemed deeply unsettling. To us, it spoke of pride and pleasure; to others, it may have suggested the frenzied, primeval joy of the kill.
This moment spawned a terrific sequence of cricket in which Mr Harding and Mr
At the Pavilion end, the attack was taken up by Mr Milsted, who despite finishing wicketless nevertheless produced his customary array of testicle-bound poppers and skiddy, slingy sliders, ending his spell 4-0-23-0, slightly disappointed, but having provided the unsettling variety we have enjoyed all season. He was replaced by Captain Atha, unusually bringing himself back into the attack, and thereby allowing Dr Tweak’s large and reliable hands to continue their sterling work in the field.
Atha’s return coincided with that of the Bristol Buccaneer’s, and together they wreaked total havoc. The batsmen, now desperate to increase the run-rate, began taking ludicrous risks, attempting runs which even Mr Millward might refuse. Like two cats with a death-wish, they danced a deadly waltz with fate several times before superb stump-work by the Little Master finally administered some justice to the situation. This splendid achievement was surpassed only by the wonderful low catch taken by Mr Arnott at point; the ball flying off a thick outside edge after a typically tempting Atha delivery. The last 4 overs passed in blur of action, excitement and daring, until Time, like a stern, disapproving Governess in a boisterous nursery, called an end to the innings with the score on 92-6. Mr Harding (4-0-12-2) and Mr Atha (4-0-17-1) departed the field with a guard of honour made up of their grateful teammates, and another splendid fielding performance was warmly applauded by the gathering of friends, loved ones, and confused bystanders waiting beyond the boundary rope.
Gathering his troops around him, Captain Atha spoke words of encouragement, caution, and resolve. He urged us to play our natural game, and not be tempted into rashness, but be prepared to play positively and with the intent to win. This message burning hotly in their souls, Arnott and
The contest was renewed as the sun dropped ever lower, a glowing red orb sinking through a lavender sky, right behind the bowler’s arm from the Golf Course end. Facing this impediment, by some cruel chance, for over upon over untold, was the Little Master. His vision thus impaired, he was further inconvenienced by the presence of unfamiliar shoes on his sensitive feet. Having omitted his boots from his kit bag, he had been persuaded to borrow a pair of trainers rather than enter the fray in his cumbersome steel toe-capped Doc Martins, or his beloved old brown brogues. These impediments notwithstanding, he fashioned an innings of quintessential beauty and technical perfection: blocking, fending, stroking and smiting his way to a hard-fought 7, finally falling to a mystery ball which someone eluded his bat and kissed the upper sheen of the top-most coat of varnish on the off-stump bail. By such infinitesimal margins are the Great dismissed; playing the game at the very limit of human ability, they exist in a world of minute subtlety incomprehensible to us lesser beings.
At the other end, Mr Arnott was carving out an innings of spectacular endeavour. Batting like a terrier with the smell of young rabbit wafting past his wet and eager nose, Arnott swatted the ball to all areas, chipping and bludgeoning with equal alacrity, running hard and hitting harder, all with an irresistible, irrepressible, quirky smile upon his sharp, slightly elfin face. I say, without fear of contradiction, that this man has brought me greater pleasure than almost any other during my time in this world, and that I would gladly die with the image of him crashing a ball to the rope emblazoned on my departing heart. He eventually fell, clean bowled, with 38 to his name, and a place in the Halls of the Magnificent securely established. The Cricket Valhalla will surely have no finer exponent of the art of opening the batting as he, when, in the fullness of time, the Gods decide to reclaim such brilliance for their own.
Thus, with the score approximately 50-2, was the work of our fine opening pair concluded for the season. Now, the rest of the team had to maintain this stern standard. If I state here that they failed to score as heavily, I wish it to be known that their efforts were no less honest, no less committed, no less loving, than those of their illustrious predecessors.
Captain Atha, boldly claiming the number 3 berth, arrived at the crease just as the sun was at virtually eye-level, and just as the opposition unearthed some terrifying devil of the ancient world and persuaded it to bowl. Invoking some awful runic magic of Hades, in which Mr Millward took a keen interest, this monster delivered a series of blisteringly rapid balls which our gallant Captain did magnificently well simply to lay bat upon.
The siege was terrible to behold. The ball, truly a missile of dire intent, seemed possessed with some evil spirit of its own. After three terrifying salvos, it struck Atha full on the big toe of his left foot, as he planted it firmly down the wicket with bat squarely behind. Toppled but briefly, this hero, this leader of men, resumed his innings with barely a grimace to acknowledge his agony. Shortly afterward, the ball arrived on a devastatingly fuller length, striking his right boot laces, full on the quivering metatarsals, poised and ready to propel their master down the wicket. As we looked on in horror, our beleaguered leader sustained a third blow, this time into the flesh of the top of his mighty left thigh. Like Odysseus on the plain of Troy, stricken by a vengeful Trojan spear, Atha refused to concede, battling on until at last his stumps were torn from pitch. Then, like a wounded soldier staggering away from the front line, his flag shot to tatters but still valiantly flying from its pole, our Captain returned to the rapturous applause of his adoring team, a score of 1 to his name testament to the brutal savagery he had faced.
It was then we feared our cause might be lost. Atha’s heart-rending demise was shortly followed by that of Mr Harding. Arriving to assist his ailing Captain, only to witness his defeat, our West-Country Heracles was himself undone by fortune. Having thrillingly cut to the boundary off the bowling of Atha’s tormentor, he was bowled from the other end by a piece of late in-swinging spite, surely sent from Loki himself, embittered at the sight of such virtue and determined to sully it. Though out for 5, Harding was far from sullied, his shining brow and broad shoulders the very picture of honest toil. We welcomed him back to the boundary, like a lost brother retuned from great peril, as we sent the Demon Tatlioglu into the fray in his stead. Eyes glowing with the lust for blood, he would have struck terror into most men, but our opponents were suffused with an heroic spirit of their own, and succeeded in tying down our champion through some incredibly tight bowling. Tatlioglu strove valiantly to break them down, but was destroyed in the attempt, his bravery proving no defence against the straight ball. Infuriated with himself, we can make no criticism of him, but speak of his courage and willingness to lay himself in the path of danger, that his teammates might survive to fight on.
Fight on they did. Dr Honeywell, promoted up the order to add steel and bite, swished and swatted but could not make headway. Though he perished, I believe he laid the foundation for what was to come, for he showed that all was not lost. He dared to swish, he dared to swat, and he proved to all that the task was not beyond us. Falling shortly after the Demon, Dr Tweak’s demise brought our gallant transatlantic duo to the crease. The Maple Leaf Hero, fresh from his marvellous bowling display, was content to play the foil for his American colleague, and did so magnificently. At the other end, the Charonator smelled blood and reverted to type in the most thrilling fashion imaginable.
Do not for a moment labour under the illusion that what came next was attractive to watch, or orthodox in any manner whatsoever. The occasion did not call for attractive stroke-play or technical orthodoxy. The situation was dire. We were about 30 runs short, rapidly losing batsmen, and the sun had now set, making the task grow immeasurably more difficult with every passing ball as the gloom inexorably gathered. What was required was sheer, bloody-minded brutality, and this is precisely what was provided. With a shot presumably imported from a pastime known as ‘baseball’ in which he is proficient, Charno thumped and battered the bowling to all sides of the ground. Fearless and battle-crazed, he creamed blood-curdlingly fast bowling back over the bowler’s head, careless of fielder or of personal safety. As darkness gathered in dampening grass, the score was suddenly propelled along like an express train. From 30-odd runs short, we were suddenly only 15 behind. Moments later, the gap was a mere 10. Then, appallingly, Charno was bowled, and with his cart-wheeling middle stump went our hopes, thrown cruelly to the ground for all to mock.
Only one man could possibly rescue us. As Charno returned, 15 astonishing runs to his name, Mr Millward stepped forward to replace him. If we had seen the light of the primeval Dane before, it was as nothing to the Viking glare now emanating from his terrifying features. With 10 balls still to face and the light rapidly declining as evening set in, Millward bellowed a battle-cry last heard by the monks of
In the annals of human conflict there can be few moments more heroic, and few more tragic, than those which befell our warriors at the crease. Facing slow bowling, looped high into the impenetrable murk of a dark and greying sky, they flashed away for all they were worth. Barely able to see the ball, they missed the first two. Then Mr Millward connected with it, and we screamed in joy as they ran two. Standing arm-in-arm on the boundary, the entire team were united in love and desire for these men and their cause. The fourth ball came, and eluded
None spoke; none dared even to breathe, as the last ball left the bowler’s hand. Unable to see its progress through the air, we looked instead to the batsman for evidence of success or its counterpart. Millward stood up, raising his bat high behind him, and bought it down in a drive of extraordinary audacity and courage. The face of the bat kissed the ball on the full, sending it screaming away into the dusky no-man’s-land of the off-side, away from the wicket and seemingly bound for the rope, but for the presence of a surprised fielder, scarcely able to comprehend his good fortune. Unshaken by this calamity, Millward ran for his very life, crossing with
This was it.
The ‘keeper regained control.
Falling to the ground in utter dejection, our heroes beat the earth, cursing the fates and calling to the spirit of cricket for redemption. In that moment, not a person on this earth could have consoled them in their misery. On the boundary, our hearts broke as one, flooding with pity for the stricken batsmen, and with disappointment at the outcome. However, to our immense gratification, we found ourselves equally suffused with new knowledge. For as the fallen warriors were picked up by their victors, and congratulated by them for their efforts, we knew we had witnessed something far nobler, far worthier, than a mere cricket match. Applauding the opposition, we knew that, even though the match was lost, the fact of tying the scores was in itself a victory over the vicissitudes of competitive sport. In sharing the runs tally, we had shared in a magnificent contest, and grown together as people as a result. Despite the pain of defeat, perhaps even because of it, in the circumstances, we were the better for having completed the journey, and thankful for the chance to learn such a valuable lesson.
This enlightened sentiment was succinctly expressed by our captain.
“Bollocks. Let’s go for a drink’”
I shall consign the post-match celebrations to your imagination and instead leave you with a personal reflection on the game, and indeed on the whole season. As the final over got underway, I was mindful of every other game we had played, and indeed of the whole magnificent summer. In those last 6 deliveries, all that we had achieved and enjoyed still remained tangible. We were still playing cricket. We were still a team. It was still summer.
Summer. Perhaps the most beautiful word in our language. From the first call of ‘play’ to the final run-out, a wonderful season of narrow defeats, and, sensationally, three astounding victories; every catch, every run, every boundary, every wicket, seemed to flow through my imagination, suffused with a brilliant light and a tearful swell of joy. What times. What wonderful times.
Now, as I collected a few stray belongings and packed away my paper and pen, I was overcome with a terrible sorrow. Looking up, I caught the last of the sun’s light as it sank below a distant hedgerow, and I felt a new, cold wind rise out of the north and flow over the darkening field. The trees stirred with the truth I was just appreciating. The warmth of the year shrank within me, becoming but a memory, and I knew it was over. The season was over. The matches were over. Summer was over.
Autumn was here.
Even as I allowed a single tear to roll down my face, I knew it must be so. It is only when we lose great joy that we fully understand it. It has always been so, and we must accept it. I swung my bag onto my back, and pushed my bicycle away from the quietened field, resolving to record the great achievements of this year in some tangible form. It was then that I called once more upon the spirit of cricket for solace, and received from her a wonderful promise of hope, burning brightly in the darkness.
Next year would be even better.
Yours,
FW TRUMPER
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