Far From The MCC

~ Est. in 1998 ~

“Sentimentality

Ruins Otherwise Funny Match Report”

Sunday 31^st May 2009
Result: Won by 62 Runs
Venue: Brasenose
40 overs
FFTMCC	177 - 5
D. Edwards 101*, I. Howarth 29
Old East Oxford	115 ao
D. Emerson 5 - 25, S. Dobner 2 - 18

The flooding was pretty spectacular in the summer of 2007, but I don’t remember Pembroke College Sports Ground for that. My memories of the place are all played out under glorious blue skies, with a sunburnt pitch that Kev had prepared when he wasn’t fiddling about with some airfix kits in the pavilion. The very English ambience of a day’s cricket was only interrupted by the sound of the odd train passing by, hidden from view by the towering trees to one side of the ground that rustled in gentle winds. Maybe you’re programmed to remember only the good things about a place you used to enjoy coming to, because I’m sure there were days where the weather wasn’t so kind, or the day itself had been a bit of a let down; it’s just I really can’t remember them.

The large tree still exists at Pembroke.

Sunday was to be my first game at our new home, Brasenose College – and not so very far from Pembroke itself. I was looking forward to the day, as all the feedback from our first match at the place was positive; that the Mad had found a new spiritual home, one befitting a relaxed Sunday cricket team in the centre of Oxford. But I was curious before the game were to start, to familiarise myself with our old stomping ground just once more; to see how it now looked - how it had developed in the time that elapsed. Not quite sure why, sometimes you never are.

It was the same long, bumpy road to drive your car down; it was the same old, decaying iron bridge that spanned the railway track to the ground; the overflowing bin had disappeared, but the same graffiti-daubed Pembroke placard remained; the pavilion itself looked much the same and the clock was still stuck in time at ten past three. The adjoining tennis courts were exemplary, as was the ground – the outfield nicely mowed, and the track it’s usual hard, sandy rock colour. Kev had clearly been working hard to prepare everything for the new season, although there was nobody about. Maybe Kev was at home with his airfix kits? Maybe on holiday? Maybe Kev didn’t even work here anymore? In fact, other than my abiding curiosity, who really gives a fuck any more?

So I left.

There’s that large tree again. And the other ones.

I did like Pembroke, despite it’s logistical failings; it just seemed to epitomise what English cricket was all about in the summer months. Or maybe it was just the sheer relief of finding a new bunch of cool mates to play cricket with in 2003 after my first marriage had gone to shit? Who knows?

Who knows….

* * *

Ha – pre-match pints at the Folly Bridge pub – cool; I always did like the yard of cider at this place prior to a game. The sun always seemed to beat down on you in the beer garden as the waifs and strays of Oxford passed by on the Abingdon Road; in fact most the strays drank in the pub – which is why it never really became our home. Maybe it was a bit of an unfounded elitist viewpoint? I mean, the cricket team were structured on pissheads, formed by pissheads, and nurtured by pissheads? So where did we get such an elevated view of this pub? It could have been the couple of skinheads that threatened to put Mike Clarke’s face in the wall of the pool room one day in 1995… but most likely, it was the fact we didn’t really know the landlord or landlady, and they didn’t really know us; and they didn’t really seem like old school English cricket types that reminisce about the same old bollocks that we do….

* * *

Man, I sure did like Brasenose. It was exactly like all the images that I had conjured in my head from walks on the adjoining towpath; and it was exactly as befitting as everyone had said it was from the previous game. A stately looking pavilion overseeing a manicured ground, and all sketched under a pretty blue sky with a fierce burning sun. Perfect.

Brasenose has a large tree too (see background).

Naturally our skipper saw fit to lose another toss, but our opponents on this day saw fit to ask us to bat; a decision based more or their lack of confidence in their batting than anything else. I had heard the strip was bereft of bounce, but it seemed to play okay now; pre-season damp had obviously disappeared, and D. Edwards and M. Westmoreland moved the score along to 57 without any undue alarms. So it came as a bit of shock when Martin (17) lost his middle stump, and I had to break myself out of a lazy sun-soaked torpor before I found myself in the middle. Dan was at his imitable best – nudging, nurdling, and slapping it about; offering me the usual impractical advice that I would ignore even if it was practical. He even chirped up with the fielders, but they largely ignored him too.

The score ticked along serenely along until the 29^th over, and having just countered Dan’s notion of “not doing anything stupid”, I tried this weird paddle thing almost falling over my own bat. It was a strange choice of shot, in fact completely unfathomable considering the rest of my time at the crease - especially to an aged pie-chucker that had suddenly debuted at one end. But I did it, and I soon found myself staring at the raised finger of a silver-haired umpire at the opposite end – the ball having slipped around my bat and drummed against my back leg. I naturally protested my innocence, and I naturally sloped off the pitch complaining about the injustice in the world; and I even swore and threw my equipment about in the changing rooms whilst informing anybody who would listen that the umpire would be better served in a care home. But I was out (29), and as time has passed by, and I was better able to accept the decision, the doddery old fucker probably got it spot on….

Skipper Moo (17) is bowled surrounded by big trees.

From a solid 117-2 the Mad would eventually realise 177-5 off their 40 overs, largely indebted to Dan’s 101 not out; a fine knock comprising a much more aggressive style with a much more aggressive nicking of the strike. S. Dobner (0) didn’t contribute, T. Smith (10) did, whilst A. Fisher (5) and J. Hoskins (4*) offered some comedy value towards the end. Time for tea.

Kev had always been famous for his egg-sandwiches at Pembroke, so I wondered how Brasenose would compare in the great sandwich debate; a debate that seems to have rumbled on ever since my first game for the Mad some 6 years ago. They were darned good, so good that there wasn’t even the slightest murmur of disapproval from the vegetarian members of the squad during the break – an almost unheard of statistic considering they usually have to content themselves with a tug-of-war over anything vaguely resembling tasty (and vegetarian). The mini sausage-rolls were nice too, an aperitif that I never fully did understand why Kev omitted from his spreads - I mean how much does a box of frozen sausage-rolls from Iceland cost these days? Not a fucking lot. So why, Kev? Why did you never get the sausage rolls in? Huh? And one last thing whilst I’m on the subject – those really odd quarter sandwiches with a leaf in, a couple of thin slices of onion, and fuck all butter?! What were those about? So maybe I do remember some bad things about Pembroke after all….

Gripping stuff, other than the 39.3 overs that Dan faced.

After returning to the field, it quickly became apparent how tiring it must have been for opposition – it really was sweltering – such a beautiful change from those grey washed out days of last year; and if I gave it more thought, it would be nearly a year ago to the day since I last had the sun on my back whilst fielding…. Bliss.

Hopes of a vigorous start to the Old East Oxford reply were soon dashed when T. Kelly (0) clubbed a short one into the paws of J. Hoskins at mid-wicket. It was the kind of dismissal where you have to have some sympathy for the batsman; a yard either side of the fielder and it was four, over the fielder and it was four, even under the fielder it was four. In truth, Kelly could have twatted it anywhere, but where he did, and S. Dobner could hardly contain his joy at picking up a scalp with a rank long-hop. He soon became delirious when he skittled J. Horgan for 5 and would eventually return the excellent figures of 7-0-18-2.

Old East Oxford have nice maroon baggies. Why don’t we have baggies?

But if this day was about individual performances, which cricket never really is, then D. Emerson’s spell of bowling from the other end was surely the pick of the day. In a beautifully controlled effort he reduced the East Oxfordites to 43-6 by knocking back the timber on three occasions, and having keeper J. Hotson take a smart catch behind off D. Savory (4). It was a lengthy stint from our recently acquired, alcoholically fuelled medium pacer, and he retired from the attack after his ninth over citing a lack of blood in his alcohol system. Whether this had anything to do with the momentum of the match changing, I really don’t know, but the opposition seemed to find a backbone from somewhere, and in batsman A. Kelly they also had a trick up their sleeve.

Mr. Kelly used a mixture of exquisite drives, cuts and clips off his feet as he took the attack back to the Mad. James Hoskin’s bakery shop (6-3-15-2) would check the runs accrued at one end, but Kelly’s gradual acceleration and passing of fifty started to unnerve the hosts. It’s not like we ever felt the game was ever slipping away – far from it, it’s just when somebody looks so incredibly at ease, and at such peace with their game like Mr. Kelly did, then it certainly makes you think. The returning M. Reeves (5-0-31-0) would cop a fair chunk of Kelly’s bat, and I did feel sorry for Mike; I mean the poor bastard had cycled right the way across America to fly all the way back to Oxford with no pre-season nets to be flung in front of the firing squad! Mike didn’t lose his life, but he did lose his zeal – but hey, Mike, at least you did something, eh? Because you never get a bat.

M. Reeves never gets the thumbs up to bat.

With options dwindling, the skipper threw the ball to my goodself. He was probably thinking at the time what had he got to lose; if my erratic radar was down and I got tonked, then he’d haul me off anyway. At least he could say during the post-mortem “I tried Ian, but he was shit”. As it was, the ball came out fine – no idea why, just as I have absolutely no idea when it comes out shit. It made no matter to Mr. Kelly unfortunately, he simply pushed the ball into spaces and took the ones and twos. So why, after such a super effort of concentration and controlled hitting he would then want to try and hit a good length ball for six over a deep mid off is anyone’s guess? Rush of blood to the head? It was with some relief that M. Westmoreland pouched it off his kneecap and the celebrations could almost begin – A. Kelly gone for an admirable 70, and the opposition 111-9.

It was all left for D. Emerson to bowl his tenth and final over of the match in a bid to secure that elusive 5-for, and as a result have his name would be etched in Mad folklore for centuries to come. So it seems rather extraordinary that it took a horrendous wide to get their number eleven down to the striker’s end for Dave (10-3-25-3) to wrap things up – a pearler which once again rocked the timber back.

Well done, guys – good stuff. But you look a pair of dicks.

Yet he should never have had the chance you see, as I (4-0-17-1) failed to dismiss their tailend rabbit with my final three deliveries. Criminal. I couldn’t really fathom how or why, as one delivery seemed to pass straight through the bloody stumps….

Sometimes you never really do know why. You owe me, Dave!

‘Spam’

*

Statto's Scorecard

Match Fines

MOTM: D. Emerson’s drinking and bowling heroics

Champagne Moment: M. Westmoreland’s catch in the deep using his kneecap

Buffet Award: M. Reeves’ American pie

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