PART TWO: 'MODDERSHALL: A TEAM OF FOUR CUPS'

Moving into the season’s second half,

we had a visit from Longton and our old mate Harv

who made 50, over a third of their score;

we gave early chase before settling for a draw.

Then we headed off again to Porthill Park,

but this time failed to make a mark

as our opponents seemed to be runnin’ scared,

batting on…and….on…before they finally declared.

Now I know chasing big scores is one of our strengths,

but not when craters mysteriously appear on a length!

Suddenly 240, at about six-an-over,

was as likely as smuggling a missile through customs at Dover

and after we collapsed to 29 for 5

we quite sensibly opted just to survive,

Jakey steering us home for a draw:

they got 8 points, us just 4.

Little Stoke next. Their mood was bleak:

we’d knocked ‘em out of the cup the previous week,

and they were in the battle against relegation

so must have come with a hint of trepidation.

The weather was fair, the wicket was flat,

we won the toss, they had a bat,

but we bowled like lamb dressed as mutton –

easy pickings for Salmon and Dutton.

However, I should make a special mention

for a bowler almost ready for his pension:

in conditions approaching a batsman’s heaven,

Coke bowled 16 overs, 3 for 11 (!!)

to help us rein them in just before tea

after which the new cherry was tossed to me (!!!)

and when I immediately stuffed Wacaday for rawbone pace

they declared, leaving 239 for us to chase.

A quick 40 for me, 20’s for the rest,

and Addo playing at his Sunday best,

stroking a perfectly paced unbeaten ton:

finally, a home league game was won!

Just as the title race was warming up,

we had the pleasant diversion of the Charity Cup.

Having seen off Oulton, Barlaston and Hem Heath

We had a final against Checkley and their gritted teeth.

Now I know Moddershall’s scalp is highly seductive,

But getting too het up is counter-productive;

they think we’re “cocky, a little bit arrogant” –  

at least, that’s according to Jason Carrigan.

On what, you may ask, is this dubious opinion based?

Well, it’s because our relaxed approach is not to their taste.

But when the sun is blazin’ you’ll find it quite wise

not to race around like blue-arsed flies!

Nevertheless, believing us to be all but satanic,

instead of focussing, Checkley get a bit manic,

and sides that show all the composure of headless chickens

tend to offer us some easy pickings.

Yes we have style, yes we have culture,

but we need no second invitation to behave like vultures –

and this final, a two-night occasion,

had some thrills and a touch of abrasion,

yet whilst it wasn’t exactly an out-and-out stroll

we always seemed in total control.

They made 96 against some tidy stuff

but I think they knew it wasn’t enough,

and once we’d seen off the threat of Mahmood,

I suddenly felt inspired, in the mood;

determined to spring a bit of a surprise

I decided to take part in Stars in their Eyes.

“Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to be Inzamam-ul-Haq” –

that’s right: a fat bloke who likes to attack,

walking down the pitch, across my stumps,

mixing flicks with one or two thumps!

Andy Carr thought I’d been taking speed

but by the time I’d finished we had a sizeable lead.

I got bladdered, my head started to spin,

I had no house keys so decided to break in

using the nextdoor neighbours’ wheelie bin,

which I now realize was pretty dim...

...and after a fractured elbow I can reveal

that you should never try to climb on anything with wheels!

The second night I sat there, wanting to sob,

as Moddershall finished off the job.

Billy won the Man of the Match,

another one added to his growing batch.

Back in the league we visited Crewe,

a ground with the soul of a public loo,

but hey, we still had a job to do

and when Banerjee was snared by Drew

we really began to turn the screw.

They’d made a hash of their chase,

unable to counter Mauler’s fiery pace.

but our 25 points came with sadness laced

when Addo took one flush in the face,

blood gushing all over the place.

By now big games were coming thick and fast

And with me and Adj removed from the cast

it fell to Hawkster to run the show.

We had a whip round for Neil Johnson as sub pro

but instead signed an Akhtar who’d won no emmies

yet would come on stage for the Talbot semis.

Betley had been built up by Simon Cork,

but could his men walk the walk?

In a word, the answer was ‘No’

as the bowlers, led by Tugger, stemmed an early flow.

Our chase was dominated by Roger Shaw

who made a dazzling unbeaten 104 –

the boys were thrilled, Doc got rowdy

then ripped the kecks off poor old Proudy!

In the next game we managed to wheedle

an uninspired draw at home to Cheadle

where, finally, came some proof from the agile skipper

that he really was a top-notch slipper

when, one-handed, inches from the flooe

he snaffled the dangerous PF Shaw.

Yet until a fired-up Billy saved the day

this had been a rather toothless display

as hostile as hippies in 60s San Francisco –

we only got lively during the post-match disco.

Then, as night was banished by a crisp July dawn,

two blokes, naked as the day they were born,

plunged into a rural lake for a spot of swimming

like two whales that’d decided to take up slimming.

We completed a weekend devoid of cheer

by losing our sole cup match of the entire year,

bowling ok but batting tripe

as we got turned over by an up-for-it Knype.

(Maybe we subconsciously decided not to be greedy

And gave up this cup as scraps for the needy?)

No doubt this loss was a big fat kick up the rear,

a shock that mad it crystal clear

that, although ’97 was a tough act to follow,

failure would be slightly easier to swallow

only if we each gave it 100 per cent:

Jah maximum effort and comm-it-ment.

We had little need to consult John Ketley

before our next encounter at rustic Betley

for the heat was approaching 100 degrees

and there was no sign of a cooling breeze.

It felt more like Mykonos

but Addo had little choice on winning a crucial toss –

he might have been half-tempted to have a bat,

especially as the wicket was pancake flat,

but realizing this would have met with abuse

he invited Betley to have first use.

I found a cool spot in which to bask

as our bowlers set about their task.

Betley tried unsuccessfully to bat us out of the game

for which Butler must take most of the blame

because when they needed to go ballistic

he seemed more concerned with personal statistics

which his teammates thought a little naughty

as they declared after tea on 240.

Optimism was scare among our supporters

but if there’s one thing recent years have taught us

it’s that in our neediest hour

we can always rely on our batting power,

players it’d be impossible to cramp

on a ground the size of a postage stamp.

And despite previous comments in the Green ‘Un

their attack was hardly a mean’un

so I was feeling confident, all in all…

…until I saw two quick wickets fall!

However, instead of a strategy of consolidation,

Hawk and Billy chose utter obliteration;

instead of clamping up and getting tense

they just kept smashing it into the fence.

With both batsmen totally in their stride

(Billy hardly bothering with the offside),

Butler came on to stem the tide,

but rather a curious method was applied:

scratching his head, looking pensive,

he opted to go ultra-defensive:

seven on the boundary, two on the square,

would this contain our marauding pair?

He began his run with that annoying skip,

Billy waited with his trusty whip

then sent it sailing straight out of the ground –

the ’Pies roared; Butler frowned.

“Put ‘em all on the boundary!” Mauler shouted,

Butler’s fingered gesture could not be doubted.

Yet a spell of 3 overs for 39

had not helped arrest Betley’s decline…

We had passed 100 before Hawky fell

And the confidence was beginning to swell.

We separated Cokey from his pint of ale

and gave him instructions to “give it a whale” –

‘pinch hitting’ it’s called in cricket’s vernacular,

and whatever its name it was pretty spectacular,

though not very textbook, but does it matter

when you give it such an uncomplicated clatter?

(I’m sure the reason he scored as fast as he did

was that he’d entrusted his pint to a thirsty Syd).

Iain marched on to a brilliant ton

and by the time he was out the game was won.

As run chases go, this was immensely ruthless;

OK, Betley had become increasingly toothless,

but we sense a chance, went in for the kill,

and all achieved with calculating skill –

no rabbit’s feet, no horseshoes, no four-leaved clovers

as we banged off 240 in just 32 overs!

By now we were starting to peak

and carried the momentum into the following week:

Knypersley showed the will, but were not able

to stop us jumping to the top of the table

past the season-long leaders from up in Cheshire –

an Elworth side that was now feeling the pressure.

We drew the next match, Caverswall away,

yet, thankfully, nobody else won on a miserable day…

The first Talbot Cup final had succumbed to the weather

just as our caps were ready for an illustrious feather:

Longton had capitulated to 138 all out

but the rainclouds spared them a humiliating rout

so we voyaged once more to Longton’s arena

expecting them to be less complacent, a lot meaner.

“It’s a pity,” said someone as our lads walked out to field

“that the seconds are playing the Talbot Shield” –

even so, the ‘Pies support was hearty and strong,

the bowling, however, had all gone Pete Tong.

In fact, things were looking a little bit sorry

as we were put to the sword by Messrs Womble and Morray.

Wides, no balls – we were all over the place

and they passed 150 with still 15 overs to face;

I felt we needed at least three fielders more,

while the Longton support predicted a record score,

but it’s a funny old game, our beloved cricket,

for once we’d taken a couple of wickets

I could sense the pendulum starting to swing –

our bowlers suddenly became merciless as Ming.

Tugger set a deep field for big-hitting Nige

and their dangerman seemed only happy to oblige

when, as if in some drunken stupour,

he slog-swept one out to Jimmy Cooper

who dived forward to pick up a tremendous catch

that put us squarely back in a pulsating match.

Longton’s innings fizzled out to an eventual 224 –

challenging, yes, but they’d have been hoping for more,

and when we came out to bat after tea,

we’d have a slight advantage, psychologically.

Now, although we were with batsmen packed,

it was crucial we keep our wickets in tact;

likewise, we couldn’t afford too slow a start –

and what we got was cool, and smart;

in fact, it all appeared meticulously planned

as Addo and Dodge compiled a 70 stand.

Meanwhile, Big Nige’s day went from bad to worse

(perhaps a little like this epic verse?):

he seemed intent on banging it in.

P’raps hoping to ruffle the hair on Shawy’s chin,

but Dodge responded in the usual fashion

and gave the big fella a bit of a mashin’:

a trademark six over cover’s head

and all of a sudden the fielders spread,

but when Addo fell, followed by Jakey,

things could have got a little shaky.

The Longton fielders buzzed, looking visibly lifted;

their support felt the momentum had shifted.

Agatha Christie couldn’t have scripted greater suspense

and I freely admit I was getting quite tense,

so as Hawk joined Rodge out in the middle

I scuttled off for a quick Jimmy Riddle

and returned to see us nicely progressing

until something happened that was quite distressing:

Shawy, on 60-odd, played and missed,

the bails were removed with a flick o’ the wrist.

The umpire thought awhile, then gave the stumping,

Longton converged, fists a-pumpin’;

the decision was dubious to say the least

but now was the time to unleash the beast…

…the helmeted Mauler strode out to battle

to be met, predictably, with a little bit of rattle.

With 8 overs left and 64 required

now was the moment to get inspired:

at this point of almost total parity,

Mauler started finding the car park with regularity.

I can’t say he has the grace of a ballet dancer,

but this sort of brutalism has no answer.

Mauls was seeing it like a balloon,

the spinners were going to the moon;

Longton were running out of chances,

so they brought back the pro, Nigel Francis,

devising a plan – in theory sound –

to cramp the batsman with right-arm round.

The ball was dug in, predictably short,

(a good idea, you might have thought)

but Mauler, never one for circumspection,

took a step in the bowler’s direction

and, with arms cramped and a horizontal bat,

sent the ball steepling towards the block of flats!!

At this point we knew the game was won,

and with nine balls left, the job was done –  

not for the amount, but the way they were scored,

Mauls’ runs won him the MoM award.

The presentation featured Bengers causing a kerfuffle:

he headed for the home dressing room, keen for a scuffle,

and people can concentrate on this trifling trouble,

but we just thought: “that’s part one of the double!”

Hitting these heights made us absolutely elated

and we inevitably played the following game as though still sedated

as Newcastle, who clearly had come for a draw,

might, with a touch more ambition, have got a lot more.

Then the day after came the final of the JCB

where we made it three victorious finals from three.

“Wait till we’ve got a full team out”, had been Checkley’s premonition.

They did, and the result was total demolition!!

However, it was the league that was the real obsession,

And next we visited Elworth in the midst of their depression.

We made 200, which was certainly gettable

but their response was pretty forgettable –

after losing early wickets, they hardly played a stroke,

despite this approach sending their hopes up in smoke!

Porthill, meanwhile, had narrowed the gap:

We led by just 7 points entering the last lap…

Now, you didn’t need to be a genius to notice

that Leek had improved since the arrival of Ottis,

and with Porthill breathing down our necks,

it was time to give the muscles a flex.

For an hour or more, Leek batted well,

passing 70 before the third wicket fell,

but the middle order’s stay was brief

thanks to 5 for 20 from ‘The Chief’.

We finally skittled ‘em for 188

but, confronted with a sloth-like over rate,

aAnd the division’s paciest new-ball pair,

We knew we were only halfway there.

By the time we entered the final hour

our response was really beginning to flower;

130 still needed, but 9 wickets in hand,

the bowling had changed, it was time to expand

just when Addo holed out. But I felt nifty

and accelerated toward a 40-ball fifty

before getting in too much of a hurry

and snickin’ off to the keeper – but we didn’t need worry:

I wouldn’t say we were totally cruising

but we certainly didn’t look like losing –

well, that’s what most of us thought,

but soon things became pretty fraught

as four wickets quickly tumbled.

“We’ve gone and blown it,” somebody mumbled.

Still, thanks to field placings that were a wee bit strange

the required run-rate was still easily within range,

although with Ottis and Harris smelling blood

things were not looking particularly good.

This was the time to show our greatest strength:

Seven down, 30 short, we demonstrated the batting order’s length:

despite Leek chucking some tidy arrers

we were guided home by Drew and Baras.

It was a crucial win, absolutely vital,

keeping us ahead in the race for the title

But some gloss was taken off victory number ten

as we heard Porthill had managed to win, again!!

For the penultimate game, to Audley we were heading

without Billy (ushering at Emily and wattle’s wedding).

Addo won the toss, a decent way to begin

on a wicket that looked like it might take spin.

Mauler snared Semple for the crucial breakthrough,

but they progressed well and, at 90 for 2,

it was time for Addo to grasp the nettle –

he’d not bowled for weeks, but showed his mettle,

coming on to pouch four wickets

as Audley felt the heat,

leaving us totally in the driving seat.

With 152 to get, and bags of time,

to fail from here would have been a crime,

but with Hawk notching 50 with customary flair

we won with plenty of time to spare –

an easy victory perhaps, yet still one to savour.  

The question now was: could Elworth do us a favour

and prevent Porthill picking up another win?

…Well, no, because a ringer was drafted in

(and without doing our rivals a bit of a disservice,

they needed more bowling pro’s than just Boden and Jervis!).

Thus Dave Millns, from Leicester, who took 7 for 50,

represented Porthill’s attempt at pulling a swifty,

claiming Mo Hussain had had an international call –

as stories go…well this one was tall.

However, try as they might to bend the rules,

they’d discover that Moddershall were nobody’s fools.

Our management went ‘through the appropriate channels’;

the League convened one of its many panels

and Porthill knew by the end of the week

they’d be without a pro for the final game at Leek…

Stone, who’d also tried to be a little bit cute,

were similarly denied an illustrious substitute,

and so as the ‘aristocrats’ entered the last match

hovering precariously over the relegation hatch,

they were faced with slumming it up at Sneyd –

How much more motivation did they need?

All the forecasts had predicted a monsoon

about which we weren’t exactly over the moon.

Since Carpe Diem is the Moddershall motto,

we didn’t want to spend the day getting blotto;

we wanted to win it out in the middle,

to render irrelevant Porthill’s attempted fiddle.

So when rain decided to stay away

We had our chance to SEIZE THE DAY!

Adj won the toss and asked Stone to bat.

Now, you might be thinking that that was that,

but out opponents batted with rare determination,

albeit without being able to find any acceleration;

we were content with disciplined containment –

the bar was the place for today’s entertainment!

They declared at 199; we repaired for tea

and heard that Leek had made 2-4-3.  

The situation was looking pretty bright,

but Stone wouldn’t go down without a fight,

Even though things must have seemed quite black,

armed as they were with a three-man attack:

Millward, Moose, and the veteran Flower,

against the Magpies’ famous batting power?!?!

Shaun bowled with wit, aggression and speed

managing to put one right on my swede,

but I carried on to make a useful 52 –

in fact, everyone that batted made a few

as the job was finished with the minimum of fuss

when Chewy smeared another boundary off poor old Russ.

A second championship secured on our beautiful ground,

on went the stereo – pumped,, we all jumped around,

just the fourth club to do a league and cup double,

plus a couple more trophies for our troubles.

and so, underneath a steady shower of champagne,

we sat reveling in our unparalleled campaign.

And here the story ends, though not because I’m lazy,

but because my recollection simply starts to get hazy.

I’m not sure if the DJ played jazz, soul, techno or punk

Because, I’m afraid, I was very, very drunk.  

CARPE DIEM, Y’ALL

Introduction

PartOne

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PART ONE: 'MODDERSHALL: A TEAM OF FOUR CUPS'

THE 1999 SEASON

Listen up folks and you all shall hear

the story of Moddershall’s momentous year,

an unbiased account of this silver-lined season,

sprinkled with rhyme, though not much reason!

It all began under damp, grey April skies,

which might have been a blessing in disguise,

for, after the exodus of Glenda, Moose and Wayne,

we had a bowling crisis on the Moddershall brain;

so the washout of our first two fixtures

– Longton and Porthill (both talented mixtures) – 

allowed us to avoid potentially trying ordeals

in which we could have lost our collective wheels;

however, despite the loss of some tidy bowling,

we were eager to get the bandwagon rolling,

and as April passed over time’s baton to May,

we finally got the season underway

with a visit to the champions, Little Stoke,

last year’s Big Spenders, who this year seemed broke!

We lost the toss, the wicket was green,

and in ideal conditions for swing and seam

we teetered perilously at 30 for 4,

but recovered to post a fair-to-middlin’ score

which’d be tough to defend, but we’d certainly try

(much like ’98 and that memorable tie).

We started poorly, to say the least,

as Salmon and Dutton tucked into a feast;

at 60 for none, with just 90 needed,

our hope, like my hairline, had badly receded.

We needed wickets, we needed inspiration,

we needed to brighten a depressing situation,

and so up stepped Baras to turn over his arm –

I’ve never seen a debutant looking so calm.

One minute things were as bleak as winter in Moscow,

then suddenly an in-ducker went straight through Rosco;

next Baras snared the dangerous Dutton

and Moddershall had pressed the magic button.

With both professionals back in the hutch,

the lesser lights didn’t appear up to much.

Now I’m not suggesting their middle-order’s brittle,

but they did seem to go over like plastic skittles.

Baras bagged himself a debut five,

sending Little Stoke into an irreversible dive

until between us and victory stood The Egg on Legs:

Mauler scrambled his senses, then demolished his pegs.

As we marched off, 25 points in the bag,

I caught a glimpse of the championship flag –

surely it was only out on temporary loan,

surely soon the ‘Pies would be bringing it home.

In the bar we supped a customary ‘pint of gloat’

wondering if the ‘Chequebook Champs’ would sink or float;

with ball and bat they controlled the early overs

before sinking faster than Blackburn Rovers!

We also wondered what we might achieve…but nobody really knew;

perhaps we’d find out the next day against Crewe…

They won the toss and shoved us in

and, despite over after over of spin,

only managed 46 by the time we took tea –

about as exciting as a week in Southend-on-Sea.

But we still left them a very good chase,

‘specially as our attack was devoid of pace

(which is why Baras and Addo shared the new ball);

But did they go for ‘em? Not at all!

Once the pro got out they shut up shop –

no wonder poor Waddo was to suffer the drop.

Next on the menu was Cheadle away –

not my favourite place, I have to say,

but to placate my nerves I stoked up on fags

then ventured into the Land of the Carrier Bags.

Now at this point I feel it’s only fair to mention

that much of the Cheadle legend is pure invention,

so I shall take the chance, without fear or apology,

to clear up a few bits of the Cheadle mythology:

yes, you will need your passports to leave and enter;

no, don’t walk alone at night round Cheadle town centre;

yes, strangers will be stared at in fascination;

no, you cannot enter without a vaccination;

yes, there’s nowt but chips in the local diet;

no, don’t think you’re safe just because it’s quiet,

since beneath that strange and eerie silence

lurks the favourite local pastime – indiscriminate violence;

and yes, you’ll probably meet the odd frazzled freak,

but if you think Cheadle’s bad, then you best avoid Leek,

a town where most folk are…well, inter-bred:

“Me antie’s me sister, and we share the same bed!”

The game itself fell prey to the heavens

with them up the creek at 69 for 7.

According to the man who delivers the local mail

his ex-teammates had “got outta jail”,

yet despite Shawy’s frustration, I must stress

that it was a moral victory, nevertheless…

…then the boys gave me a 10-man press

and my rage I could barely suppress –

then I thought about the points… just three to nil,

I felt angry, I wanted to kill,

but when I’d finally managed to calm down

I realised we owed a debt to this Moorland town:

Addo, renowned at Moddershall for his junior coaching,

is actually the British number One in the sport of poaching

and two years ago he approached Roger Shaw,

to ensure that I wouldn’t be first team ‘keeper any more!

With a great reputation Shawy arrived from Cheadle,

they said he’d got “hands like Jeremy Beadle”,

but this is a lie, no truth in it at all –

behind the sticks he’s been like a wall,

and, although he can be, well, a little reckless,

his batting is as classy as a pearl necklace:

if it’s there to be hit, first ball or last,

Jayashawiya will give it a blast,

wielding his blade like a big willow scythe….

so well that he’s now on the payroll at Blythe!

Rog, it’s been good, I wish you luck…

bBut not too much ‘cos we want you back, ‘owd duck.

By now, in two rounds of the cup that would get away,

we’d seen off the threat of Blurton and Scot Hay,

and between them these two big guns

had managed a combined total of 78 runs.

Both teams turned up like a sort of spirited rabble,

both games as even as Me versus Addo at Scrabble.

Back in the league, another draw, Betley nine down,

this the day of “the Clown in the Brown”.

The game was not without glamour or glitz

as Mauler put on a six-hitting blitz

while Billy’s bowling was full of venom and spite,

until Betley’s batsmen were saved by bad light.

‘Ten Men’ would soon be signing autographs

as he was quite rightly called up by Staffs:

What a player…. what a hero! –

all the talent of Robert de Niro,

brave and skilful, yet totally humble,

bowls into the wind without so much as a grumble;

be it with bat or be it with ball

Carr the star has got it all:

like a combination of South Africa’s Pollocks

but with broader shoulders, and bigger b*******.

And most of all he’s a total loony,

celebrating each win with a ‘frontal moonie’.

The next outfit to feel Brigette’s force

Were Knype (who we beat, of course).

On a placid pitch, Iain seemed to thrive,

bagging a measly 9 for 45;

Knypersley, it seemed, fancied their chances,

yet the difference lay in our respective stances

toward the concept of pre-match preparation:

they went for exercise, us sedation.

You see, Addo’s philosophy is ‘Licence to Chill’,

so we found a comfy spot up on the hill

and as Tournier put his men through some strenuous paces

we watched the sweat drip from reddening faces.

Jog! Jump! Sprint! Stretch!

Hop and skip! Run and fetch!

“OK boys, one more circuit:

twenty press-ups for those that shirk it.”

twenty slip catches, a dozen skiers

(to be fair, they looked like triers),

and all this performed in plush co-ordinated kit;

but were we impressed? Not a bit!

And I had the feeling the Moddershall slouchers

would be buying some gloat with our drinking vouchers

because, for all the emphasis on increasing mobility,

our opponents were lacking in basic ability;

so instead of wasting time with tactical chatting

they should’ve been in the nets practising their batting.

All that expended energy ... and what did it yield?

130 all out and comedy of errors in the field!

And whilst Mauler chuckled at Tourns’ butterfingers,

we greeted each Addo boundary like Welsh choir singers;

and as Seth drove a half-volley or pulled a half-tracker,

Billy roared “wwaarrowooo” in honour of Chewbacca.

Despite every year growing a fraction more porky,

Some things don’t change about good ol’ Hawky:

drives a Beamer, paid like Rupert Murdoch,

yet instead of ale, drinks dandelion & burdock.

Yet as a cricketer he’s a powerful potion,

his batting is often poetry in motion,

balance and time, a little like Gower

(a touch less wristy, a touch more power);

he plays slow left-armers as if he’s asleep,

And the old dog’s even learning to sweep!

Yet the class of the man needs only one measure:

he always gets runs when we’re under pressure.

I won’t mention the bowling, because it’s a mystery

why he’s decided to consign it to history,

but I respect his choice, I’m not here to heckle,

we don’t need Hyde’s bowling when we’ve the batting of Jekyll.

Add all this to the tender loving care

he devotes to Moddershall’s unequalled square

and I’ve got only one thing to say to Seth:

in Chris Eubank’s words, you’re “Thimply the Betht!”

Another home draw followed, this time against Carzer,

on a strip much friendlier than the one in Gaza,

then on to Newcastle and a real ‘sticky dog’

where one possible tactic was block-block-slog

but most opted to settle for the war of attrition,

as Ridgers and Brocky revelled in the conditions.

Billy excelled, Hawky as well,

but the flashpoint came when Jakey fell,

given caught off the bicep, blatantly triggered,

even the Newcastle bowler sniggered.

Off trooped Fraser’s dad, slightly annoyed,

and you didn’t need to be Sigmund Freud

to work out that something was in store …

sure enough Jakey kicked in the dressing-room door,

putting holes and scratches in the pristine new pine –

a little outburst that earnt him a fine.

When Castle’s batsmen were put to the test

they found Mauler at his marauding best,

taking 7 for 22, as they made a measly 68,

giving us 25 big ones on a plate.

A top of the table clash with Elworth beckoned,

they were leaders, we were second,

I didn’t think they were the world’s worst,

but surely their bubble had to burst

as, like Genesis, they were a 3-man band.

Yut we soon had quite a game on our hands:

at 8 for 3 we were in the mire,

on a sporty deck the situation was dire,

but they seemed to forget sledging was a winter sport

and got very excitable, a touch overwrought;

by concentrating on hurling abuse at our batters

they actually neglected what really matters,

and a burgeoning stand between Hawky and Myatt

made them at first meek, then totally quiet.

But the game ebbed… first to, then fro;

we got 190, and when they had a go

we were wary of Percival, but the major factor

was actually someone with a name like a porno actor:

Hardstaff made 70, full of flowing drives,

before becoming one of Chewy’s five.

Percy followed lbw, absolutely no doubt,

but we had to politely remind him he’d been given out.

After they’d coped well with our opening attack,

tenaciously, we’d managed to claw them back

and it was Moddershall that finished the stronger side –

when the going got tough we didn’t hide.

This was a game we’d have lost in the past

but not with the Magpies’ current cast,

Anyway, there was no time for regrets nor sorrow

as we’d another big game at Leek on the ‘morrow.

Typically for a Sunday when playing in the league,

we looked…well, let’s call it “fatigued”.

In fact we seemed barely alive,

but still reduced them to 38 for 5,

including the Master Blaster, who lost the plot,

bowled by Mauler without offering a shot.

Yet this was by no means the end of the game

as all three of our quickies had pulled up lame.

So, after first concentrating on survival,

Tatton orchestrated Leek’s splendid revival,

leading them to a good score, fairly weighty:

the nice round figure of one hundred and eiigh-teee!

We started as poorly as the day before:

6 for 3… 20-odd for four:

the win was a possibility… well, maybe –

but boy, have we come a long way baby!

Time was when we used to rejoice

escaping unbeaten from Crewe Rolls-Royce,

but now we visit places like Leek

if not cocky then no longer meek.

and having been so dominant earlier in the day

it would have been scandalous to chuck it away.

Luckily, Seth was at his scintillating best,

putting the gobby Harris’s boasts to the test,

and as me and Mauler offered handy support,

Hawk brought victory back to our thoughts.

With 2 overs left and the game in the balance,

we had cause to thank our bottomless talents

as out in the middle the veteran Drew

– finally proving he’d not lost the trusty Moo –

smeared a four straight past the unfortunate Shah:

six needed, six balls left; it was level par…

But you can never predict this game of cricket:

after two singles, Harris strangled a wicket

as Seth flicked off his hips but got caught on the fence,

and suddenly the situation was ten times more tense.

Hawky received a standing ovation

but it was nowhere near time for celebrations,

and as Baras strode out I took a deep breath,

could he go out and win it at the death?

…Unfortunately, he got run out for a platinum duck

but Kaiser was on strike, which was a bit of luck:

two balls remaining, 3 runs required,

Heardy appeared confident, maybe inspired.

We just sat there, nerves totally frayed,

some of us hoped, some of us prayed,

time slowed down to a tick, then a tock…

Out to the middle strode The Doc.

Would it be a case of so near yet so far?

Would the villainous Harris turn out the star?

Would Hawky’s brilliance all be in vain?

All case scenarios whirred through our brains.

“Come on Tacker,” we muttered again and again.

“Four wides’d be handy”. “Wouldn’t complain”.

Harris charged in, spearing it full and straight,

Drew leant forward with his considerable weight

and gave it an uncharacteristically textbook slap,

threading it perfectly through the extra-cover gap.

Doc started running, but there was no need,

as away down the hill the ball did speed.

A jubilant Hawky cracked open the Tizer,

cometh the hour, cometh the Kaiser!

As winning shots go t his was a Sooster,

for our title hopes an incredible booster.

But by the following week all this joy and mirth

had evaporated.  We came crashing back to earth

as we were crushed by Audley’s Gary Latham,

who, nagging and accurate like Brian Statham,

bowled us to our first defeat of the summer.

All I can say is that it was a bit of a bummer.

But we soon got ourselves back on track

by failing Porthill’s much-vaunted attack

all around their compact little ground

in the Talbot Cup second round.

Chewy’s 70 was full of thrape and thrash,

Agile’s 90 oozed a sort of crispy panache,

as the ‘Pies, footloose and fancy-free,

compiled a mammoth 233 for 3;

our bowling was clinical as well,

Stonesy excelled with a miserly spell,

as they disintegrated like soggy Weetabix,

and we gained revenge for the final of ’96.

Next came a trip down to Headquarters;

historically these were shark-infested waters

but it’s pretty risky, to tell you the truth,

shippin’ in ringers and neglecting youth,

and the once mighty Stone, as if in a fable,

were firmly rooted to the foot of the table.

We played without a great deal of verve or zest

but it’s nice to win when not at your best,

and as a little extra confidence boost

nobody got ‘Trussed’, nobody ‘Moosed’;

Baras finished the job with a bit of a flurry,

we all headed off for a Ruby Murray

and to reflect upon the first half of the campaign:

We couldn’t relax, yet nor could we complain…

Part Two

Introduction

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