COMPETING PASSIONS (BB13)

A couple of months into a cricketing comeback and what have I discovered? Three things: 

(1) The other week I returned to Moddershall from an away game and bumped into an old adversary who’d been playing against the 1sts. We had a couple of pints and an amiable chinwag – not all of which was one-eyed in-my-day-ism – and it was pleasant, on a rare sunny Saturday afternoon, to indulge in what seems an increasingly uncommon part of the cricketing ritual. 

For various reasons, teams these days are less and less inclined to socialise with their opponents after a game. (When my Dad played at Little Stoke, it was not unheard of for the opposition to stagger out, several sheets to the wind, at midnight or thereabouts, a tradition I’d like to think Addo and I kept alive in the late 1990s.) I’m not entirely sure why there’s been such a cultural shift. Maybe people are more precious about their time. Perhaps, as society – and thus cricket, as a reflection of that society – has become more aggressive, narkier and rattier, more of an overheated, short-fused struggle to keep your head above water, cricket teams have become more insular. You have to keep your guard up, project strength, have some mystery – all that. Then again, the far greater player traffic between clubs ought, in theory, to mean less insularity. I really don’t know. 

During the winter, as I reckoned up whether or not it was worthwhile resuming playing, one of the things I felt I was most missing was simply competing. Or rather, challenging myself, regardless of the result (which can depend on many factors beyond your control). But another thing I was missing – and perhaps the local cricketing community as a whole is increasingly missing – was the sense of camaraderie and conviviality that comes through several years playing with and against the same faces. 

The teams you competed against had an ‘identity’ of sorts, one created by their stalwarts and the core group of players who played year in, year out – an identity that Moddershall had in the nineties and early noughties, and which I see being recreated today. It was good to go to Porthill, Audley, Burslem, Little Stoke, Knype, Longton, Stone and see the familiar faces and lock horns anew. But it was also good to share a conversation after the game, to honour the battle (and relations, at various times, with the aforementioned teams did get a little spicy) with a respectful beer. After all, club cricketers have far more in common – the desire to spend eight or nine hours on a Saturday, maybe a Sunday as well, prancing around in ludicrous white polyester attire – than the superficial differences marked by the club crest we wear. 

Anyway, I thought this might have been evidence that my competitive instincts were softening. The question was: would that be better or worse as far as playing the game was concerned? 

(2) The second thing I’ve noticed is how disconcerting it is for six weeks of the season to pass by while only having one solitary innings (disconcerting for a supposed batsman, that is). But that’s how long it will be, this Saturday – the next opportunity I may have to stride out – since I nudged 60 not out at Hem Heath, an innings that started to remind me of the fundamentals of batting and offered a sliver of hope that I might be able to contribute at Division 3 level. That hope must now be built again: since HH there have been three consecutive washouts at home sandwiching a DNB at Fenton (oppo skittled for 28) and a score of 8 at Hanford on a pitch with the hardness of good sponge cake (i.e. not as hard as bad sponge cake). So, I’m back to square one, groping in the dark for the old certainties. 

In the past, I’d never had admitted these things publicly – not before a game, at least. And in any case, the platforms for ‘confessional’ statements (blogs, social media and the like) just weren’t around. Besides, to have admitted these things would have been to give easy ammunition to the opposition. Suicidal. Take the South African batsman Daryl Cullinan as an example. A fine player, Cullinan would average 44.21 from 70 Tests, but he had terrible problems with Shane Warne’s legspin, averaging just 12.75 against the Aussies. Prior to one series he somewhat naively told the media that he’d seen a psychiatrist to help combat Warne and, predictably, he was mercilessly tormented by the Aussies about his mental state. Warne later added an acerbic line in an autobiography: “I knew that Daryll was a bit fragile at times, but never imagined he would go to a shrink to learn how to read a googly”. 

Occasionally you’d admit these things after a game, over a beer, when you and your ‘enemy’ were discussing the cut and thrust of battle. You might mention that your feet were all over the place, that your top hand didn’t know what your bottom hand was doing, that you couldn’t pick the spin, that you struggled with the swing – anything bar admitting the bowler was a too quick! Letting your guard down, opening up, didn’t mean you’d be easy prey next time; it simply meant that sharing the odd honest moment is an important part of the reason why we play cricket, creating a culture of friendly rivalry. Showing ‘weakness’ and vulnerability, we all come to realize in the end, is nowhere near as personally destructive as forever trying to project strength, invincibility. My friend, today was your day, tomorrow will be mine, the game rumbles on. 

(3) The third thing I noticed was that the old competitive streak has come out most when I have been briefly back in the captain’s chair. Maybe it’s that precision, the fussiness, the ‘perfectionism’, the irritation when things aren’t done properly. I don’t know, but for me setting the field, changing the bowling, creating pressure, creating theatre – all of it is about doing a ‘scientific’ job on the opposition, about not being sloppy or casual, about not losing focus. Regardless of whether you’re chirping them or not; regardless of whether your emotions are tick-tick-ticking, it’s about making life as tough as possible for the batsman out there in the middle. All the time. Every time a batsman hits a good shot straight to a well-placed fielder, it’s another pin in the voodoo doll, and eventually it’ll be too much for him to take. 

So, what I’ve learned so far is probably three aspects of the same thing: the meaning of competitiveness, or competing. While the desire to do well, both personally and collectively, remains strong, there’s also an increased appreciation for the cricketing culture, and an awareness, I suppose, of the precariousness of good relations, how easy it is for them to be damaged by poor behavior and small-mindedness. I always did appreciate that culture, I think, but I was at times a bit heavy-handed with it, talking it for granted, rather like the way a young person might chuck expensive things about, scratching and banging and maybe damaging them. 

The will to win is important, but not at any cost. 

OVER THE HILL (BB12)

I always knew I was going to be past it. The question was: How far over the hill would I be? Wrekin View is not that much lower than Barnfields, but if our second pitch proved too big a stage then it’s a sharp tumble down the hill – the one that I was over – to The Boar Inn in the village of Moddershall, a pub where all the ducks make driving precarious – and I’m absolutely sure there’s no symbolism in that. 

I was given a reminder of my age when, chatting to a young first team player about the evolution of his game, I mentioned that he could easily follow the trajectory of Lance Klusener. His eyes glazed over. “You don’t know who Lance Klusener is, do you?” He shook his head. I told him that ‘Zulu’ started out as an aggressive third seamer who won Man of the Tournament at the 1999 World Cup for a series of scarcely believable rescue acts at No8, bludgeoning the world’s best bowlers for match-turning cameos. Thereafter, he developed into a good enough batsman to be picked as a specialist Test No5. 

Anyway, I told this young cricketer – have you guessed who? – that the South Africans’ semi-final in that tournament was arguably the greatest ODI ever played (it’s not a format that easily lends itself to the epic, but this was one). On a blustery June Birmingham day, South Africa’s battery of high-quality seamers – please, please, please tell me you’ve heard of Allan Donald and Shaun Pollock! – bowled well to restrict Australia to 213 all out. They then came firing out of the blocks, reaching 40 without loss, before a certain SK Warne decided to bend the game to his will, as he so often did. Bang, bang, bang, and Australia were back in the game. It ebbed and flowed beautifully – as low-scoring games do, each rare boundary tilting the balance further to the batting side – until the endgame... 

As ever, Zulu was at the crease. Glenn McGrath was to bowl the penultimate over, South Africa were seven wickets down and 18 shy. Two runs and two wickets later, Klusener muscled a full-toss to long-on, Paul Reiffel parrying what should have been a match-winning catch over for the rope six, and a single was smuggled next ball to leave nine off the final over. Klusener, with those iron forearms, blootered the first two balls through extra cover for four to bring the scores level, then dug out a yorker (what a delivery under pressure!) to mid-on. His partner, Donald, started to run but was sent back, and Mark Waugh’s flicked shy at the stumps would have been curtains, but he missed. Next ball, Damien Fleming bowls another yorker, dug out to mid off. This time, with no conflab with his partner between balls, Klusener comes charging down for the run. Donald, head scrambled by the previous ball, stays put, half-turning to see Klusener running past him. He sets off belatedly, and in so doing drops his bat. He was run out by 15 yards, but Klusener didn’t look back to see it. He knew. He heard. The game was a tie, with Australia qualifying as a result of finishing higher in the previous round-robin. It was here that the “choker” label first became attached to the South Africans. 

Reminiscing about that 1999 tournament provided a sharp reminder about age and about physical frailty, for I now realize that it was only a few short weeks later that I contrived to fracture my elbow in the middle of a two-night Stone Charity Cup final (a long story that deserves to be told in full). Occasionally, I wake up with sharp pain in said joint, and in 2010, after a couple of long and grim innings, I could barely grip the bat. This injury was – and remains – my chief concern over whether I can contribute. The other concerns were whether I could see the ball, whether I could hit the ball, whether I would enjoy fielding, whether I had the competitive fires of yore. Was I happier in a deckchair, away from the chirp and posturing? 

I had already had my reminder of my age. My reminder that age would be no protection against sledging came in the Talbot Cup first round, when I stood in to skipper a team of nine teenagers and Bash at Barlaston. Four or five people who might have played were saved for the Firsts’ squad, three others were unavailable, so in effect it was almost a third team, almost an U-18s team. We were duffed up, good and proper, and I was on the receiving end of some chirp from three players in the opposition that irritated me. 

The backstory: I am, unrepentantly, a very fussy captain about field placing and angles (and the best one I played under was every bit as fussy, if not more so). I have written about the reasons elsewhere. So, after 45 overs of trying to keep the wheels on for a young team, having right- and left-hand in for most of the innings, players of different physical strength and technique, it was a demanding session for both the young players and myself. They came through it well. I wasn’t about to stop at 30 overs and go, “You know what, it doesn’t matter.” 

Anyway, we were quickly two down in an unlikely-to-the-point-of-impossible pursuit of 270. I walked to the crease and was immediately greeted by Shaun Jenkinson foghorning sarcastically for a fielder to move “one inch that way, no, two inches this”. I had an internal chuckle. It was funny. But timing is the essence of comedy (and batting) and sure enough on he went until everyone in the ground had heard. By that stage, my amusement had turned to determination. Jenko has never been shy of a word on the pitch, usually in good humour. I’m not entirely sure why he decided to tweak a joke into a sledge – I mean, we weren’t going to win the game, and the only thing I remember saying to him when he was batting was that he should have stopped at Stone after a ball had popped off a length. “There were ten thousand reasons” he told me, and I can only assume he’s spent about eight thousand of those on bacon double cheeseburgers. 

Eventually, Jenkinson relented, and Alex Thorley started to run into bowl, at which point Barlaston’s 50-year-old captain stops him, repeating Jenko’s joke. Now, I was not very amused with that, and for a number of reasons. First: if you’re going to make the joke, fine, but don’t make the game subservient to the chirp. Second: the thing that they were taking the micky out of arguably helped give the teams I skippered an extra edge (I certainly had few complaints about it, and even skeptics were converted). Third: I’d always considered Stanners someone I’d have a pint and a chat with if I bumped into him at a game, a straightforward bloke who I had the utmost respect for; this, I felt, was beneath him, and I told him so at the end of a hugely one-sided game. 

Anyway, I timed the first ball I faced to cover, no run. It felt good. I steeled myself to absorb all this flak and to make a telling contribution. In the past, I’ve often needed that kind of thing to help me focus. This time, I played all-round a half-volley and was bowled second ball. Ah, cricket. ‘Tis a cruel mistress. You have little choice but to troop off, to suck it up, but the final irritation of this two-minute spell came when I heard the sarcastic nasal laughter of a former Moddershall player when my castle was broken, doubtless delighted, he thought, that the chirp worked (he thought). I was ticking, yes, but I simply put it down slight over-confidence and iffy eyesight. Anyway, considering I had once sat with this player after a game against Stone – against Shaun Jenkinson – when he came off trembling and almost in tears, I felt it was unnecessary and a bit disrespectful. Certainly, I cannot imagine ever having done the same against any of the senior players from my early Moddershall days – and I didn’t get involved in some of the rancour that existed in our dressing room toward Richard Harvey, after he left us for Longton. 

The mellowing of the middle years? Not exactly. The game just doesn’t really allow you to! So, yes, off I scuttled. Blobski: the inescapable leveller of cricket. I sought customary consolation with lager. 

At the end of the game I reminded the youngsters that, although it may have been taxing for them, those are the standards. Doing basics well protects you against poor performances, but details win matches, win championships: getting angles right, hunches with bowlers, selections, batting-order changes. So, I underlined to them that this method had won trophies – more trophies, in fact, than have Barlaston in senior cricket as a club – and told them that Jenkinson had quit the Cheadle captaincy two thirds of the way through the season, while Mark Stanyer had never won a medal. Had I made a few, no doubt I’d have felt less volcanic. Then again, had I been in their shoes, I’m certain I wouldn’t have taken cheap shots at a respected old adversary. It’s a fine line between a joke and attempted humiliation, and very easy to do it when you’re bullying the opposition. 

the old stumps at the old HH ground

I followed this up with another blob against Church Eaton but managed to avoid the Audi last Saturday at Hem Heath, playing part of the game in front of a thousand people or more (they all left at 2.30 – I can only guess the bar ran out of beer). But the game saw me play against two or three more old foes, involved in fairly blatant but completely understandable time-wasting to save them bowling any extra balls in our run chase. Gamesmanship. I tried to put pressure on the umpires to get involved, not because what they were doing was wrong but because I wanted to win the game badly. The umpires seemed happy to let them draw the game out, which seems a slightly dangerous precedent. I repeat: I would have tried to do the same – and was once involved in a University cricket match when we bowled 13 overs in two hours to avoid sending down the 30 that would have constituted a game – but this allows them two bites of the cherry: to rush through early overs to potentially allow them more than 55 to bowl us out; to slow the game to a crawl to pull back to the 55 overs. The umpires merely repeated what the Hem Heath players were saying: you bowled 55 overs at us, why should we bowl more at you? A perfectly valid point, so why not simply change the rules and make it 55 versus 55? 

Anyway, despite a few forthright exchanges of views, the game showed that it is possible to play hard and sort it out before you even left the field. No hard feelings there, because there was no ill-feeling on the pitch. 

It also showed that perhaps age isn’t a complete barrier, and that there might be a few dregs of life in the old Dog yet. Had I left Hem Heath with 75% of an Audi in place (000), I may have wished that, like Lance Klusener at the end of that ODI at Edgbaston, with his partner stranded in the middle of the pitch as Aussies cavorted behind him (Barlaston, in my drama), that I should have just carried on running, away from the scene where his dreams lay in ruins, away from the pain, and off into the future.