THE KING AND I (BB02)

For some reason, I never much liked the sentence “I am a ___,” no matter which word or phrase completed it (and I’m sure people at Moddershall CC that know me have a few choice – mainly profane – options to hand, but I’m talking about careers or other forms of identity). It always seemed so fixed, so final, so definitive, and I had always liked eluding definition. Whatever you say I am, that’s what I’m not, as Arctic Monkeys put it. The other day, while trudging through a conversation’s introductory small-talk, someone I’d known for two gulps of lager asked me what I did (I presume he meant for a job). “I’m a cricket writer,” I said, without much thought. No sooner had it left my mouth, however, than I wanted to qualify it, de-glamourise it, be accurate – “It’s not regular work and I’m barely making ends meet”; “I’m freelancing at a time when journalism as a whole is struggling to pay the bills, what with all the free content on the web”; “I’m a chancer, a bum”; “I’m constantly having to think of ideas, pitching them to stressed editors, badgering stressed editors, annoying stressed editors, looking for other editors”. It feels like hard work, alright, but not like a job.  

Old friends at Moddershall may also say that if there was one thing I was expert at, it was avoiding work. At times, I’ve followed that famous maxim of Mark Twain: why put off till tomorrow what you can do the day after that. But it’s not true that I’m work-shy; I’m merely trying to avoid work that I dislike doing – which, given that I dislike most of it, is proving quite difficult. A real effort, in fact; pretty much a job.

Anyway, in January 2011, having finally submitted my PhD thesis (ten years, much extenuation) and while waiting for the viva voce exam (a two-hour interview with internal and external examiners, the latter an expert, to ensure you haven’t copy-pasted it off t’internet), I got involved as sports editor with a Nottingham magazine, Leftlion, my sole purpose being to wile away some time watching Notts from the comfort of the press box before the July Judgement Day arrived (it arrived the following January after Professor Beasley-Murray, University of Vancouver, also decided he didn’t like work, and went AWOL). Oh, and the odd free lunch.

That summer, I watched two days of the season opener against Hampshire and perhaps spent another dozen days down there, the highlight being seeing Trescothick make an imperious 80-odd in the same game that Kieswetter and Hales both made big, though less impressive, hundreds. While the standard was high, it was, apart from the T20 games, all snoozily low-key. Blasting Dizzy Rascal’s ‘Bonkers’ over the PA system (mandatory at T20) at a ‘Champo’ game might truthfully describe the few hundred sloppily shaven, biscuit crumb-covered men dotted about the ground, just out of range for small-talk with any other living soul whatsoever, but would, on balance, probably have been a little incongruous. 

view from press box at Trent Bridge

In any case, I grasped that this county reporting malarkey was a perfectly pleasant way to make a living (several hacks think Trent Bridge’s press box the best in the country, due to its perfect viewing angle and, crucially, having the canteen right behind it), even if it lacked real big-stage excitement. Last year, however, I got to feel what cricket writing could really be like as I covered the England versus West Indies Test down by the Trent for Spin magazine. 

After two days of sedate pre-game press conferences with coaches, skippers and the Duracell enthusiasm of Sky Sports’ Tim Abrahams, the game, at last, was upon us. I awoke as excited as if playing a title-decider or cup final. Nottingham basked beneath some late-May sun – it had rained for a week either side of this six-day period – and I, King Slugabed, eagerly caught tram and bus across the city, walked over the bridge through the buzz and swell of slowly lubricating supporters (even before 10am), had my ECB accreditation swiped, then went up to find my seat, fire up the laptop and, well, get some complementary food. Nom, nom.

The chalk-and-cheese difference in the bleachers from County Championship to Test was replicated within the press’s inner sanctum: where a county game might have ten there (the broadsheets, cricinfo, press officers for the two teams, OPTA), here around 70 of the 92 seats were taken. There were the Oxbridge-educated ex-internationals: Mike Atherton and Ed Smith (Times), Derek Pringle and Steve James (Telegraph), Mike Selvey and Vic Marks (Guardian); there were the correspondents, Peter Hayter, Stephen Brenkley, Paul Newman, the red-toppers John Etheridge and Dean Wilson; a couple of Caribbean scribes; reporters from press agencies (AP, AFP, Reuters) and websites and the other magazines; owlish Wisden editor Lawrence Booth; ECB employees; sponsors reps; plastic zebras; a scorer with a microphone, helpfully dispensing statistics. TVs were on and a masseuse right behind me soothed the probably-already-quite-relaxed muscles of MCJ Nicholas as he whispered his probably-minor stresses to her.

Notts had provided stewards to ensure there was no movement within (or traffic in and out of) the press box when the bowler was operating from our end, Radcliffe Road (which was, y’know, roughly half the time…). The lugubrious Pringle, keen to avail his massive heft of the masseuse’s kneading skills, tried to beetle along the row between deliveries, only to be admonished by some sergeant-majorly volunteer who set about explaining why the hacks couldn’t move. “Yes, thanks, I get it,” Pringle fired back, tersely. “I did play the odd game, you know. Here and there.” 

Derek Pringle bowls at whatsisname

Nasser Hussain would bob in between commentary stints, open his laptop, keeping himself to himself; Bumble occasionally shuffled in to sit next to his ghost writer, feeding him opinions and generally grinning (apropos of drawing breath); Mikey Holding dropped in now and then; Beefy remained up above somewhere. The canteen was full of people I had spent idle days watching when I ought to have been researching Peronist Argentina: Mark Butcher, relaxed as a pussycat, playing finger drums on the table; Alec Stewart carefully unfolding his napkin, neat and tidy as ever; Michael Vaughan, asking if he could borrow the salt and pepper. Aggers, Tuffers, Wardy, Simon Hughes buzzed through.

It was, I guess, an intimidating experience. Your eyes cast around for friendly faces, looking – hoping – for small-talk. I had an ice-breaking device (no, not an ice-pick) or two, however, inasmuch as I’d been collating questionnaires from cricket writers, which gave me an excuse to approach the seemingly more approachable characters. Amiable men I’d seen on the county beat – Andy Wilson and George Dobell – struck up conversation over lunch. I soon got into the swing (although the ‘work’ is much more intense, as the game seems to skip by) and was even able to steal 10 minutes with the doyen of Caribbean broadcasters, Tony Cozier, asking him why West Indies had so many players of Indian descent. While people are too busy to spend too much time away from their computers or microphones to chit-chat, I was, by and large, welcomed. I was even asked to do a Two Chucks 20-second slot on cricinfo after a close-of-play ‘presser’.

Fortunately, Spin also asked me to cover the (rain-ruined) Edgbaston Test, in which, you may recall, former Leek professional Tino Best broke the world record for highest Test score by a number 11, coming within five runs of a hundred. It was here that my other ice-breaker – a project about Minor Counties cricket’s acts of giantkilling – afforded me the chance to chat with Geoffrey Boycott, twice part of a Yorkshire team downed by amateurs: Durham (pre-first-class) and Shropshire. He very generously gave me 25 minutes of his time and, listening respectfully to my questions, was far from the strident, shouty curmudgeon he can occasionally be on TMS. Nor did he make any excuses about poor pitches or dodgy umpiring. “No, no. We were just rubbish”.

Yet perhaps the highlight of it all came amidst the long Edgbaston rain breaks. Having stockpiled my plate at the buffet, I found an empty seat next to an unattended, equally full plate. A mouthful or two of pasta later the inimitable figure of Sir Vivian Isaac Alexander Richards sidled up and sat down beside me. 60 years old and still with the figure of a middleweight boxer, he happily indulged my questions (I was being self-consciously blasé and casual about shooting the breeze with arguably the greatest batsman of the modern era). I got round to Tino, mentioned I’d faced him, said he didn’t get me out. Viv didn’t look particularly impressed. I told him I was a little afraid, mainly because Tino seemed capable at any moment of bowling a beamer off 19 yards, and I asked whether he himself – despite the gum-chewing gunslinger’s swagger, no helmet required – had ever been afraid. He finished what he was chewing. “Man, you face individuals like Jeff Thomson, Dennis Lillee, those guys, you going to be a bit afraid. But if you let them see it, oh boy, you’re a dead man. You gotta walk out there proud, in a fashion that says ‘I am Vivian Richards’, you know what I mean?”

I knew what he meant. I knew because I had played over a hundred Tests before my thirteenth birthday and, more often than not, had walked into bat saying to myself “I am Vivian Richards” (which must be why my default release shot was to try, with scant success, whipping length balls over mid-wicket).

Walk out there proud. Yeah.

This was my second offering for ‘Barnfields Buzz’, Moddershall CC’s newsletter. The first is here. Once again, the column appears to be twice as long as it should be. Next time, I promise…

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THE GRASS ISN'T ALWAYS GREENER... (BB01)

The upcoming season will be NSSCL’s fourth as an ‘open league’ for player payments, the fourth since the league’s management gave up the ghost / bravely faced up to the way the wind was blowing / abrogated its duties (delete as you see fit). I felt – and indeed wrote – at the time that the move might slowly corrode clubs’ identities by provoking increased player traffic (perhaps for the simple status of being paid) and diverting hard-earned revenues away from facilities, equipment and the basic administrative costs of running a club. Time will tell how it all pans out – I only played one year under the system – but in particular I felt that it could have a negative, destabilising effect on young cricketers, whose egos would no doubt be regularly massaged by rival captains seeking to strengthen yet unable to afford the going rate for proven players.

Of course, it was already becoming harder and harder to recruit top overseas talent: the encroachment of international cricket schedules on the English summer, then the T20 boom, meant that players from certain countries were less and less available, while fears surrounding international terrorism led to more stringent border controls and thus made visas harder to come by. So, clubs were already looking for local talent where once they’d shopped abroad.

On the face of it, this was a shame, since pitting your wits against international players is without question one of the treasures of club cricket. Then again, Moddershall’s ‘glory years’ – starting with three championships in four seasons – were ignited by a man who lived but three or four miles away, just about close enough to steer a van full of pottery clanking and clinking and chinking down Stallington Lane after a night of post-victory lubrication. That team – which did a lot of drinking together – featured such exceptional (cricketing) talents as Jon Addison, Iain Carr, Andy Hawkins and John Myatt, as well as several others more than capable of making the decisive contribution to the game. However, the wave of success finally crashed against the rocks in 2009, since which time it’s fair to say the club’s on-field stock has fallen a little with the 1st XI suffering one relegation and two near-misses without the playing strength of yore. The on-field struggles were mirrored beyond the boundary, where an air of neglect or shabbiness hung over the old pavilion.  

Nevertheless, as one era was breathing its last, the resolve, the will and the energies of folk at Moddershall who wished to revive the ailing patient and rebuild (literally) the club was already kicking in – new plans, new duties, new facilities, new fittings, new blood, new hope. People such as Jim Elton, Andy Housley, Andy Hawkins, Tricia Williams, Paul Bagnall and many others – people who, if sliced in half (heaven forbid!), would have CARPE DIEM running through them like sticks of Blackpool rock – have undertaken the many tasks, large and small, that slowly but surely shall see Barnfields – beautiful, glorious Barnfields – again become a stronghold of local cricket.

At the heart of that revival will be the plentiful young talent emerging through the club’s academy. Although my circumstances have taken me elsewhere, it was immensely heart-warming to drop in to Little Stoke en route from London to Nottingham last September to see Moddershall Under-17s pick up the final part of a treble in a season in which they swept all before them. A truly special achievement and, as a stick of Modd rock myself, one that I hope augurs well. All of which brings me back to where I started…

Had a team such as last year’s U17s emerged twenty years ago it would be almost guaranteed that they would stick together. And, provided they continued to improve as players, provided they became streetwise as competitors, it would be almost certain that they would go on to success together as seniors. No longer. 

Modd U17s: treble winners

As I say, the cash inducements of an open league bring destabilising effects – on young minds, on clubs’ planning. Bathing in sweet nothings all winter, it is easy to see how some youngsters might get an inflated sense of their ability (as opposed to potential), with themselves likely the biggest loser in it all. This is a simplification, of course: it isn’t always about status; in cash-strapped times, it may genuinely be about hard economic realities. Still, it’s easy to see how a club’s carefully cultivated fruits might be cherry-picked by a couple of Charles Darwins and an Adam Smith, after which there’s a revolving door, a dust cloud, and another search for players. In effect, the situation would be a mini-replica of player power in football.

However, there may be a lesson for Moddershall’s immediate future in the previous ‘golden era’. The nucleus of that team stuck together for twelve, fifteen years. We were mates – mates who squabbled and bickered at times, true, but mates. Without cricket, some of us may have had little in common, little to bind us, yet we looked forward to each other’s company, to practice nights as much as matches, to playing and, hopefully, celebrating together (the drinks then were not isotonic, nor even gin and tonic, but good old Jim’s Carling, otherwise known as “a pint of gloat”). It all mattered deeply to us and as a consequence victory was so much the richer. And at the heart of all that, I think, there was a subtle distinction in attitude: wanting to play a game of cricket on a Saturday, versus wanting to play cricket for Moddershall on a Saturday. (As I see the tots learning the joys and mysteries of cricket in their subsidised club kit, I feel happy that there are yet more sticks of rock being made.)

But that was then. To this emerging generation – cricketers who’ve already had some noteworthy successes in senior cricket (and whose relative failures are all assets in the bank) – I have a simple message: the grass is not always greener. In fact, it is unlikely that the grass, in a cricketing sense, will ever be as green as on that hilltop looking out over Shropshire, a view without equal in the whole of Staffordshire cricket.

From what I’ve seen and heard, this U17s group has the raw ability to build a great new era at Moddershall, a dynasty; they have the potential to propel the club on the same journey we made in the mid-nineties: from the lower reaches of the second tier to the top of the local pyramid. It’s an opportunity that doesn’t come along all that often (for some, never): the chance to savour victory with people you’ve struggled alongside not just for twenty-two matches, but for ten years. These will be some of the sweetest moments of your lives. Rolling from team to team for a couple of grubby banknotes and some well-practised flattery will be empty by comparison.

As the club dusts itself down, as new energy and new air breeze through old bricks and mortar, I’m reminded that everything has to adapt and change. That is life; that is nature. Moddershall CC is no different, a lesson that has been learned the hard way. Yet the principles of what makes team sport so rewarding – the camaraderie, the fighting for a common cause, mucking in – will endure, eternal as the Wrekin.

I hope very much that this generation can bring some magic back to this magical corner of the world and eventually become a legendary team. Irrespective of results, though, cricket – for all abilities – will continue at Barnfields. Or should. Recent history underlines that a club is only ever as strong as its members’ devoted efforts – a truth that’s physically embodied every time you see Jim get up to fetch you a strawberry whip or Tricia come bundling through the clubhouse clutching her papers – and a healthy club will only increase the chances of success on the pitch.

So, to finish by butchering a famous quote of JFK’s: ask not what your club can do for you, but what you can do for your club. With such an attitude, the greatest beneficiary will be your own cricket.

This was my first column for 'Barnfields Buzz', the Moddershall CC monthly newsletter. I had a fair bit to say this time but will try to keep it snappy hereafter. And for the pedants: yes, one of those three championships was Section B.

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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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