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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