Match reports

From our man on the spot: Hugh Jarrs.

They are fixtures embedded in our sporting history. Match-ups between adversaries from different cultures, different continents and different traditions. We grow up guided by our father’s normally stern demeanor changing to that of committed, animated and gloriously uncontrolled fan, shouting on his favoured team to inspiring victory or despairing defeat.

You know the events of which I speak; The Ashes; The Calcutta Cup; The Ryder Cup; Burnley v Blackburn; Ali v Frazier; and, of course the main course on that sumptuous menu, Lothersdale Millennium Cricket Club versus The Drones.

The Have-Nots v The Haves; Local Comprehensive v Public School; Country Bumpkins v Urban Sophisticates; The Oiks v The Gentlemen. One of the last cricketing fixtures that oozes that soon to be forgotten sense of fairplay and personal endeavour that makes our heritage so unique.

Or so we thought. Why this final bastion of our sporting heritage should be stormed by a malicious morris dancer, we will never know. Committing an act of such blasphemous violence, leaving a child protégé unable to eat toffee for months, this anti-christ of cricket has destroyed forever all that is England.

The day seemed to start so well. Three of William Hill’s top players, The Swede, Deadly Daz & Gazza Board very kindly loaned themselves to the game to ensure sufficient numbers were present. Their ruddy faced, overweight appearance demonstrating clearly years of alcohol abuse, yet this was not to overshadow an awesome display of natural talent.

The Drones, those happy few, had traveled from far and wide to partake of the succulent fruits of this particular cricketing tree. All friends and associates of leading LMCC loon, Stinker, who created this fixture on the seventh day, they arrived with families in tow. Sons to play the glorious game, daughters to earn a fortune compiling the scorebook and wives to take one of the aforementioned sons to A & E at Airedale hospital and then on to Bradford Royal Infirmary for an operation on his shattered jaw.

Also, making his debut, was LMCC’s first celebrity umpire. Recently retired from a career spent trying to bring down successive British governments as one of the country’s leading political documentary makers, LMCC welcomed Howard ‘Jesse James’ Smith, henceforth known as JJ. Moving around the field like a serene galleon on a shimmering sea against the backdrop of a deep red, never to be forgotten Caribbean sunset, JJ demonstrated a trigger finger more productive than that of his feared predecessor. No one was safe and a trail of batsmen made the long walk back to the pavilion, all victim of JJ’s deadly digit and a very personal interpretation of the lbw rule. There were, however, murmurs among the crowd when those carrying the trays of orange squash at the drinks interval were dispatched ‘leg before’ with unrelenting zeal, and the game actually stopped momentarily when JJ attempted to give out his umpiring partner and six fielders, all lbw. He is to be feared, make no mistake.

And so, to two o’clock. LMCC were all present and correct with sixteen players available although the Drones had only five on their roll call at that time. The arrival of a car load of Drones (the ill fated Bertie among them) and some sportingly accommodating player arrangements between the two captains saw Skip head up an LMCC team of ten and Stinker lead a fourteen man Drones team. It all seemed to make sense at the time and the scene was set for a perfect afternoon as Colonel Blimp & Andy May walked out to take their guard under a vociferous show of support from Stinker the turncoat.

Blimp played wonderfully for a cultured 60 runs until bowled by Timbo Holloway, bowling an exceptional opening spell that accounted for the first three Drones wickets. Take nothing away from the Colonel though, he was Blimptastic.

Timbo’s stint was backed up by a succession of probing bowling throughout the afternoon that demanded the best from the Drones batsmen. The next one of whom to shine was the boy wonder himself, young Bertie, who rattled up a Bert-tastic 50 in no time at all before retiring to thunderous applause. This fine innings was followed up by a display of power hitting from Deadly Daz, 29, that helped push the Drone’s total onwards and upwards.

And so it came to pass. Stinker strode out to the crease with an air of one who has no fear of his own destiny, whatever that may be. After a few shoddy strokes that gave away his inner turmoil, Stinker found himself batting at the pavilion end facing AdmiralofthefleetMarshallMarshall.

What followed was one of the most sensational moments in the history of our sporting universe.

The perfect outswinger, Stinker pushing uncertainly forward. Skip, fielding at first slip and realizing that the ball was on target had immediately begun to move to his left to cover for the unlikely event that the ball would see it’s way through the ‘keepers gloves, pads and body. The result of Stinkers nervous prod was an edge that took the ball, at pace, into the area between first and second slip. Chairman Boots, fielding at gully had started to muster himself to give chase down to third man only to witness, along with the watching throngs, Skip, in an attempt to change direction back to his right lose his footing but, as he was falling on his arse, shot out his right hand like a serpent’s tongue and took a catch that simply defied human possibilities. Time stood still.

Our world is made up of momentous events and achievements that withstand the rigours of time, and those who witnessed this catch understood immediately how man felt on creating fire, the self sacrifice of Leonidas and his three hundred Spartans at Thermopylae, Michelangelo’s searing genius that was to produce the Statue of David from a flawed block of marble, Armstrong stepping purposefully yet gently onto the surface of the moon.

It was one small catch for a man, but one giant catch for mankind.

Stinker’s attempted assault on Skip was halted by Jeremy WicketKeeper who managed to hold on to him at the fifth attempt and pointed him in the direction of the pavilion. Despite the fact that it was a catch, JJ, umpiring at square leg, gave it out lbw.

The scramble for runs at the end left the Drones on 213 – 8. A top notch total.

The teas were a veritable delight and filled every ones tummies. They were prepared by Mrs Jeremy WicketKeeper; the Gestapo Cricket Witch herself, LadyAdmiralfothefleetMarshallMarshall; and Mrs Skip, fresh from the trauma of unjust criticism of a recent tea, who presented unto the throngs scones/cream & jam of pure gastronomic beauty, an act of such culinary defiance that ensures Skip will no longer be asked for his opinions in the future. The world is lucky to have these dedicated ladies providing such pillars of support to their men folk.

214 to win and out they strode. AdmiralofthefleetMarshallMarshall and Chairman Boots, nonchalantly performing that all too familiar ‘who’s going to take the first ball’ routine that opening batsmen faced with a daunting total always try on.

This pseudo confidence was duly endorsed when the first three wickets fell for virtually nothing.

First to go was Chairman Boots, scorer of 77 runs in his previous innings (lest we forget). Facing his first delivery and, having been given instructions from Skip to keep the scoreboard moving, Boots gleefully waited as the aforementioned ball was wide, over-pitched and outside the off stump. Pouncing like a starving piranha dropped into a tank containing a solitary, lonely goldfish recently purchased by a wide-eyed innocent child from a nearby funfair, Boots smote the ball square and watched as it sped, inches off the ground towards the boundary.

Or so we thought. Fielding at cover point however was the git himself. Idling away in the field composing more tunes for more unsold CDs, Stinker realized that he was soon to be in the vicinity of the ball and that his chums were watching. Deciding to make a token effort he lurched to his left but, being clumsy by nature, he accidentally tripped over his own feet, tumbling ground-wards in the process. Seeing now that the ball, traveling at considerable speed, and his own face were on collision course, Stinker raised his hands for his own protection and found that, on impact, the ball stuck in his palms. Unbelievable. Stinker, who has never taken a catch before (indeed, the only time he had his hands on a ball of any sort before was when he stood on a rake) was engulfed by ecstatic Drones, like bees round a fat wasp that was attacking their hive.

Boots wanted to take the matter further but was prevented from doing so by a barrier of Drones through which Stinker’s two-fingered salute to his Chairman could clearly be seen.

Cue despair in the crowd. All the ladies immediately left, their hero having departed the crease. Children crying, their day ruined. What were we to do?

Lose a couple more wickets, that’s what.

The Drones brought on The Swede for a spell from the pavilion end. Left arm round the wicket, the assassin in the panama waiting his chance to notch up another victim. AdmiralofthefleetMarshallMarshall, having proceeded in his technically perfect way to a tidy 6 runs, looked set for many more. Swede bowls. The ball traveling towards the leg side, AdmiralofthefleetMarshallMarshall plays and misses, JJ, awoken from his slumber by the sound of ball against pad immediately raises the finger and one shocked ship mate set sail for the changing rooms sunk by the psychopathic Grand Inquisitor of the cricketing rulebook.

Who now was to answer the call for the gallant LMCC cause? The Great Gatsby himself, that’s who.

Leaving his Milk Tray on the boundaries edge and his lady friend under the floorboards, and looking every inch the smartest cricketer that ever played the game, this doyen of decorum and style glided out to the wicket. The Great Gatsby then treated us to a display of sublime shot making, passing his 50 and, along with a typically gritty, marvelous performance for 30 from Skip, kept Lothersdale in the game.

The Great Gatsby’s demise was unfortunate really. Andy May, bowling a beautiful spell of swing bowling from the railway end, rapped the well dressed hero on the pads and all and sundry knew the innings was at an end when the first to appeal was Chairman Boots, standing as umpire. Gatsby was a gonner.

It was at this point that one suspects a pang of guilt fleetingly passed through Stinker’s unfathomable mind. Here he was, captain of a side that had rattled up a big score, watching his erstwhile friends from the village, normally his teammates, struggle to keep in touch with the game. Maybe it was all too much to bear. After all, once The Drones had gone home he would have to face another year as an LMCC committee member, possibly, nay probably, completely friendless. What could he do to redress the balance? What was going through that rapier like mind?

Back to the game. Young Bertie, having already graced the match with his fine 50 and having kept wicket in immaculate fashion, handed over the ‘keepers gloves and let loose a scintillating over, demonstrating further his status as one of the great all rounds talents of the game, with a huge part to play in the future of English cricket.

Alas, winning the Ashes back from the aussies will have to wait by virtue of the next, never to be forgotten phase in LMCC’s history.

Skip, attempting to turn the ball square on the leg side got a top edge, high into the early evening sky. Bertie, personification of fielding excellence itself, darted after it like a bat on it’s first dusk foray into the belfry of a delightful 12^th century Norman church.

It was at this point that Stinker decided to strike. Fielding at backward square leg, he set off with the intent of a centre forward rushing across the penalty box for a near post header. As the ball dropped within catching height and Bertie, poor thing, was poised to seal Skip’s fate, Stinker flung himself towards his doomed target and, singling out Bertie’s head as the ball, delivered the most ruthless head butt yet witnessed in an LMCC game. Both participants in this macabre spectacle were unconscious before they hit the ground.

Boots, umpiring now as he had nothing else to do for the afternoon nearly gagged in his lager. Skip, realizing the possibilities, decided to try and run the remaining 70 or so runs in singles but realised fairly swiftly that this wouldn’t be within the spirit of the game.

Stinker was fortunate to land in the recovery position because he was left to fend for himself as everyone ran over to the stricken carcass of Bertie. Lying the gallant young warrior on his side to avoid his untimely death, it was quickly concluded that Bertie needed the very best medical attention and was promptly whisked away to hospital by his fretting, dear mother. Bertie’s old man and brother bravely maintained their participation in the main event.

Stinker, still in a state, lying motionless on the ground. Now that Bertie was departed everyone gathered round the odious creep to search for any signs of life. There was no first aid available, nor second or third aid, so all and sundry just stared at him until he opened his eyes and enquired, rather groggily, as to what had happened. What had happened? Just like the Yorkshire Ripper and other notorious mass murderers in history, Stinker was obviously preparing the defence that voices were telling him what to do. Maybe if Bertie had bought one of Stinker’s CDs when he had the chance he would have been safe.

The game had to go on. It wasn’t long before Stinker began to fret, feeling that he had possibly made a negative impression on the afternoon’s proceedings. The Drones were still ahead on points and considerately encouraged Stinker to involve himself in the match in a more appropriate way than his offering thus far. Stinker at first refused the suggestions that he bowl but eventually relented when Chairman Boots wandered over and encouraged him to try an over or two, convincing his much loved friend that it would have a beneficial, almost thereputic effect. Stinker relented and paced out his run up.

This persuasive moment was quite conniving of Boots, as he later admitted over a jar or two in the H & H. The run rate required at this time was over 8 an over, LMCC looked to be facing their recent winning streak of one game coming to an end. What could the Chairman do to influence the result? Persuade a semi conscious, guilt ridden Stinker to bowl at the fully played in, seeing it like a football Deadly Daz (appearing for both sides in today’s game) that’s what.

Stinker staggered up to bowl. Deadly Daz, resembling an enormous, shaven headed monitor lizard in cricket pads waited, his expression that of a fox about to be let loose in a chicken coop. The over saw the run rate reduced to a gettable 6 an over as Deadly Daz battered and bludgeoned a succession of boundaries from the shell shocked bowling of Lothersdale’s favourite recording star. Each delivery was a cameo. The ball, the head of a baby seal terrifyingly awaiting it’s fate, the bat a club dripping with fur and brains, and Deadly Daz the Canadian hunter, dispatching victim after victim, more than his hunting license permitted. It was utter, utter carnage. Game on.

After Deadly Daz eventually fell for 38 ballistic runs, Timbo and Hunter Holloway, helped by the fact that none of the Drones dare field in case Stinker attacked them, wrapped the game up in a high fiving partnership that included a beautifully clean hit straight six from the Timbo himself.

So what are we to make of this monumental afternoon?

Bertie’s operation has been a success you’ll be glad to hear.

Man of the match for LMCC was the sublime Great Gatsby who not only scored a superb 58 runs, but bowled mightily impressively as well, nailing two victims.

And what of Stinker? The rampaging minstrel of Lothersdale. Maybe he should be locked in a cage and hung from a stout branch belonging to a tall tree on the edge of the village. Children could throw sticks at him in the same way they do when trying to get conkers off the autumn chestnut trees.

That, of course would serve no purpose at all as we would be denying ourselves the wonderful company of one of natures unique individuals. The world’s only professional, full time village idiot no less. What are we to do?

Who knows?