Nearly There
By Ian Clark
WEEK 10
JULY 12th 2008
3rd TEAM v BRANSGORE (H)
1st TEAM v FAWLEY (H)
Tom and I arrive at the ground for 11 for bacon butties. Freshly cut grass and bacon; great smells. Bob and Colin have been at the Hollow since 8am, rolling the wicket and mowing the outfield.
The seconds' trip to Longparish has been called off and although it's dry there's been a lot of rain during the week. The ground is becoming a focus; we have to get accreditation if we are to get promoted to the Southern League. More members are turning up on Saturday mornings to help Bob. The far outfield, the winter football pitch, is looking better. Olly has just ordered a further dousing of fertilizer in the hope that when the inspectors arrive in August the ground will be as flat and green as a snooker table.
The rain is helping the far end but is accentuating the drainage problems near the pavilion. The pavilion is perched on an embankment and rainwater collects at the base of it so that in poor summers, such as this one, it's squelchy underfoot. Today it's boggy.
The debate whether to play begins. A rational response is that the area near the pavilion is close to unplayable but that the forecast is good and we should give the area some attention and time. However, the arguments are framed by self-interest:
Bob doesn't want us to play because it may muddy the outfield:
Colin doesn't want us to play because he wants to be seen to be supportive of Bob:
Olly and I want the Firsts to play because their opponents Fawley are securely mid-table and recent results suggest they are already hunkering down for the autumn.
Fred is impassive. Fred has inspected the outfield, Bob has spoken to him, Olly has spoken to him, Fred's given nothing away. Fred stands back and listens.
The debate moves on; who determines if a game is called off?
Bob is clear that it is for the groundsman, others think it is the captain's decision, others think that it's for the umpires. Bob, who is brooding in the darkest corner of the pavilion, is still clear that it's for the groundsman to decide.
Robbie Cooper, the Chairman, joins us. Robbie is as upbeat as Motown, all handclaps and bounce. Robbie and Fred go outside again, arms behind their backs and stare down.
Fred comes in and says he thinks some of the outfield is unplayable and we may have to call off the game. We'd have to wait and see. Olly and I look at each other. Colin shows his hand: if we don't play another game this season our point's average means we'll go up.
"Look, you've got to play some more games to win this f---ing league. And you should play today because you're against a mid-table team with nothing to play for. And if you win enough games then if you lose to Liss (who are a close second) won't matter. And if you bottle out of games like Fawley at home then you don't f---ing deserve to go up!"
Olly and I decide to leave early for the Green. Gooders (the umpire) arrives and decides it is for the captains to decide if we play.
Fred then decided; we were playing. The Fawley captain, as befits a man who knows he won't be relegated, declared that we were here to play cricket and we should get on with it.
Robbie decided not to play and sat with Bob all afternoon.
Olly and I arrive at the Green. The Green dries rapidly and it's bizarre that the ground 400 metres away should be waterlogged in parts. We're playing Bransgore today. If we win today we'll be 5-5 and almost safe. It's been a tremendous month.
We settle into the changing room and the familiar chatter. Outside one of their players is asking where his feet are when he takes guard; inside we're noticeably more relaxed.
The game itself is typical of the season. Danny and Olly make reasonable scores. Olly and Swish put on a crucial 50 partnership near the end and we are all out for 146. Bransgore are a typical New Forest team; they hit a big ball. Landers and Danny bowl well and despite the sixes and some nervous moments we chip away until with 14 runs needed that player is hit on the pads in front of middle and we've won. And we're probably safe. Landers has got the last wicket and celebrates briefly until he looks embarrassed at being the centre of attention.
There is a feeling of release in the changing room. We lost our first 4 and we've won 5 of the next 6. We all know how teams implode after a bad start and as I look round at Olly, Robbo, Swish and Tosders we all know we're almost there. Greg fusses about match fees and taking down the nets.
We've hear that the firsts have won well again. Pete has hit another ton.
Olly turns to me:
"Our names would have been mud if they'd lost".
