In case anyone's missed it.
Thursday, 5 May 2011
Great Televised Cricket Matches of Our Time #1
1. Bloke who smuggles drugs in his wheelchair's Old Boys XI (Spoiler alert) vs Some Posh People, Inspector Morse, 'Deceived By Flight', 1989.
Directed by Antony Minghella, would you believe. Now, some things to look out for (worth skipping around unless you want to watch some horrible acting).
First up, not to be discriminatory, but I don't know about having a wheelchair-bound umpire. Hardly encourages the bowlers to get close to the stumps. GREAT catching technique at 06.36. Appealing for a bowled at 07.20 - why not? Shows you're playing in the right spirit.
Ultimately though, this one's all about Sergeant Lewis. Comes in at 10.10, asks for middle and leg while holding the bat the wrong way round. Interesting grip too. But he can do that, because he's clearly a player.
Now into part 7 and Lewis isn't going to be phased by some ponce giving it the big outswinger first up. Bit of Atherton in that back foot forcing shot. More great catching at 0.21. Then it all goes tits up twenty seconds later. Selfless stuff from the Sergeant. I wouldn't have moved an inch. That dick goes on to get 50 too.
We're back out at 05.35 and fuck me sideways if our man isn't showboating in the field. One handed for no good reason whatsoever. And it'd take a stronger character than me not to shed a tear at the sight of Morse dozing through the whole thing. Poor Lewis. But never mind, just wait till 06.14. Shit's about to get real. Posh bloke who I think is also involved in the whole drug smuggling thing might hit his loosener for a couple, but you don't leave it outside off to a guy with a chest-on action and a solid wrist position. Stitch that. This is high-class stuff: at 7.22 he moves one the other way and gets his man fishing, but butterfingers behind the stumps drops a sitter. Wonder what happens to the ball at 07.43? I'm thinking it knocked all three out. Finally, good to see a knifing in the pavilion doesn't stop them taking tea.
Directed by Antony Minghella, would you believe. Now, some things to look out for (worth skipping around unless you want to watch some horrible acting).
First up, not to be discriminatory, but I don't know about having a wheelchair-bound umpire. Hardly encourages the bowlers to get close to the stumps. GREAT catching technique at 06.36. Appealing for a bowled at 07.20 - why not? Shows you're playing in the right spirit.
Ultimately though, this one's all about Sergeant Lewis. Comes in at 10.10, asks for middle and leg while holding the bat the wrong way round. Interesting grip too. But he can do that, because he's clearly a player.
Now into part 7 and Lewis isn't going to be phased by some ponce giving it the big outswinger first up. Bit of Atherton in that back foot forcing shot. More great catching at 0.21. Then it all goes tits up twenty seconds later. Selfless stuff from the Sergeant. I wouldn't have moved an inch. That dick goes on to get 50 too.
We're back out at 05.35 and fuck me sideways if our man isn't showboating in the field. One handed for no good reason whatsoever. And it'd take a stronger character than me not to shed a tear at the sight of Morse dozing through the whole thing. Poor Lewis. But never mind, just wait till 06.14. Shit's about to get real. Posh bloke who I think is also involved in the whole drug smuggling thing might hit his loosener for a couple, but you don't leave it outside off to a guy with a chest-on action and a solid wrist position. Stitch that. This is high-class stuff: at 7.22 he moves one the other way and gets his man fishing, but butterfingers behind the stumps drops a sitter. Wonder what happens to the ball at 07.43? I'm thinking it knocked all three out. Finally, good to see a knifing in the pavilion doesn't stop them taking tea.
Tuesday, 3 May 2011
Cricket of the day - England vs India at Lord's, 1990
Plenty to love here. As if Azhar's silky off side shots aren't enough, you'll almost certainly enjoy Kapil Dev mullering fat-arsed Eddie Hemmings for sixes all over the shop. Great bowling from Gus Fraser in the days when he was quite fast. Bad Devon playing this game.
Addendum
I mentioned the opposition's Witless Cricketer's Almanack. It contains this marvelous paragraph in a match report. The team decided to warm up for a fixture with a game of Dodgeball.
'Witness poor T----- H------, emcee for Saturday's nuptials, when Crushy unleashed a thunderbolt bearing straight for the Reverend's own wedding tackle. Like any right-thinking fellow, his instinctive reaction was to minimize the relative velocity of impact between the inbound projective and his gentles. Alas, by the principle of conservation of momentum, back went the arse; ergo forward went the torso. Net result: a planar three-point landing (gonads, chest and schnozzle) and a sound resembling the crack of a gunshot....the undercard complete with just one (subsequent) hospitalisation, off we all merrily trots to begin the main event of the weekend.'
And to think people complain about the national team playing football to warm up.
'Witness poor T----- H------, emcee for Saturday's nuptials, when Crushy unleashed a thunderbolt bearing straight for the Reverend's own wedding tackle. Like any right-thinking fellow, his instinctive reaction was to minimize the relative velocity of impact between the inbound projective and his gentles. Alas, by the principle of conservation of momentum, back went the arse; ergo forward went the torso. Net result: a planar three-point landing (gonads, chest and schnozzle) and a sound resembling the crack of a gunshot....the undercard complete with just one (subsequent) hospitalisation, off we all merrily trots to begin the main event of the weekend.'
And to think people complain about the national team playing football to warm up.
01/05/11 - Parker's Piece, Cambridge
If this blog is anything, it is, I hope, honest. It is as accurate a depiction of what has occurred during a season as I can manage. If it fails in that regard I can only apologise. But above all honesty is my aim, so I make no apology for the foregoing.
It was with some sympathy that I read that during the last World Cup Ramnaresh Sarwan had been forced to bat lower than he usually would for the West Indies because he'd been sitting on the toilet when it was his turn to bat. For the Crap Cricketer, the mercurial rhythms and movements of the bowel can have an enormous impact on performance. Let us take today as an example.
Crap Cricketer has been out on the sauce the night before. By his youthful standards, this is a very restrained night - home by 1am, no more than five pints and several glasses of wine. Never mind - he wakes up not five hours later with an absolute bastard behind the eyes, a mouth like Gandhi's slipper and a stomach that's doing cartwheels. In a bid to assuage the demon, he takes a full English at the B&B where he's staying, because if there's one thing that's going to make him feel better, it's a mound of greasy meat and eggs.
He walks around town with Mrs CC, who's no stranger to this kind of torment. We sit by the river and attempt to read the paper, but even such unfettered calm and beauty can bring him no respite.
By far the biggest suffering is being inflicted by his colon, which has decided that a straight run of Turkish meats, cider, beer, cider (again) and wine followed by a fry-up should not go unpunished. By 11am the options are familiar and clear: go and have a poo in Starbucks' (pros: high likelihood of clean toilet and paper, no time pressure; cons: distinct possibility of breaking the key in the lock and being left with an arse like a pot of Marmite) or wait till the ground (pros: the poo will have been given time to ripen; cons: time pressure, unknown toilet facilities).
He goes for the Starbucks' option. It is an explosive, stinging experience. CC emerges pale-faced, a near-broken man. Two hours later he arrives at the ground, and it transpires that the situation was more serious than he thought: the visit to Starbucks' was no more than the first part in what is to be, rather like Back to The Future, a trilogy with a wildliy overblown second installment. Fortunately the pavilion does indeed boast a good set of facilities, and after a solid fifteen minutes in there CC is beginning to take control of his excretory system.
Oh yes, the cricket. Here's the ground:
And from the other side:
We were down to play at a very good college pitch, but unfortunately lost it at the last minute. This is a council pitch, but a pretty excellent replacement. A very drunk tramp greets us, telling us he needs a wee and he's going to hit some sixes later. For a brief, uncomfortable moment I wonder if he's actually the opposition captain. We manfully stare at our shoes and ignore him, and he wanders off somewhere.
Jack Hobbs learnt his cricket on this ground (his father worked at Fenner's and latterly at Jesus, the ground we were playing at the day before), and even set up his own club here. In 1930 he opened the pavilion in which we're getting changed. Actually it's a combined Thai restaurant/pavilion, which is a rather odd juxtaposition.
The young Hobbs was renowned as a quick footed, quick handed destroyer of attacks. The stride to the pitch of the ball and the whippy, high-backlift extra cover drive is immortalised in a thousand cricket almanacs:
Wikipedia has a great quote from Hal Hooker:
As we were taking the field against the M.C.C. our captain Herbie Collins said "You must all be on your toes out here today. We'll be facing 'The Master'" I had no idea who "The Master" was so I asked Arthur Mailey. Arthur replied, "'The Master's' Jack Hobbs and you'll soon see why." I did. He tapped the ball here, there and everywhere and had us all running around in circles as if he were the ring-master of a circus and we his obedient and bewildered slaves.
I'm pretty sure Ricky Ponting described Alastair Cook in similarly eloquent terms after the last Ashes.
Later, Hobbs would 'ripen into a classic', Tendulkar-style. Actually in terms of record - the average, the remorseless consistency, an unremarkable public character in the face of overwhelming public pressure - the comparisons with Tendulkar bear scrutiny. This excellent Pathe footage (who the hell spends their time watching cricket videos on YouTube these days? Pathe's where it's at, fools) is worth watching if you want to learn more.
Some commentators of the time say that he had no interest in the accumulation of runs or his figures - he was more concerned with playing the perfect shot to every ball. Michael Vaughan said that this preoccupation was why Ian Bell took so long to mature as a player. Ho hum.
Good news: it now transpires we have 12 for this game. CC almost prostrates himself before the Captain in a bid to sit out the fielding. Captain sees from his bloodshot eyes that he has a serious case on his hands, and our benevolent dictator affords him the first innings on the boundary.
So I can't really tell you much of the first fifteen overs. I know from the scoreboard that we didn't do all that well, but I half dozed through most of it. After 15 overs our extra man is taken off and CC is brought on and immediately asked to bowl. The opposition skipper very kindly takes no issue with this. He possibly wishes he had after CC takes two wickets in his second over. Can't really remember how or why this transpired in much detail. I toddled up, wanged it down outside off stump, and one batsman edged behind, before another one top edged up in the air.
Feeling like there's some etiquette being breached here - for the second time in two days - I revert to round the wicket spin. Now CC loves bowling spin, because it allows him to give credence to one of his most improbable fantasies - that his commitment to punting seam up bowling has deprived the country of one of its greatest left arm tweakers. And, to give him some credit, CC can certainly spin the ball. Oh yes. Landing it on the cut strip or, failing that, anywhere between half way down and full toss can be a bit of a challenge, but at least it's spinning before it gets deposited over the midwicket boundary. Well, there are a couple of desperate long hops in there, but there's also one that turns about a foot and a half, then one that turns just enough to beat the edge and get me a stumping. This is a bit embarrassing - I was supposed to slow the run rate down, at best. By mutual agreement with the skipper I take a spell, with three overs for three wickets.
Can't remember too much else due to hangover. They make 150. I spend quite a bit of time at slip, which is frankly terrifying.
Tea restores my faith in the world somewhat. Having previously given the impression on here that I believe the entirety of my team to be the scum of the earth, I must point out that I am knocked sideways by their efforts in providing tea for both sides. Cakes, sandwiches, biscuits and all sorts of other goodies abound. Wives, children and girlfriends have been working overtime. I was expecting a couple of Tesco Value prawn sandwiches at best.
Our openers head out to bat, and I head to the pavilion for the Wild West installment. By the time that's done, and two bottles of Powerade and two Red Bulls later, I'm beginning to feel human again. It's a good job because I come out at 70-7. The opposition boast our brewer from yesterday, who while lacking the pace of his youth, can still send down a heavy ball (his occupation is a double-edged sword: spending the day lifting barrels helps, drinking the contents doesn't). They also have a lanky young whippersnapper who was at Jesus and can nip it about, and their fixtures sec, who got me out last year.
Interesting bowler, this chap. At first sight he really doesn't look much good at all. Tall bloke bowling slow-medium with a front-on action that looks a bit like a very ungainly Steve Harmison. When he got me out it was only the second ball I'd faced and with respect I thought he'd got lucky in terms of how much he'd moved it. But actually, the more I watch him the more I realise what a good bowler he is. The seam is beautifully presented to the point that I can see it from the boundary, he extracts enough bounce to restrict scoring shots, and the pace is enough that the batsmen don't always have quite enough time to adjust to the movement. Reading the oppo's excellent 'Witless Cricketer's Almanack', I discover he brought up his ton in wickets last season - no bowler has taken more for them.
He takes two wickets - could have been more - and I stride out at 70-7. In combination with the lower order, we get over the line. I'm 29* at the end. There's not much to discuss there - the third and fourth change seamers move it about a little but have next to no control (GYAC - one is called 'Double Rubber' - he's an American who once requested an extra grip for his bat thus), and by the time the openers come back the pitch is showing signs of wear and tear and a couple skip through the top, but the game is all but up. Winning runs come from a no-ball beamer which, had I faced it a couple of hours earlier, would probably have decapitated me.
Of more import are drinks with the opposition back at the pub they're representing. Drinking fines are issued, pints are downed, songs are sung and the conversation revolves around cricket and little else. I'm reminded why I don't play league cricket any more: because there's precious little opportunity for 22 blokes to share banter, jokes at each other's inadequacies, and their love for this beautiful, beautiful game. Go home extremely happy, and not just because I have a crap on deck no longer.
Walk back to the car via the square as the sun begins to set. Rather like heading to the Village green after the circus has left town. Odd to see that where once there was drama, conflict, skill, luck, excitement - any other number of human experiences - there's just a slightly bare bit of turf with some kids playing football nearby.
Postscript: So April is done. In four games I have scored 162 runs, for once out, and only 15 or so came from the bowling of a girl. I've also taken six wickets, four of them caught at slip, which as we never tire of pointing out, constitutes proper cricket.
It will go downhill from here. It always does. To those who've asked: it's far, far too early to change the title of the blog.
It was with some sympathy that I read that during the last World Cup Ramnaresh Sarwan had been forced to bat lower than he usually would for the West Indies because he'd been sitting on the toilet when it was his turn to bat. For the Crap Cricketer, the mercurial rhythms and movements of the bowel can have an enormous impact on performance. Let us take today as an example.
Crap Cricketer has been out on the sauce the night before. By his youthful standards, this is a very restrained night - home by 1am, no more than five pints and several glasses of wine. Never mind - he wakes up not five hours later with an absolute bastard behind the eyes, a mouth like Gandhi's slipper and a stomach that's doing cartwheels. In a bid to assuage the demon, he takes a full English at the B&B where he's staying, because if there's one thing that's going to make him feel better, it's a mound of greasy meat and eggs.
He walks around town with Mrs CC, who's no stranger to this kind of torment. We sit by the river and attempt to read the paper, but even such unfettered calm and beauty can bring him no respite.
By far the biggest suffering is being inflicted by his colon, which has decided that a straight run of Turkish meats, cider, beer, cider (again) and wine followed by a fry-up should not go unpunished. By 11am the options are familiar and clear: go and have a poo in Starbucks' (pros: high likelihood of clean toilet and paper, no time pressure; cons: distinct possibility of breaking the key in the lock and being left with an arse like a pot of Marmite) or wait till the ground (pros: the poo will have been given time to ripen; cons: time pressure, unknown toilet facilities).
He goes for the Starbucks' option. It is an explosive, stinging experience. CC emerges pale-faced, a near-broken man. Two hours later he arrives at the ground, and it transpires that the situation was more serious than he thought: the visit to Starbucks' was no more than the first part in what is to be, rather like Back to The Future, a trilogy with a wildliy overblown second installment. Fortunately the pavilion does indeed boast a good set of facilities, and after a solid fifteen minutes in there CC is beginning to take control of his excretory system.
Oh yes, the cricket. Here's the ground:
And from the other side:
We were down to play at a very good college pitch, but unfortunately lost it at the last minute. This is a council pitch, but a pretty excellent replacement. A very drunk tramp greets us, telling us he needs a wee and he's going to hit some sixes later. For a brief, uncomfortable moment I wonder if he's actually the opposition captain. We manfully stare at our shoes and ignore him, and he wanders off somewhere.
Jack Hobbs learnt his cricket on this ground (his father worked at Fenner's and latterly at Jesus, the ground we were playing at the day before), and even set up his own club here. In 1930 he opened the pavilion in which we're getting changed. Actually it's a combined Thai restaurant/pavilion, which is a rather odd juxtaposition.
The young Hobbs was renowned as a quick footed, quick handed destroyer of attacks. The stride to the pitch of the ball and the whippy, high-backlift extra cover drive is immortalised in a thousand cricket almanacs:
Wikipedia has a great quote from Hal Hooker:
As we were taking the field against the M.C.C. our captain Herbie Collins said "You must all be on your toes out here today. We'll be facing 'The Master'" I had no idea who "The Master" was so I asked Arthur Mailey. Arthur replied, "'The Master's' Jack Hobbs and you'll soon see why." I did. He tapped the ball here, there and everywhere and had us all running around in circles as if he were the ring-master of a circus and we his obedient and bewildered slaves.
I'm pretty sure Ricky Ponting described Alastair Cook in similarly eloquent terms after the last Ashes.
Later, Hobbs would 'ripen into a classic', Tendulkar-style. Actually in terms of record - the average, the remorseless consistency, an unremarkable public character in the face of overwhelming public pressure - the comparisons with Tendulkar bear scrutiny. This excellent Pathe footage (who the hell spends their time watching cricket videos on YouTube these days? Pathe's where it's at, fools) is worth watching if you want to learn more.
Some commentators of the time say that he had no interest in the accumulation of runs or his figures - he was more concerned with playing the perfect shot to every ball. Michael Vaughan said that this preoccupation was why Ian Bell took so long to mature as a player. Ho hum.
Good news: it now transpires we have 12 for this game. CC almost prostrates himself before the Captain in a bid to sit out the fielding. Captain sees from his bloodshot eyes that he has a serious case on his hands, and our benevolent dictator affords him the first innings on the boundary.
So I can't really tell you much of the first fifteen overs. I know from the scoreboard that we didn't do all that well, but I half dozed through most of it. After 15 overs our extra man is taken off and CC is brought on and immediately asked to bowl. The opposition skipper very kindly takes no issue with this. He possibly wishes he had after CC takes two wickets in his second over. Can't really remember how or why this transpired in much detail. I toddled up, wanged it down outside off stump, and one batsman edged behind, before another one top edged up in the air.
Feeling like there's some etiquette being breached here - for the second time in two days - I revert to round the wicket spin. Now CC loves bowling spin, because it allows him to give credence to one of his most improbable fantasies - that his commitment to punting seam up bowling has deprived the country of one of its greatest left arm tweakers. And, to give him some credit, CC can certainly spin the ball. Oh yes. Landing it on the cut strip or, failing that, anywhere between half way down and full toss can be a bit of a challenge, but at least it's spinning before it gets deposited over the midwicket boundary. Well, there are a couple of desperate long hops in there, but there's also one that turns about a foot and a half, then one that turns just enough to beat the edge and get me a stumping. This is a bit embarrassing - I was supposed to slow the run rate down, at best. By mutual agreement with the skipper I take a spell, with three overs for three wickets.
Can't remember too much else due to hangover. They make 150. I spend quite a bit of time at slip, which is frankly terrifying.
Tea restores my faith in the world somewhat. Having previously given the impression on here that I believe the entirety of my team to be the scum of the earth, I must point out that I am knocked sideways by their efforts in providing tea for both sides. Cakes, sandwiches, biscuits and all sorts of other goodies abound. Wives, children and girlfriends have been working overtime. I was expecting a couple of Tesco Value prawn sandwiches at best.
Our openers head out to bat, and I head to the pavilion for the Wild West installment. By the time that's done, and two bottles of Powerade and two Red Bulls later, I'm beginning to feel human again. It's a good job because I come out at 70-7. The opposition boast our brewer from yesterday, who while lacking the pace of his youth, can still send down a heavy ball (his occupation is a double-edged sword: spending the day lifting barrels helps, drinking the contents doesn't). They also have a lanky young whippersnapper who was at Jesus and can nip it about, and their fixtures sec, who got me out last year.
Interesting bowler, this chap. At first sight he really doesn't look much good at all. Tall bloke bowling slow-medium with a front-on action that looks a bit like a very ungainly Steve Harmison. When he got me out it was only the second ball I'd faced and with respect I thought he'd got lucky in terms of how much he'd moved it. But actually, the more I watch him the more I realise what a good bowler he is. The seam is beautifully presented to the point that I can see it from the boundary, he extracts enough bounce to restrict scoring shots, and the pace is enough that the batsmen don't always have quite enough time to adjust to the movement. Reading the oppo's excellent 'Witless Cricketer's Almanack', I discover he brought up his ton in wickets last season - no bowler has taken more for them.
He takes two wickets - could have been more - and I stride out at 70-7. In combination with the lower order, we get over the line. I'm 29* at the end. There's not much to discuss there - the third and fourth change seamers move it about a little but have next to no control (GYAC - one is called 'Double Rubber' - he's an American who once requested an extra grip for his bat thus), and by the time the openers come back the pitch is showing signs of wear and tear and a couple skip through the top, but the game is all but up. Winning runs come from a no-ball beamer which, had I faced it a couple of hours earlier, would probably have decapitated me.
Of more import are drinks with the opposition back at the pub they're representing. Drinking fines are issued, pints are downed, songs are sung and the conversation revolves around cricket and little else. I'm reminded why I don't play league cricket any more: because there's precious little opportunity for 22 blokes to share banter, jokes at each other's inadequacies, and their love for this beautiful, beautiful game. Go home extremely happy, and not just because I have a crap on deck no longer.
Walk back to the car via the square as the sun begins to set. Rather like heading to the Village green after the circus has left town. Odd to see that where once there was drama, conflict, skill, luck, excitement - any other number of human experiences - there's just a slightly bare bit of turf with some kids playing football nearby.
Postscript: So April is done. In four games I have scored 162 runs, for once out, and only 15 or so came from the bowling of a girl. I've also taken six wickets, four of them caught at slip, which as we never tire of pointing out, constitutes proper cricket.
It will go downhill from here. It always does. To those who've asked: it's far, far too early to change the title of the blog.
30/04/11 - Jesus College, Cambridge
Better writers than I have attempted to encapsulate the rarefied atmosphere of a city that, in the pure architectural pulchritude stakes, tops any other in England. Maybe the best way is to describe it in terms of what it's not: it's not Oxford. Oxford is a relatively bustling city with a large university scattered throughout it - Cambridge is more of a university with a city bolted on as an afterthought.
Of course that's hardly the freshest of comparisons, but it matters because it's so intrinsic to Cambridge's sense of place. The centre of town is full of young people all caught in a snapshot: it's the same moment in all their lives. Almost without exception, they're a little unsure of themselves. They are in the process of formulating their beliefs, be it how far they're willing to accept Marx's Labour Theory of Value or whether it's acceptable to snog someone ten minutes after they've seen them puking on the College lawn.
In a decade or so, life will have washed away a bit of that excitement and optimism. They'll be a bit fatter, a bit slower, a bit more worried about kids, marriages and mortgages than abstruse intellectual concerns or the gossip of their peers. They'll have plenty more regrets. They'll be older, calmer, wiser - and perhaps they'll be lesser people. This city will seem like a desert island they half-glimpsed in a dream. Going back won't help, because their Cambridge will be long gone, quietly replaced with a new set of confused, excited and above all, happy faces.
But what a dream they had. Here's our pitch for the day:
Hardly a verbal affectation that one goes 'down' from a university like this. From the other side:
Rather stunning. To business: captain wins the toss and bats on a wicket that looks pretty flat, though with a covering of live green grass. Very unusual for English club cricket, this is a quick pitch. The opening bowlers are pacy enough, but aren't what you'd call express; still the keeper's taking half the length balls around chest height.
Both our openers make a good start, but one goes to a great slip catch (pacy wickets really do encourage proper cricket, which is why it's a good job we don't usually encounter them). I forget how the other went. The opposition are only on 10 for the day so we're lending a fielder, and I draw the short straw for the second stint. I'm standing at gully when the batsman slices one straight up in the air. Fears have I three:
1) I'm going to drop it because I'm utterly terrible at catching.
2) I'm going to catch it which will piss off the batsman because he knows I'm utterly terrible at catching.
3) The first slip is racing towards it like a man possessed and is going to cabbage me.
I'm about to run away from the horrific impending situation (possibly all the way, straight into the college bar) when he calls for it, and I adroitly step aside to let him complete the take. Thank. Fuck.
The change bowlers don't look much at all from the boundary, but are in fact far more handy than they appear - the captain, and a slow but ultimately decent off spinner. The captain I have faced before. Played club cricket in Luton and while not much quicker than a spinner, has every single ball in the locker and then some. Leg cutters merge with off cutters merge with in swing and outswing, all at a totally different pace every ball. It's the kind of bowling that requires patience and diligence. Two things in somewhat short supply among our batsmen. He nips out two of our best players - gets a little bit of luck on one dismissal (bat to pad to other pad to - eventually - stumps, whereupon the bails agonizingly plop off), but it's deserved.
So this brings me to the wicket (and already cricket fatigue has set in - I think we were 120-6 but have no idea, the grand total of two days later). The skipper is still on, and starts bowling some little bastards - off cutters (moving away from me) pitching on a perfect, full length well outside off and encouraging the gigantic slash through the offside. Takes some restraint to watch these pass through. The desert-island dwelling CC of ten years ago would have been throwing the hands at everything, and he'd have lasted two overs at most. Would he have had more fun? Ah, therein lies the rub.
Anyway, I'm more interested in the midwicket boundary, as there's a chance of causing thousands of pounds worth of architectural damage.
Never has the slog sweep been so appealing.
CC makes his way, slowly, to a 30 something. Definite cricket fatigue here too. There was a nice off drive from the returning opener. There was a leg glance just past the square leg umpire's head. I'm not sure there was much else of note beside some nurdling. I remember the plan was to get to 4pm, then have a slog until 4.15, and declare with whatever we had. At about 4.05 I've started hitting out, and we've got to about 200, with help from nos 7 & 8 - eight being the wonderful bloke who runs the local brewery and whom we've roped in - he knows the ground like the back of his hand, and he knows that off the quicks the late cut to the short third man boundary is the only way to go, which he does brilliantly. Here we are discussing tactics before the game:
Despite the beard, he's actually a bowler.
Anyway, it's at about 4.05pm that things go tits up and what was a rather good rearguard innings becomes something else, in the minds of our team, anyway. The Captain has clearly had enough of our lower order, and decides it's just time to get his men off the pitch. To that effect, he sticks a girl on to bowl. And not one of those annoyingly good girls, either. She bowls ridiculously slow donkey drops which give me about five minutes to choose where it's going to get belted. No, the challenge isn't one of technique: it's one of etiquette. I have three options here:
1) Show mercy and pat it back to her. Arses to that.
2) Murder absolutely everything. Appealing, but the predictable calls of "Well done hitting that girl for all those fours" almost make it impossible.
3) The option I choose - the middle ground. I try and swing at everything as hard as I can, but without going for placement - it works rather well for the first over. The fielders on the leg side are kept busy but stop most of them, I don't look like a complete shit (by either being too patronising or too ruthless), and we're getting a few more runs, which we need. In the second over it doesn't work quite so well - either three or four of them go for four - I can't remember - and I am, as feared, the wanker who made a 50 by spanking a girl round the park. Sod it, I was never going to win that one.
We take a rather good tea and head out defending 220-odd, which on a pitch with some life in it isn't too bad a total. However, last year we set nigh-on 300 and it wasn't enough. Canny oppo skipper keeps his best bats for 6,7, and 8, knowing that they can easily bat out the draw and (in the case of last year's game) possibly club our bowlers everywhere to set up an unlikely win.
Well, I take the new ball and give it everything I can. There's a holy trinity of factors which encourage me to step up the pace - good batsmen, a fast, true wicket, and a lack of any pace among most of our other bowlers. Of course it's a pretty terrible spell. I don't think I get a single ball to swing, and more often than not the openers watch it fizz through to the keeper (but just look at the carry!) Rather in keeping with this post that I'm raging against the dying of the light - will I be able to bowl like that in five years' time? I think not.
It's our slow/medium bowlers who do the damage, helped by their accuracy, good fielding and the kind of sporting umpiring that you'd never see in a league game (batsmen who are out but are actually a long way down the track being given, batsmen given out when only the bowler appeals - it's all happening. A cynic might say they wanted to hit the pub, but not I). Aforementioned girl sticks one of our bowlers through the covers for four, which leads to much hilarity. They're 88 all out, though at least a couple of them have had to go and do something more important, which either involves vital research into cancer or well, boozing.
We go to the college bar, then a pub, then out for dinner with the remaining members of the opposition. The girl whose bowling I laid into is researching MS in mice. I didn't know mice could get MS. But then you could talk to pretty much anyone in this city for long enough and learn something new and interesting. Most of our team have gone home by the time the opposition and the remaining three of us make it to the pub. I only stay till about 1am, but still have a colossal hangover the next day.
On one of my first tours here the whole team stayed out till 3am. I drank Blue WKDs until I had to run around the market to get the sugar out of my system, before I passed out on a college pool table, and still felt fresh as a daisy the next day. How times change.
Of course that's hardly the freshest of comparisons, but it matters because it's so intrinsic to Cambridge's sense of place. The centre of town is full of young people all caught in a snapshot: it's the same moment in all their lives. Almost without exception, they're a little unsure of themselves. They are in the process of formulating their beliefs, be it how far they're willing to accept Marx's Labour Theory of Value or whether it's acceptable to snog someone ten minutes after they've seen them puking on the College lawn.
In a decade or so, life will have washed away a bit of that excitement and optimism. They'll be a bit fatter, a bit slower, a bit more worried about kids, marriages and mortgages than abstruse intellectual concerns or the gossip of their peers. They'll have plenty more regrets. They'll be older, calmer, wiser - and perhaps they'll be lesser people. This city will seem like a desert island they half-glimpsed in a dream. Going back won't help, because their Cambridge will be long gone, quietly replaced with a new set of confused, excited and above all, happy faces.
But what a dream they had. Here's our pitch for the day:
Hardly a verbal affectation that one goes 'down' from a university like this. From the other side:
Rather stunning. To business: captain wins the toss and bats on a wicket that looks pretty flat, though with a covering of live green grass. Very unusual for English club cricket, this is a quick pitch. The opening bowlers are pacy enough, but aren't what you'd call express; still the keeper's taking half the length balls around chest height.
Both our openers make a good start, but one goes to a great slip catch (pacy wickets really do encourage proper cricket, which is why it's a good job we don't usually encounter them). I forget how the other went. The opposition are only on 10 for the day so we're lending a fielder, and I draw the short straw for the second stint. I'm standing at gully when the batsman slices one straight up in the air. Fears have I three:
1) I'm going to drop it because I'm utterly terrible at catching.
2) I'm going to catch it which will piss off the batsman because he knows I'm utterly terrible at catching.
3) The first slip is racing towards it like a man possessed and is going to cabbage me.
I'm about to run away from the horrific impending situation (possibly all the way, straight into the college bar) when he calls for it, and I adroitly step aside to let him complete the take. Thank. Fuck.
The change bowlers don't look much at all from the boundary, but are in fact far more handy than they appear - the captain, and a slow but ultimately decent off spinner. The captain I have faced before. Played club cricket in Luton and while not much quicker than a spinner, has every single ball in the locker and then some. Leg cutters merge with off cutters merge with in swing and outswing, all at a totally different pace every ball. It's the kind of bowling that requires patience and diligence. Two things in somewhat short supply among our batsmen. He nips out two of our best players - gets a little bit of luck on one dismissal (bat to pad to other pad to - eventually - stumps, whereupon the bails agonizingly plop off), but it's deserved.
So this brings me to the wicket (and already cricket fatigue has set in - I think we were 120-6 but have no idea, the grand total of two days later). The skipper is still on, and starts bowling some little bastards - off cutters (moving away from me) pitching on a perfect, full length well outside off and encouraging the gigantic slash through the offside. Takes some restraint to watch these pass through. The desert-island dwelling CC of ten years ago would have been throwing the hands at everything, and he'd have lasted two overs at most. Would he have had more fun? Ah, therein lies the rub.
Anyway, I'm more interested in the midwicket boundary, as there's a chance of causing thousands of pounds worth of architectural damage.
Never has the slog sweep been so appealing.
CC makes his way, slowly, to a 30 something. Definite cricket fatigue here too. There was a nice off drive from the returning opener. There was a leg glance just past the square leg umpire's head. I'm not sure there was much else of note beside some nurdling. I remember the plan was to get to 4pm, then have a slog until 4.15, and declare with whatever we had. At about 4.05 I've started hitting out, and we've got to about 200, with help from nos 7 & 8 - eight being the wonderful bloke who runs the local brewery and whom we've roped in - he knows the ground like the back of his hand, and he knows that off the quicks the late cut to the short third man boundary is the only way to go, which he does brilliantly. Here we are discussing tactics before the game:
Despite the beard, he's actually a bowler.
Anyway, it's at about 4.05pm that things go tits up and what was a rather good rearguard innings becomes something else, in the minds of our team, anyway. The Captain has clearly had enough of our lower order, and decides it's just time to get his men off the pitch. To that effect, he sticks a girl on to bowl. And not one of those annoyingly good girls, either. She bowls ridiculously slow donkey drops which give me about five minutes to choose where it's going to get belted. No, the challenge isn't one of technique: it's one of etiquette. I have three options here:
1) Show mercy and pat it back to her. Arses to that.
2) Murder absolutely everything. Appealing, but the predictable calls of "Well done hitting that girl for all those fours" almost make it impossible.
3) The option I choose - the middle ground. I try and swing at everything as hard as I can, but without going for placement - it works rather well for the first over. The fielders on the leg side are kept busy but stop most of them, I don't look like a complete shit (by either being too patronising or too ruthless), and we're getting a few more runs, which we need. In the second over it doesn't work quite so well - either three or four of them go for four - I can't remember - and I am, as feared, the wanker who made a 50 by spanking a girl round the park. Sod it, I was never going to win that one.
We take a rather good tea and head out defending 220-odd, which on a pitch with some life in it isn't too bad a total. However, last year we set nigh-on 300 and it wasn't enough. Canny oppo skipper keeps his best bats for 6,7, and 8, knowing that they can easily bat out the draw and (in the case of last year's game) possibly club our bowlers everywhere to set up an unlikely win.
Well, I take the new ball and give it everything I can. There's a holy trinity of factors which encourage me to step up the pace - good batsmen, a fast, true wicket, and a lack of any pace among most of our other bowlers. Of course it's a pretty terrible spell. I don't think I get a single ball to swing, and more often than not the openers watch it fizz through to the keeper (but just look at the carry!) Rather in keeping with this post that I'm raging against the dying of the light - will I be able to bowl like that in five years' time? I think not.
It's our slow/medium bowlers who do the damage, helped by their accuracy, good fielding and the kind of sporting umpiring that you'd never see in a league game (batsmen who are out but are actually a long way down the track being given, batsmen given out when only the bowler appeals - it's all happening. A cynic might say they wanted to hit the pub, but not I). Aforementioned girl sticks one of our bowlers through the covers for four, which leads to much hilarity. They're 88 all out, though at least a couple of them have had to go and do something more important, which either involves vital research into cancer or well, boozing.
We go to the college bar, then a pub, then out for dinner with the remaining members of the opposition. The girl whose bowling I laid into is researching MS in mice. I didn't know mice could get MS. But then you could talk to pretty much anyone in this city for long enough and learn something new and interesting. Most of our team have gone home by the time the opposition and the remaining three of us make it to the pub. I only stay till about 1am, but still have a colossal hangover the next day.
On one of my first tours here the whole team stayed out till 3am. I drank Blue WKDs until I had to run around the market to get the sugar out of my system, before I passed out on a college pool table, and still felt fresh as a daisy the next day. How times change.
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