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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INTRODUCTION: 'MODDERSHALL: A TEAM OF FOUR CUPS'

Be honest – if you were asked, with a week’s notice, to replace the main guest speaker at your cricket club’s annual dinner, would you do it? All those faces, hoping they won’t be bored shitless; you, hoping not to offend.

Suppose you were to agree to the “twenty minutes or so” request, would you think: ‘you know what, I’m going to do it in verse. I’m going to write a poem about the season…’?

No, didn’t think so.

Rewind to 1999, Moddershall CC Dinner. We have just completed the most successful season in the club’s history, winning four trophies out of five – we might have completed the set had Iain Carr and Jon Addison (and me, but I had a broken elbow, so don’t quite count) not gone skinny-dipping in Black Lake at 6.30am the night/morning before the (narrowly lost) Staffs Cup quarter-final at Knypersley. Might.

As it was, we had to settle – in order of prestige – for the Premier League, Talbot Cup, Stone Charity Cup (at the midpoint of which, between innings, I broke the fat end of my fubula), and the Barney McCardle Trophy. 

Given this glut of success, the club really pushed the boat out and invited the late Arthur Fisher to give the after dinner speech. Unfortunately (or otherwise, depending on your point of view), he dropped out the weekend before the meal at the Stonehouse Hotel and so, as I say, I was asked by then-chairman, Gerald Williams, to step in.

I can’t say the idea for a poem came immediately. Why would it? Even if it had, I wouldn’t have set out to write one so dementedly long, one that would eventually take me fully 45 minutes to recite. As with almost everything else I’ve done, finishing it was a caffeine-fuelled eleventh-hour affair, involving pretty much an all-nighter on the Friday. I actually penned the final full stop some time between the desert course and cheese and biscuits, after which I had twenty minutes or so to compose myself and then up I stepped, heart pounding. I mean, I hadn’t even read it back to check it wasn’t total cac, while some of the handwriting toward the end – as I furiously plucked facts from memory and couplets from a deep well of cliché – would probably have been pretty illegible, not ideal for a public recital. Still, no turning back now. 

To this day I can recall the chuckle of laughter from the dear and departed Vic Hawkins, genuine and unaffected in that lovely manner he had, and the nerves were instantly settled. I’m happy to say that no-one moved for the entire 45 minutes, although I did have to put my foot on the gas after around twenty or so. British licensing times are inconvenient, eh?

Did I say no-one moved? Well, not quite no-one... Not a man to leave himself exposed when it came to ensuring he had ale to hand, Keith Ellis was good enough to slip to the bar and stealthily bring me over a pint of the amber nectar, which was greatly appreciated.

Anyway, here it is. It is far from prize-winning fayre. It was always supposed to have a narrative flow rather than be some highly ornate poetics. 

After the dinner, I had it published for posterity, writing a preface – also dementedly long – that dwelt on the notion of team spirit, waxing philosophical on what it is, how it’s built, and how it’s maintained. More than that, having talked (in rhyme) for 45 minutes exclusively about on-field matters, in the preface I paid belated tribute to the tireless, selfless work of so many volunteers – the film crew, if you like, to our performers – without which no club could function. Lastly, I finished the text with a short dedication to the late Jane Myatt, at that stage past the point of no return with her cancer, evidently suffering a lot, and yet brave enough to attend (even apologising for her wig) and help participate in the celebration of an incredible season in the way that her general kindly air helped pamper us players. She was a magnificent woman and, while tinged with sadness, it was good for all of us to see her for a final time.

Here, then, is the poem that became known, after perhaps not quite enough deliberation, as ‘Moddershall: a Team of Four Cups’.

Part One

Part Two 

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'AWNIOGO': NEWCASTLE & HARTSHILL (A)

view of Newcastle (glasses off)

Saturday, September 16

Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?

Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,

Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,

Baring teeth that leer like skulls’ teeth wicked?

Stroke on stroke of pain – but what slow panic

Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?

Ever from their hair and through their hands’ palms

Misery swelters.

Nothing better summed up the scene of desolation in our dressing room the previous week – when rain extinguished the flame of our ambition and nudged us from the top two for the first time in 6 matches – than the opening lines of Wilfred Owen’s poem, ‘Mental Cases’, a lyrical and moving portrayal of the psychological ravages of conflict. Of course, the utterly broken figures depicted in the foregoing lines were young soldiers thrust into the horrors of the First World War, not cricketers. Even so, we too shared the same sense of something having been subtracted from our souls, something inside us being damaged irrevocably…

The bald facts were that Ashcombe Park now led us by 4 points having trailed by 37 points just three games ago. Worse: whilst we were preparing to finish the campaign against a decent Newcastle side who, until a calamitous run of five consecutive defeats, had featured strongly in the promotion race, Ashcombe were making the trip over the Moorlands to play a Buxton side already guaranteed the wooden spoon. We desperately needed a large black cloud to perch above the old spa town and not move until evening. Clutching at straws of optimism, I reckoned that, of all places in the league, Buxton was most likely to be caught in isolated weather, a fact not lost on our ever-wishful weatherman, Drew. Looking up into the bright blue sky sporadically dotted with tall, fluffy banks of white cloud (cumulo-nimbus?), he pointed at a “curve” he’d spotted, informed me that it was a weather front, and that said curve was going to empty itself over Derbyshire at the same time as completely by-passing the Potteries. 

rain on the way to Buxton...?

No sooner had we finished scrutinizing the sky than we found ourselves in a traffic jam in Trent Vale, caused – somewhat ironically given Drew’s employer – by “routine maintenance work” being carried out by British Telecom. All this carry-on meant that we didn’t arrive at the ground until 12.55 pm, by which time the umpires were on their way out and our opponents were posing for a team photograph. Not ideal. I noticed that their wicket-keeper was padded up so ingeniously deduced that we were batting first, presumably because we had lost the toss. It transpired that we had actually won the toss and Addo had elected to bat because we only had seven men at the ground 15 minutes before the start. Considering how much was on the line, this was, well, amateurish.

With our last-minute arrival, I had no chance of padding up in time so Addo opened with Hawk and I was slotted in at number 4. Obviously, I hadn’t had the opportunity to take a look at the track, but didn’t think that moment would be long in coming when Addo spooned a cut shot straight to point to record his first duck of the season. I was, however, wrong about getting in early. I sat patiently waiting to bat, and waited, and waited, waiting for around two hours as Hawk and Harv added 140 for the second wicket. Waiting to bat is a quite bizarre experience for an opener and I didn’t quite know how to pass the time – thank goodness for Addo reading me the kinkier passages from a magazine article on the sexual fetishes of modern lesbians.

girls who like girls

Out in the middle Harv was playing superbly. In my opinion, this was his best knock for Moddershall – certainly this season, if not ever. On a slow, variable track that appeared extremely difficult to bat on, he was in total control and made a very good bowler (Pete Ridgway) look decidedly ordinary. The most impressive aspect of his innings was his timing – never an easy thing to get right on a pudding – immaculate to the point of holding an almost complete monopoly on the shots of the day, with three or four sweetly cover-driven boundaries. He was dismissed with the score at 146 in the 36th over having made 72 from 107 balls and finally I walked out to bat under instruction to score quick runs.

Well, it wasn’t the easiest pitch on which to go out and start blazing, and I only managed a single before getting myself into a tangle as I came down the track at Chris Ridgway and scooped a near-yorker to mid-wicket where Wood held the catch one-handed. Hawky also fell in the same over having scored 75 from the 116 deliveries he faced. It was his fourth half-century in the league this season (all of which have been made away from home) and contained an intriguing blend of the impetuous and the imperious. Back on the ground where, as a supremely gifted 19-year-old professional, he had helped Newcastle to back-to-back titles in the mid 1980s, he mistimed the very first ball he received, nearly offering an easy chance to the bowler, but gradually settled into his game and struck 7 fours and 4 sixes in his stay.

sun sets (on our season) at N&HH CC

Andy’s departure was quickly followed by the dismissals of Mauler, Drew, Coke and Smudge, to complete a collapse of seven wickets for just twenty-six runs, all taken by Chris Ridgway’s left-arm spin: Mauler and Cokey both fell to useful boundary catches; Smudger mistimed one to mid-wicket; Drew gloved an attempted sweep straight to the ‘keeper. Finally, Iain Carr, who was only able to bat after retrieving his cricket socks from the roof of the clubhouse, was caught and bowled by Kessell, and Addo decided to call it a day at 189 for 9 from 49.5 overs, leaving ourselves plenty of time to win the game. 

As most of our team dashed off to McDonald’s for Big Macs, fries, McThick-shakes etc, news filtered through that Ashcombe Park “looked likely to win” at Buxton. Ho-hum. Nevertheless, we had to concentrate on skittling a fairly weak Newcastle batting line-up on a pitch that was playing more tricks than Jeremy Beadle on April Fool’s Day, all the while praying that the report of the other game was scurrilous rumour or misinformation.

Our start was electrifying: Newcastle’s top five, all left-handers, were back in the hutch inside 24 overs with only 38 runs on the board, all five wickets taken by Iain Carr who was making the ball bounce almost vertically at least twice an over. This undoubtedly induced the panic-stricken shots played by both openers, Gollins and Elliot, who each chipped simple catches (to Wayne and Smudge) in to the off-side. Pete Ridgway was the third casualty, making a golden duck as he was brilliantly caught at short-gully by Drew. Graham Wood, who had scored 160 unbeaten runs in our previous two meetings this season, managed to survive the hat-trick ball but was soon taken care of by an unplayable delivery from Billy that he edged to Harv at third slip. Chaudry then succumbed in identical fashion to leave Newcastle up a certain creek without the requisite paddle.

Despite the brilliance of Billy’s bowling, it should be mentioned that the highlight of this collapse was a fine piece of slapstick fielding by Addo. Having chased after, and caught up with, a ball that had flown towards third man off the thick edge of Chaudry’s bat, he tried to steady himself to pick up the ball; however, as he did this his feet went from underneath him and, in the process of falling flat on his backside, he kicked the ball over the boundary for four. Wayne, with tongue firmly in cheek, shouted, “come on lads, let’s back the bowler”. It’s fair to say that Addo failed to see the humour in Wayne’s exhortation (and must have put a curse on him as it wasn’t long before Wayne’s comment was coming back to cause him even greater embarrassment…). 

10-fer

Anyway, it was ten overs before we took the sixth wicket as Dave Brock and Adam Bunting stuck around and put together a stand that became more than just irritating. Brock was a good player in his day and it showed as he hit two big sixes on his way to 24, Newcastle’s top score, before his resistance was ended by an unlucky inside edge off Billy that cannoned onto the stumps. Bunting’s batting was less accomplished. His borderline psychotic method of survival was pretty much to leap about three yards down the track and chest the ball away, and it worked for a good while until he snicked Billy to first slip where Mauler clung on to the chance despite the distraction of my twitching gloves. At 68 for 7, the question was not whether or not we would win, but whether Iain could take all 10 wickets, à la Nick Newman at Bramshall in 1988.

The answer arrived before another run could be scored. Shaun Brian – whose first few overs had been so erratic that I had to take a few stray deliveries with full-length dives (inducing mild hysteria in Mauler who seemed shocked at my hitherto secret athleticism) – was allowed one more over by a lenient skipper, who told him to “just bowl as fast as you can”. Shaun duly followed the instructions; however, unfortunately for both Iain and Dave Holmes, the batsman, his first ball was right on target and uprooted the leg-stump, a demise soon followed by Kessel’s. With his concentration clearly disturbed by our slip fielders asking him for the afternoon’s football scores (How did Stoke do? What about Man Utd? Did Yeboah score for Leeds? What was the crowd at Mansfield? etc), he gloved another vicious delivery from Iain straight to Harv, now at fourth slip, to leave Newcastle hanging on at 68 for 9.

"age shall not wither them": Ridgway Jr and Snr, c 2012, with Graeme Wood

Chris Ridgway, Newcastle’s number 11, was applauded all the way to the wicket by our team. This might seem an odd thing to do for a bowler that had just taken 7 for 29 against us, but it was a fitting mark of respect for an amiable and popular cricketer playing in his last game before retirement. Not one to stand on ceremony or miss an opportunity for a gag, I told Chris that we would be clapping him back off in a couple of minutes. But that was not the case, as he combined with Marcus Nalter to construct the best partnership of the innings.

Nalter had obviously decided to throw the bat at anything and everything, and he rode his extraordinary luck to good effect. This assault threatened to ruin Iain’s figures (which were 8 for 24 at the start of the stand) and Wayne could be heard shouting, not for the first time, “come on lads, let’s back the bowler. He’s after nine”. Of course, those words were bound to lead to tragedy, and from the very next ball Nalter slapped one straight at Wayne and – you’ve guessed it – he floored a regulation catch. However, this was not to prove too costly. Nalter soon used up his nine lives and sent a skier swirling down Seth’s throat at third man to give Iain his ninth wicket and terminate both Newcastle’s innings and our season.

not that Muhammad Ali...

Iain shared the ovation with Chris Ridgway, having taken a personal best haul of 9 for 44 from 21.1 overs to finish with 15 for 87 from the last two games. It was also the best ever performance by a Moddershall first team bowler in the NSSCL, and the seventh-best analysis ever in Division 1, Section B. It would have been the performance of the day on almost any other Saturday, yet was upstaged by the efforts of Sneyd professional Muhammad Ali who cracked a record-breaking 190 against Burslem. “Couldn’t have happened against a nicer team,” remarked Mauler.

Just after we had left the field it was confirmed that Ashcombe Park had beaten Buxton, bowling them out for 58 and knocking off the runs for the loss of three wickets. Obviously Drew’s ‘curve’ had got lost on the way over Blackshaw Moor. We were left to rue last week’s rain, to contemplate another assault on promotion next year, and to get as drunk as is humanly possible. And so, with the shampoo that had been especially bought to foam up Addo’s copious Barnet, Harv, Hawk and Drew had a fight in the showers after Lovejoy had decided to soap-dodge.

Blackshaw Moor

We supped a polite trio of pints at Newcastle before heading back to Moddershall’s end-of- season disco and barbecue. As you might expect, the mood was a touch subdued but that was soon altered after a few more beers had been guzzled and a few charcoal-coated sausages munched. As we danced the night away, the DJ was wise enough not to play ‘Road to Nowhere’ by Talking Heads.

Rumours circulated that Stafford might be demoted from Section A due to the condition of their square, which had been reported five times during the season. If they were to be forcibly relegated, then, logically, we would replace them in the top section. This would appear unlikely though, as their ground was considered fit enough for Section A in the first place and, from my experience, people in authority will do anything but admit to having made a mistake.

dodgy square?

There was also talk of there being no promotion next year because of a restructuration of the league. I cannot imagine for a moment that there’s any truth in this. However, if it is the case, then I suspect that the removal of an incentive to win will mean that there are a lot of sides out there that are going to get the same treatment that we’ve had over the past two seasons: namely, bowling 60 overs at us regardless of how many runs we have scored!! I wouldn’t be surprised if the league record was broken.

Anyway, as the night drew to a close, we all felt it had been a strange old season. We had won more matches than we had ever done before; we collected more points than we had ever done before; yet still this wasn’t enough to earn promotion. We cannot really complain and should not look to apportion any blame. We all played well on occasions and badly on others. We now have all winter to grieve, by which time we should come back refreshed and determined not to allow three hours of rain to ruin our better efforts. All we need – aside from One Good Over – is to stay true to the motto of Moddershall Cricket Club and seize the day.

Carpe Diem. 

MODDERSHALL WON BY 91 RUNS

MODDERSHALL 189 for 9 dec. (49.2 overs)

A Hawkins 75, R Harvey 72, C Ridgway 7-29

NEWCASTLE & HARTSHILL 95 all out

I Carr 9-44

MODDERSHALL 20 points

NEWCASTLE & HH 5 points

POST SCRIPT: The following year, Moddershall won Section B (breaking the league record for a team total on the final day) and were promoted to the top flight. In 1997, we became the first newly-promoted team to win Section A, a feat repeated in 2002 by Norton-in-Hales. 

'AWNIOGO': BARLASTON (H)

they came from Barlaston 

Sunday, September 10

September, the month that all school kids hate, is also the time when autumn is heralded in and when cricketers everywhere start chewing their fingernails whilst their clubs run up huge telephone bills through constantly checking up on events elsewhere. This was an important day, to say the least. I know you are all probably thinking ‘Important?! Of course it was flamin’ important!! It was the 50th anniversary of the day Vidkun Quisling, infamous wartime traitor, was sentenced to death in Norway’. You would be right, but it was also important because it could well be the day when the fate of our season was decided. For better or for worse.

After saying a quick prayer for Crewe Rolls-Royce (who would be playing our chief rivals for second place, Ashcombe Park), I hopped into the Heardmobile in positive frame of mind. As far as I knew, we had never before beaten Barlaston on our ground, so it was the perfect moment to set that record straight. We kept the same team that played in the previous day’s draw with Burslem, all of whom were keyed up to do well.

As Addo was busy winning the toss, there were bright blue skies overhead and no apparent sign of the rain that had been widely forecast. The wicket was firm and green, so, not surprisingly, we decided to bowl first. Iain Carr took the opening over and bowled an auspiciously testing maiden at Phil Taylor (who, in surviving, had already bettered his performance from the previous meeting). If the first over was promising, Iain’s next was simply devastating as he took two wickets to plunge Barlaston into early trouble at 1 for 2, earning himself a marathon 20-over spell in the process. The first to go was Rob Riley, bowled off the inside edge, followed by Darren Dutton, who tickled a perfectly pitched leg-cutter to give me the first of my four catches.

not that Phil Taylor, dummy

Iain was clearly back to his best form and seemed a dead cert to dismiss Andy Steele, Barlaston’s number 4, whose batting method contained more guesswork than my annual punt on the Grand National. His foolproof system – block, block, slog, block, block, slog – was eventually exposed in the tenth over when he skied another attempted flail across the line to give Shaun a catch at mid-off. Shaun’s reward for taking this catch was being told that his next over was his last. He didn’t take a wicket and was replaced by Mauler, who himself only had two overs before coming off.

With the thick atmosphere starting to moisten, Wayne was introduced in the hope that his big swingers could cause some damage. Waynoss probably felt like Addo was trying to turn him into a schizophrenic – one day he would he asked to bowl spinners and the next seam-up. Anyway, Wayne it was who took the next wicket to fall, brilliantly tempting Eric Riley into miscuing a slow full-toss straight to Shaun at mid-on. Iain then removed Neil Davies and Craig Edmondson, both caught by me, before an annoying partnership developed between Ben Grange and Taylor, during which the latter passed his 50.

It took us all of twelve overs to separate them and only happened when Iain reluctantly agreed to relinquish the Road End so that Hawk, who hadn’t bowled for three weeks, could have a trundle. Seth slotted straight into a rhythm and his extra pace proved the undoing of Grange who inside-edged a sharp off-cutter into my welcoming palms. Four overs later he knocked over Carl Underhill, who had only just arrived from a post-football gathering in the Butcher’s Arms in Forsbrook, to leave Barlaston on 128 for 8.

view over Shropshire to the Wrekin

By this time, Shropshire had completely disappeared from view and, worse still, it had started to drizzle. With one eye on the incoming weather and one on the game we carried on playing, hoping to finish off the Barlaston innings as quickly as possible. It was at this juncture that we heard some thoroughly depressing news, news that we had all been dreading: Ashcombe Park had won. They had bowled out Crewe Rolls-Royce for just 53 and knocked off the runs in five overs. Five. The rain was becoming steadily harder. The weather forecasters were right. What is more, they had also said that once it arrived it was unlikely to go away.

I thought that it must be a nightmare, an illusion, that it couldn’t really be happening. Not to us. I turned to Drew, looking for some reassurance that it was merely a passing shower, and the eternally optimistic Jock didn’t fail me. Even so, I think it was around that moment that I first thought that we were not going to be promoted; that after all the hard work and effort, we were about to be overtaken down the finishing straight. I recalled the conversation I had had with Vic Hawkins in the week. Vic had told me that he was convinced that we would get promotion and I said that we just needed one match to be washed out. “Surely you would prefer to do it out on the pitch,” he said. I gave this rather noble image some careful thought and replied “No, I hope it throws it down all weekend”. How those words were coming back to haunt me now!! On the 50th anniversary of Quisling being sentenced to death, the rain, our supposed ally, had turned against us. But we had no choice other than to carry on playing. And praying.

Quisling (right) meets an ally 

Iain Carr came back on at the Pavilion End and picked up his sixth victim when Phil Taylor flashed and was caught by Harv at fly-slip having made an innings-cementing 82 runs. This wicket allowed us to claim a further ten minutes’ bowling time but conditions were worsening to such an extent that one of Smudge’s attempted returns from the outfield slipped out of his hand and bounced about five yards to his right, sixty yards and ninety degrees away from the intended destination. The umpires were looking grim-faced and when Cokey removed their last man courtesy of a good catch at slip by Billy, I wondered whether that might just be The End. The covers were pushed on and we dashed into the pavilion for tea.

I sat peering through the condensation that had enveloped the windows, watching the relentless, grey rain tip down on the outfield. A deep sadness settled in my stomach. The umpires talked merrily, behaviour that seemed almost tactless in the circumstances. A lot of umpires require sub-tropical conditions before they venture out after rain but I felt that today’s senior official, Glyn Forster, would make every effort he could to get the game restarted. I lit another cigarette and went to view the incoming skies. It was a bleak sight. We needed at least 20 overs to bat, but time was slowly, implacably running out and the puddles that our outfield had tried so hard to hide were now becoming visible. A couple of Barlaston’s team were showered and changed.

I strolled into our dressing room. Conversation dripped with gallows humour – for instance, the chant of “staying down, staying down, staying down”. By 6.15 pm we had given up the ghost and were, ourselves, showering. Just as he had done to me after the Norton match, and to Harv at Barlaston, Hawk’s hair was completely doused in shampoo, all the while Billy was busy trying to pee over Harv. It was delirious sorrow. We supped a few sad beers, Harv won a few bob at pool, John Myatt announced that there was a strong possibility that he would be playing at Wedgwood next year and I thought about going to play for Ashcombe Park because their square must be covered with four-leaf clover.

MATCH ABANDONED RAIN

BARLASTON 151 all out (57.1 overs)

P Taylor 82, I Carr 6-43

MODDERSHALL 5 points

BARLASTON 4 points

'AWNIOGO': BURSLEM (H)

they came from Burslem

Saturday, September 9 

If ever we needed any motivation to ensure promotion, then it arrived at Moddershall at around half-past twelve on Saturday September 9, 1995 in the shape of Burslem: a collection of rough-arsed, confrontational individuals offering very little in the way of a pleasurable leisure experience to their opponents (who, rather than involve themselves in the petty, tit-for-tat sledging wars upon which several of the older members of the Burslem team appear to base their enjoyment of the game, would prefer to play the game in a manner closer to the game’s more Corinthian traditions. Well, most of us). It’s to be hoped that next year’s relocation to the new ground on the Festival Park site will bring about a more amiable approach – that, or the retirement of one or two of their players (you know who you are)!!

Anyway, we went into the penultimate weekend, a double-header, knowing that victories over Burslem and Barlaston would mathematically guarantee promotion. However, with Ashcombe Park, our nearest rivals, having two relatively easy fixtures (Sneyd then Crewe Rolls-Royce), it was important that we managed at least one victory so that we could go into the final match still with our destiny in our own hands. 

last week, mushy peas; this week, leek

When the time came to get things underway, it became noticeable that the track had a peculiar complexion, akin to a leek in that, due to overnight rain seeping under the covers, one end had become bright green whilst the other was whiteish, dry and sparsely grassed. The toss, one of the most important of the season, was lost and Burslem asked us to bat.

So there I found myself, around 35 minutes after waking up (these early September starts are not good for an insomniac), stumbling across an outfield, dying to evacuate my bowels, dying for a smoke, and dying to know why I was wearing a helmet to combat Steve Lowndes’ military medium pace. Having called for my cap, I gratefully dispatched two chest-high full tosses from Rowley who was promptly withdrawn from the attack.

The major barrier to our initial quest for impetus was some steady, if negative, bowling from the youngest member of the Lowndes clan, Chris. With a packed legside field, his gentle inswingers proved difficult to get away, particularly as there was little pace in the pitch. However, I felt in pretty good form and was seeing the ball very early and, although Addo was still out of nick, we took the score to 64 in 18 overs before I became the first of Hall’s four-wicket, er, haul. Having struck 7 boundaries in my 38, I was looking to dominate this rather weird ‘one-armed’ spinner but only succeeded in top-edging him to deep backward square-leg where Rowley held a comfortable catch. 

author, in cap, squeezes out a yorker

Following my departure, we progressed to 91 for 1 before losing the middle order in almost one fell swoop, all for single figures. Harv, Mauler and Seth were all caught whilst trying to push the score along and we were suddenly going backwards on 106 for 4. With our innings having the air of a bottle of coca-cola that had been left on the sideboard all afternoon without its top on, or a Caucasian who’d been lying in the sun all afternoon without its top on, Drew entered the fray and stroked his first ball through extra-cover for four on the way to a perky 24 that was ended by a good running catch in the deep. Mind you, he was hardly likely to be caught anywhere else when Burslem had all but two of their fielders on the boundary at that point!

Addo, whose brilliant early season form appeared to have deserted him, grafted almost all afternoon, and a total of 131 balls, for his 65. An indication of his struggle was the fact that he only struck 5 boundaries, something he usually manages to do in the opening half-hour. Be that as it may, his innings did contain two milestones: firstly, his father turned up to watch for the first time this season and his appearance seemed to act as a cosmic energiser for his son, who suddenly began to bat with a lot more vigour; secondly there was the minor matter of him breaking his own league record aggregate of 1301 runs, which he did when he had made 53. This is a colossal achievement, of course, but still might not be enough to give him a new record as Leycett’s Jonathon Waterhouse was reckoned to have a similar amount, if not more. 

one-armed bandit

Anyway, Addo’s dismissal, with the score on 161, was shortly followed by Billy’s demise (to another boundary catch) and consequently it took us until the final over before tea to reach the 175, and full batting points. Smudge then got off the mark by launching Hall into the oak tree at square-leg giving us a total of 182 for 7 at the break. We had no option but to declare, although we felt the total was a little under par on a track that had dried out and was starting to become a little more placid. Conversely, Burslem must have fancied their chances.

The youthful opening combination of Mick Rowley and Steve Lowndes started cautiously against some excellent bowling from Mauler and Billy. They survived the first nine overs before Iain made the breakthrough, trapping Lowndes on his crease with an off-cutter to have him lbw. Mayo, the number 3, who would probably be more useful on a salad than a cricket field, came and went in the blink of an eye as he played all around a straight ball from Mauler to become the second casualty of their reply.

Our tails were now up and we began to apply some pressure, under which Burslem’s skipper (and probably the chief instigator of his team’s nasty streak), Kevin Beattie, seemed to crack. After exchanging pleasantries with Mauler, he played a wildly reckless shot to the very next ball, sending his attempted drive steepling above the mid-wicket area. Thankfully it was Harv, our most reliable catcher, who was under it and, manoeuvring himself into position, he judged the catch to perfection, whereupon Mauler kindly spared Beattie from having to consult his A to Z by offering him precise directions to the pavilion… 

Rowley (left) and Chris Lowndes, some 15 years later...

At 44 for 3, with the inexperienced pair of Rowley and Chris Lowndes together, we were on the brink of doing irreparable damage to their innings, but it didn’t quite happen. Lowndes hung around for 45 minutes until Addo (opting to bowl toward the drier end after two unsuccessful overs the other way) lured him down the track and I took care of the rest. The strapping figure of Mark Colquhoun joined his more under-nourished fellow leftie and as we entered the last 20 their target was an eminently achievable 101 runs with 6 wickets in the hutch. They proceeded to add 52 runs in only 8 overs (during which I got to taste the cricket ball, thanks to the top of Colquhoun’s pads) eliciting much raucousness from the rest of the team as Burslem edged closer to victory.

Both Wayne (back to bowling his spinners) and Addo got little change out of the left-handers and one couldn’t help wondering what might have happened had Darren Carr been out in the middle purveying his off-breaks rather than spectating/sulking. Although I will get splinters in my rear from sitting on the fence, I think it might have been for the greater good had Addo been more prudent and saved his opinions until the end of the season. However, what was done was done, and we toiled on until a minor stroke of good fortune finally broke what looked like being a match-winning stand as Addo span one back sharply from outside Colquhoun’s off stump and the ball ricocheted from the batsman’s gloves, as he tried to cut, down on to the ground and against the stumps, just about dislodging the bail. Lifeline.

The next batsman, Dave Blood, had spent the latter part of the afternoon barracking our efforts from the comfort of the pavilion whilst sounding off like an American televangelist every time his side scored a run: less a case of supporting his team than baiting us, we felt. By the time of his eagerly awaited arrival at the crease, I could hardly contain myself and urged Addo to “send the idiot back”, a comment that provoked some sort of bat-waving protestations from Blood and incurred a polite request from the umpire – Stan Trafford – to calm down. As he took guard, I then asked him whether he thought he had the game as a batsman to back up his constant chat and, although he didn’t reply, I think we received our answer when Coke had him leg before for a third-ball globe. Cheers. Thanks for coming, muppet. 

Dave Blood: unsure of his role?

Anyway, all this meant we had 56 balls left to capture the final four wickets. Theoretically, this doesn’t sound too unlikely, but the incumbent batsmen were the talented Rowley (on 61 not out) and Paul Lowndes, Burslem’s most experienced – and, arguably, best – player. In fact, with more than 9 overs remaining and 45 runs wanted, Burslem were in a useful, if not marginally superior, position. Nevertheless, given the history of antipathy between the two clubs, what followed was almost inevitable…

It will probably come as no surprise that Burslem is an anagram of slumber, since this is the likely effect their approach to cricket would have on neutrals. With their season effectively over a long while ago, and with no possible chance of finishing above us in the table, they opted instead to block out for a draw, perhaps under captain’s instructions. I was not expecting any favours from a team with which we haven’t enjoyed the most amicable of relations, but the lack of adventure in their display seemed to inspire a disproportionate amount of pleasure in their faces – faces spited by them having cut off their own nose. Declining to chase 182 at less than 4 runs per over is pretty pathetic at the best of times, even more so on a good pitch and in the circumstances just outlined. I wouldn’t want to turn up, if that’s the way my team chose to play. The game petered out tamely, with Smudge bowling at Paul Lowndes. Smudge is not normally bothered by much, yet even he couldn’t hold back his disdain and gave Lowndes a piece of his mind. 

close of play

I suppose it is not that much of a shock that Burslem’s on-field attitude is as abrasive as it is when their captain (Kevin Beattie) sets such an atrocious example. Following several instances of bad sportsmanship and poor attitude throughout the game (including telling one of his players to throw the ball at me next time I stood outside the crease tempting the fielder to shy at the stumps), Beattie spent the last half-hour of the match saying, as loud as he could without appearing pantomime-obvious, “Oh, Ashcombe have won, have they? Well, you’ve got to fancy them now”.

After the match John Kennedy (a.k.a. the fictitious Radio Stafford) confirmed that Ashcombe Park had beaten Sneyd, a result that brought them to within 11 points of us. With rain forecast to interrupt the following day’s match, it still seemed likely that we would go into the last match with a lead. We needed it either to rain hard all day, or stay away completely…

MATCH DRAWN 

MODDERSHALL 182 for 7 declared (51. overs) 
J Addison 65, S Oliver 38, J Hall 4-52
BURSLEM 160 for 6 (46 overs) 
M Rowley 67*

MODDERSHALL 8 points
BURSLEM 7 points