Nearly There
By Ian Clark
WEEK ONE
MAY 10th 2008
3rd TEAM v : CBBEA (A), HAMPSHIRE REGIONAL DIVISION 1 SOUTH
1st TEAM v FLAMINGO (A)
Drizzle has speckled the windscreen for most of the journey.
"I think its next left." Jake says.
I've been driving for more than an hour and we've reached what Robbo later describes as "the dog-end of Bournemouth".
Jake has purple highlights and is lead singer in an Emo band. He looks like David Gahan in his Basildon days.
The wipers stop and the sun starts to seep into the car. We weave through the pre-war villas and the parades of grubby shops. Craig and Jake are looking out for the turning to the Winton Oval. Craig is not Jake. He's bigger and has a surfer dude look.
It's Dan who spots the ground. Its square is in a bowl with an attractive extended pavilion on the top of a bank.
Dan is Jake's uncle and he's our scorer.
There is little chance that I will see Jake, Craig or Dan after August but we're going to spend our Saturdays together for the next 17 weeks.
I'm always apprehensive before the first game. We were promoted from the Hampshire League South-East Division II last year despite our limited batting. I doubt our bowling can carry us at Hampshire League Regional 1 South level. I'm not sure we'll hold our own. I'm 45 this summer.
The rest of the team arrive: Greg (our captain), Tosders, Floydy and Sam, his 14 year old son, Dr. Mike, Flower, Reevsy and Robbo. We're a typical third team; on the way up or on the way down. None of us is aged between 23-35.
Greg loses the toss and our opponents, CBBEA, bat. Dr. Mike sprints in to bowl the first ball of the summer.
It's easy to feel disconnected at the start of a game before the rhythms of overs and field positions have been established. I suspect Robbo feels the same because from mid-off he claps his hand and shouts to himself:
"Season 35 starts here."
35 seasons. That means he's played every year since he was 15. No breaks to acknowledge the pressures of marriage, children or a career. Robbo had a heart attack last year - he can't bat; he can't run - why is he here?
Greg, Tosders, me and Robbo are all in our forties; Floydy is in his fifties - why are any of us here?
CBBEA start steadily. They have a tall opener who is clearly as good as any batsman we played against last year. The tubby bat at the other end is less accomplished and struggles against Dr. Mike and Jake. Then Jake bowls a half volley to him and he drives it through extra cover for 4. I know then that we've moved up a level; even the mediocre bats are better.
We bowl and field well and the CBBEA innings is 3 hours of unfulfilled partnerships. It's league cricket at its best with both sides straining, unsuccessfully, to gain control. All 5 of our seamers, Jake, Dr. Mike, Craig, me and Robbo bowl well, and CBBEA finish on 154-8.
Greg and I agree that a par score is 170 if the wicket stays true. Flower and Reevsy, both teenagers, open strongly against mediocre bowling. This division plays 42 overs a side and at half-way drinks we are 70-1 and dominant. Flower is playing better than I've ever seen him; clearly he won't be with us much longer.
Ominously though their first change bowler is of a better standard and starts to impose control. Flower is bowled arrogantly trying to flick through midwicket.
Post-mortems start with the premise that the better team lost and often look for a "turning point". Occasionally dropping an outstanding batsman or a few overs of good bowling can determine a game but league cricket is usually attritional and victory is the result of sustained competence or collective mediocrity rather than any single factor.
Graham plodded past me to get changed and what followed was a horrible ninety minutes watching us dismantle victory as we lose 8 wickets for 49 runs. Cricket is tough like that. In most sports defeat is often obscured until the end in a whirl of physical effort. And players can hide in collective failure. With cricket we sit on the boundary dissecting individual weakness and defeat is often apparent for longer than is healthy. It's a place where blame flourishes.
I'm the last man in. We need 8 an over and I push my first ball to short mid-wicket and hesitate. Dr. Mike dashes past me. I'm run out by 5 yards. I turn round to see Dr. Mike at the other end with his head in his hands. Run outs are awkward but Mike and I walk off without recrimination this time. We'd both become resigned to losing a game we had nearly won.
Robbo, Greg, Dr. Mike and I are the left in the changing room.
"At least we can compete at this level"
"That was never in doubt". Robbo is always sure.
Our batting had capitulated and we'd lost by 30 runs in the end. We'd ended well beaten after doing well for much of the game. Like relegated teams do.
We discussed the obvious improvement in standard and knew that we could not throw away too many more matches. And we discussed Flower's nonchalance.
No one speaks in the car. There is an industry devoted to cricket whimsy that involves pubs on greens, Brian Johnson and light hearted fun on the downs. At the core of this is that you don't try, you celebrate being rubbish and you don't care who wins. I care and just about everyone who plays cricket on Saturday cares. And The Hollow is more than an hour away.
After a polite interval for brooding, Jake reminds us that we need to get the results from the other games. Finding out how the other teams did; it's one of the highlights of the weekend. I know other players feel the same with phone-calls between games during the afternoon.
My 16 year-old son Tom is making his debut for the firsts. Jake phones Tom. It's like waiting for an exam result. The firsts have won and Tom got 2 wickets and we all perk up. Tom has heard that the 4ths won but that the 2nds lost. Won 2; lost 2 - not a bad start. And the firsts won.
I drop off Craig, Dan and Jake and head back to Pompey to be with Jo. Its 9.30pm when I get home. There's time for a curry before a knock at the door. Its dusk and I can just make out Tom's big frame through the glass in the door.
"How did it go?"
"Yeah, we won"
And we start what will become a part of the summer. Tom and I sitting in the back room, chatting about the games; me with a beer, Tom with a coke.
Tom's progress to good club cricket has been difficult and he's nearly given up several times. He had his first county trial when he was 10 and we both waited several weeks before accepting that a letter from the County would never arrive. Last year Tom was finally selected for the County squad after doing well in the annual district tournament and in the final trial match against the County. The County then decided to ignore the squad selected and have another trial match. Tom didn't make the cut again.
Tom chats calmly into the night. Flamingo scrapped well but the win was comfortable in the end and Tom had been welcomed into the firsts. Hopes were being kept low by captain Fred after recent near misses and Sarisbury did not have an overseas player this season, a massive disadvantage because a good overseas should win you 3 games a season. We turned over the embers of the game and chatted about his early wicket and how Sarisbury's two best bats, Matt Journeaux (75*) and Pete Hammond had dominated. How some had struggled and how the spirit was good. It's cold outside by the time Tom walks into the night for home.
