Far From The MCC

~ Est. in 1998 ~

“Lucy Unhappy

As Cricket Match Mars Sunday Roast”

Sunday 7^th September 2008
Result: Lost by 8 Wkts
Venue: Aston Tirrold
Time
FFTMCC	101 ao
I. Howarth 30, N. Hebbes 29
Astons CC	102 - 2
M. Reeves 1 - 15

“How extraordinary”, exclaimed Lucy as she peered through the kitchen window “those tiresome irks from down the road are playing cricket today! Come and see.” Tim raised an eyebrow above his Sunday newspaper, and with a resigned sigh joined his wife by the window to stare out at a small recreation ground that was circled by trees beyond their driveway. “I can’t believe they’re going to play. Especially after all the rainfall we’ve had this past week – what is it with you menfolk? Why can’t you accept the climate and simply stay at home with your family and enjoy the day?” Tim’s eyes misted over as he watched a slew of cars park at the top of the field and a small troop of guys with cricket bags and assorted sundries slowly assemble by the side of the pitch. God – he missed that sporting camaraderie – the jokes, the banter, the jousting of the locker room; and as he stood gazing out, he felt an emptiness inside the pit of his stomach - that same as when he packed up his tennis racket for that final time….

Home is where the Henman is.

“Come and help with the vegetables, darling – my mother will be round in an hour or so, and you know I don’t like to be distracted whilst we’re talking over tea.” Tim’s eyes slowly rolled up in their sockets, and with a dying breath slowly turned like a circus bear and headed towards the sink. “Jesus” he thought, “is this it? Is this all there is? I give up my livelihood, the adulation and all it’s trappings for this?” Just a mere three potatoes in, Tim placed the peeler to one side and turned to his wife as she laid the cutlery out on the table. “Sweetheart, I’m feeling a little light-headed - I think I need to pop out for some fresh air.” With the reassurance of a woman who had safely caged her man, Lucy gave her husband a loving and concerned hug before reminding him how important the Sunday roast was for their in-laws. Tim was subsequently decked out in a weather-proof coat and scarf before his disguise was rounded off by a faded cloth cap. “Take care, darling. Please be careful - and don’t be too long!”

The match was underway by the time Tim had made his short journey to the ground. Astons CC were in the field as he recognised a few of their number trying to keep warm under long sleeve jumpers. He surmised they must have won the toss, as nobody in the right mind could possibly elect to bat first on what was a pudding of a pitch. “How do, Tim?” A portly burlesque gentleman enquired of him as he passed a bench under an oak tree; the old man blowing his nose into a dirty old handkerchief before continuing “I ent seen you around much lately – where you bin? That missus o’yours got you under lock and key?” Tim made a poor effort at a smile and sat himself next to the guy – stroking the head of a messy long haired dog that stood between them. “I’ve been busy, Ted – you know how it is.” There was crack of leather against wood and the two gentleman turned as the ball shook a wire-mesh fence in the distance. “Nice shot that” said Ted, “but wish they’d hurry up with that bloody pavilion over there.” He motioned towards a temporary building site with a digger that formed a backdrop to where a group of players were sitting. “Not what you’d envisage when you come to a leafy little village ground in Aston Tirrold, is it?” It was indeed an unsightly spectacle, and one that Lucy was quick to pour scorn as soon as she heard about plans to develop the little ground. “It’ll be nice when it’s finished, Ted. Who are we playing?” Ted watched the ball retrieved from under a pile of muddy roofing slates before turning his attention back to his village neighbour. “I believe they play under the name of the Far From The MCC. Used to be a pub team in Oxford. Just a bunch of piss heads I think.” There was cry as the ball was lobbed straight up to a waiting mid on, and a batsman (D. Edwards 9) with a shiny blue helmet lamented his poor timing before soldiering off the field. “Aye, just piss heads, Tim. That were rubbish.”

N. Hebbes (29) finally finds form as the season ends.

As Tim continued his trek around the boundaries edge, two more wickets had fallen without the score budging. He passed by some hastily assembled benches and iron port cabins where the opposition sat, and glanced over the scorers shoulder (M. Reeves 12, Andy Washington 0). They really were struggling in the wet and mud; amazing they had even contemplated playing this match, but I guess it was end of season so the pitch mattered not. 21 for 3 then became 43 for 5 (T. Smith 6, J. Hotson 1). Tim’s afternoon was now brightened by the sight of a young kid who had gone out to bat having never played the game before – a boy called Alex (Washington). He received extensive coaching prior to his knock by a bunch of grown men who hardly knew the basics themselves; and in a very amusing sequence, stood up against the Astons CC bowlers in a helmet which seemed to almost hide his shoulders. Delight all round then when Alex (1) did eventually hit a ball, but then the entertainment ended a little later when a ball removed his off bail. Not that Alex knew his innings was over – he simply stood in his crease and awaited the next delivery before being politely told that “that was it.” Shame, because for a few minutes Tim had forgotten all his troubles and was rooting for this innocent young underdog – much in the same way as hordes of patriotically decked out females used to root for him at Wimbledon… ahh, the memories….

What a lovely summer’s day….

The FFTMCC rallied in the later overs with I. Howarth (30) and N. Hebbes (29) making the best they could in the awful conditions, unfortunately their skipper (A. Mann) was stranded on a gallant 0 not out when the innings came to an abrupt conclusion on 101 (G. Carter and J. Hoskins out for 4 and 1 respectively). A healthy spread of sandwiches now awaited the teams during the interval, and the sight of all the platters of food steered Tim’s mind back to an afternoon of peeling vegetables; with a main course of mindless small-chat around a dining room table. “Hi Tim, where’ve you been of late? You look like you’ve seen a bloody ghost!” He turned to the voice of one of the Aston regulars whilst attempting a smile. “How’s retirement suiting you – you bored stiff yet?” quizzed the man. “It’s okay,” ventured Tim “I have much more time to spend with my girls now; and of course my lovely wife.” After stuffing a sausage roll down his throat and pawing over a couple of scotch eggs, the man replied “that’s great, Tim – but don’t you forget your mates, eh? A man needs his sporting pursuits – keeps his mind healthy. Be good to see you pull on your whites.” The conversation was broken by the melody of a phone, and Tim cradled his mobile with a sigh of resignation. “Yeeeeesssssssssssssssssssssss, I’ll be there in a minute. Just stretching my legs (sigh)”….

T. Smith (left) isn’t convinced by the skipper’s reason for batting first.

Tim’s pace now resembled that of a hog in a swamp as he continued his circuit of the boundary. The sun had now broken through the ugly black clouds, and the Aston batsmen had started filling their boots on a drying track. Bowlers N. Hebbes (8-2-11-0) and J. Hoskins (5-0-25-0) both toiled away, until A. Mann (5-0-19-1) made the breakthrough bowling a nervous D. Barlow for 12. There was only be one further casualty as N. Clark (65*) opened his shoulders and began peppering the surrounding foliage; that of T. Dew (10) caught off the bowling of M. Reeves (2.4-0-15-1) to a smart catch in the deep by a smoking T. Smith. With the clock ticking against him, Tim finally completed his lap of the field to sit back down with Ted and his dog to watch the final few balls. “A’right, lad? My mother could bowl a better line and length than this lot – bloody awful.” (T. Smith 2-0-12-0, I. Howarth 2-0-14-0, D. Edwards 1-0-5-0) “Thought it might be quite tight at the end, but this is a complete dickin’. Rubbish. That clown who won the toss and decided to bat first needs shooting.” Tim allowed himself a wry grin – it certainly was a beating, but a quick one at that; and at least he wasn’t going to be too late home after watching the conclusion. He felt the vibration of his mobile in his pocket and bid his farewell to Ted; the old man turning to him as the Aston batsmen hit the winning runs. “Take care, lad – and enjoy tha’s roast. Am sure Lucy will have done you proud.”

‘A. Murray’

*

Statto's Scorecard

No Fines on this Day

MOTM: N. Hebbes’ tight bowling and decent knock

Champagne Moment: J. Hotson out after guiding ball on stumps using his arse

Buffet Award: I. Howarth’s bangers and mash

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