V&A v. Stonor CC
21st August 2016
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V&A v. The Bandits
17th September 2016
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V&A v. The Authors XI

V&A PLAYERS: D De CAIRES [SKIP], C JONKERS, L JACOT, A JACOT, R ASHCROFT, A TAYLOR, C M-T, N P-G, T P-G, N BIRD, R MORRIS, N EMLEY, L NIEBOER, V GRANTHAM 

The rain came down at 4pm, as forecast, turning the picturesque Stonor valley dank and leaden, the trees rustling disconsolately and ruining what had been bubbling up to an exciting finish.  The Authors pressed on manfully in the field, ignoring the driving rain in search of victory, for it was they who held the upper hand, but in the end the weather won. 
 
Cricket, above all others, is a game in sync with the elements: it lives and breathes with them and they in turn dictate how and specifically when it is played.  The English cricket season is itself essentially a microcosm of the four seasons, both meteorologically and psychologically.   The dawn of the new season in April, when the mornings are bright and dewy, is its spring; the time when cricketers of all abilities return the game afresh; thinking, hoping, willing, against all experience, that this will be the season when they achieve great things.  Then there are the languid, sun-soaked summer afternoons when the wickets are hard and flat and fielders and bowlers toil in the heat, whilst batsmen feast themselves on easy runs.   So to September, when the evenings draw in and leaves begin to brown.  There is an autumnal melancholy as the season draws to a close, players eking out what remains, knowing that its end is nigh. By natural extension winter would be the off season, a period of hibernation and recuperation before the cycle begins again.
 
Although our opponents had posted a sturdy 219-5 from their 35 overs, their victory was by no means a foregone conclusion at the enforced close.  The V&A stood on 111-4 from 24 overs with Andy Taylor going well on 62 and strong batting to come.  Earlier in the innings, Ashcroft had made 28 from a partnership of 76 with Taylor to rescue the innings after Vim Granham [sic.] had unfortunately chopped one on in the first over and Nick Emley, whose receding hairline and pugnacious bearing making him look increasingly like Brian Close, had hit a full toss straight back to the bowler.  Two excellent catches by wicketkeeper William Fiennes off the bowling of Tom Holland had then seen the end of Ashcroft and de Caires shortly before the rain set in.
 
The day had begun in confusion.  The holiday season being over we had no fewer than fourteen applicants for a booth in the team.  Nicky Bird, whilst still the linchpin of the club, without whom it would undoubtedly fold in a heap, is nevertheless a peripheral figure in playing terms these days.  He prefers to umpire a bit, get under the saintly Sarah Jenkins’ feet and talk at anyone who stands still for long enough within earshot.  This still left thirteen, when eleven is the traditional requirement.  The solution, graciously agreed to by our opponents, was a relay system, whereby players came and went from the field, apparently at random but leaving (theoretically) no more than eleven on the field at any one time.   The upshot was chaos; nobody knew where they were fielding and beleaguered captain Dennis de Caires had no idea of who he was supposed to be marshalling at any given time. 
 
There was also much talk of on-field etiquette.  It had transpired that some lily-livered batsmen of recent oppositions had got a bit upset that the nasty bowlers (and fielders) of the V&A had been growling at them and their umpires.  This brought into stark relief how, in a game fundamentally run by batsmen for the benefit of batsmen, what an awful lot of whingeing these batsmen do when they do not have things entirely their own way.  For instance, a batsman will come out wearing pads, gloves, box, helmet, armguard, and a thigh pad, a veritable state-of-the-art suit of armour, but should the bowler have the temerity to bowl a couple of bouncers at him, he starts complaining about it being a friendly game and would the bowler mind sticking to half-volleys?
 
The Authors’ innings had not begun well, with the luckless Anthony McGowan top-edging the third ball in a gentle parabola to Emley at square leg.  David Owen chanced his arm with a block-or-bash approach but appeared to have used up his luck when he hit the ball straight up in the vicinity of Adam Jacot.  Jacot did almost everything right: moving into position, steadying himself, hands cupped, eyes on the ball… until it became apparent that where he was located the ball was not, and it fell harmlessly to the ground.  Owen’s exertions eventually took their toll when he pulled a muscle attempting a lofted cover drive and was forced to retire hurt.  Matt Thacker, looking like a ’70s throwback in his tinted glasses despite the gloom, was now beginning to hit his stride. He had been dropped early by Nick Pritchard Gordon, who did not have his best day behind the stumps, and now played some crisp drives and clips to leg.  Lachlan, in the middle of a fiery spell, appeared to have him caught off the glove by a tumbling Ashcroft at short cover only for the batsman to announce that the ball had struck a (very springy) part of the arm, and stayed put.  Lachlan was less than gruntled.  Jon Hotten’s batting did not look as accomplished as it sounded in his excellent new book, The Meaning of Cricket (which I encourage all interested parties to buy and read).  The flashy cover drives of his youth seem to have been replaced by bucolic swipes to leg, but then few of us are the players we used to be.  However, after an uncertain start, he took over where Thacker left off, when the latter had allowed himself to be stumped for 83 in a Pritchard Gordon pincer movement, and gave the innings the impetus to reach its lofty tally.  The V&A bowling had not been untidy, but the same cannot be said of the fielding.  Maybe it was the constant rotation of personnel or maybe it was being denied our habitual 1.30 lunch, but no one was exempt from the fielding malady as catches were dropped, boundaries granted and overthrows conceded.
 
In the end, of course, it was all irrelevant.  “Rained off”, was the pronouncement of Laura the Scorer in her meticulously kept book.  The rain had not even had the good grace to wait until opening time at The Crown.