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RED BAT HELD AS OPENING DAY CLIFF-HANGER GOES DOWN TO WIREFrom our man on the spot with the tub of ralgex and the stash of egg sandwiches he swiped before Phil Jones got a chance to spot them:A cloudy Saturday in Beckley saw the nation's premier collective cricket machine purr into top gear and dominate the first two thirds of the game. Normal service was soon resumed however as the wheels came flying off in the home stretch leaving the lads hanging on for grim death to tie a last ball finish. It all started so well for the visitors. Skipper-for-the-day Dave Lloyd elected to bat on a smooth(ish) surface as the Red Bat dressing room vibrated to the traditional concerto of twanging muscles and creaking bones, accompanied by a stirring bass chorus of moans whinges and petty bickering about the state of the kit and the absence of the scorebook. The left-right, north-south, stoned-pissed combination of Jones and Gummer got things under the way with Phil's gleaming bald patch and Matt's protuberant posterior quickly catching the eye. With less than ten overs gone Matt unleashed his trademark straight drive out of the ground, prompting an undignified argument about how to spell words like "impeariouss" and "oresum". Heads went down in the field, the bowler's shoulders drooped in sympathy. Matt took note, twiddled his bat like the experienced executioner he is and rammed home the advantage by playing all round a straight half volley. 33 for 1. Now Jonesy settled with bewildering ease into the unaccustomed role of sheet anchor while Jon Harry gradually adjusted to the idea of getting the round red thing off the square. At 85 for 1 Beckley were just re-acquiring a collective posture problem when Gummer unwittingly did them another favour. As a straight drive sped down the ground for four he whispered some top notch advice to Jon about "not doing what I did and getting carried away". What happened next is shrouded in mystery; did Jon mis-hear the Peckham sage, or is he just a pillock? Anyway the result was clear enough; another straight half-volley somehow found a chink in an airy head-up waft and 85 for 1 was 85 for 2. Cometh the hour, cometh the short left-handed tyke. Gritty Phil had spectators whittering about Maurice Leyland with a succession of cuts flicks and pulls as further partners came and went. Muir, Hewlett and Lewis all strode out like lions only to return shortly afterwards looking uncannily like fallible middle aged men with large stomachs. At 113 for 5 Skipper Lloyd's stated target of 160-plus seemed to hang solely on a panting Phil's ability to keep breathing. That was to reckon without the imposing figure of Big Andy Lee. With gleeful support from a rejuvenated Phil our Andy engineered that most unusual component of a Red Bat innings, a strong aggressive finish. Spanking drives and thudding pulls mingled with larrups and twats as the big lad from Egham rattled up a rapid 40. The allotted 40 overs came to a rousing end on 183 for 5. A second-winded Phil walked off with an unbeaten 80 to his name, jabbering happily about being the first person to bat through forty overs for Red Bat. Better informed members may be dubious about that, but they will certainly be scratching their heads to remember a previous instance of PJ scoring less than half the runs made during his stay at the crease. As the players sat down to a classic tea, a low rumble was heard, in the distance but getting perceptibly closer. Unease spread through the well appointed pavilion, but within minutes the sharper eared members of the collective had provisionally identified the sound and were reassuring the terrified women and children. They were soon proved right by the appearance of a still-chuntering Biggsy accompanied by a bloke who was at least seven feet tall. WHAT HAPPENED NEXT? I'll tell you once I get out of this sodding meeting I've got to go to..........
So, where was I? Err right, the bloke who was seven feet tall was, of course, the carefully nurtured fruit of Red Bat's one-youth youth policy, Biggs R. A tea interval prolonged by rain gave skipper Lloyd the chance to huddle with all of his different personalities (actor, writer, man, carpark) and come up with the decision to ask Biggsy fils rather than Biggsy père to take the field as Red Bat's 11th man. In a vintage father and son performance Robin was to justify his selection by sprinting round the inside of the boundary, stopping balls and throwing them hard and low to keeper Lewis, while "the Passenger" stomped round the outside of the boundary stopping passers-by and throwing off a steady stream of "helpful" suggestions and "constructive" advice. But before the delayed action could begin again the big man from Bristol had some more tricky decisions to make. With no sawdust in sight and the bowlers' run-ups consisting of a series of muddy puddles, who was going to be asked to risk their health by taking the new ball? Tears welled up in many an eye as Dave selflessly answered the unspoken question by calmly tossing the ball to himself and telling himself (clearly and precisely, if at some length and with just a hint of something beginning with P) how he wanted his field set. With the cheerful figure of Stevie Ringer trotting in through the puddles from the other end, a pattern of almost constipated restraint and containment was soon established. Dave and Steve pegged back a singularly cautious opening pair with support from a miserly fielding unit of which Biggs jnr and a distinctly lively bewigged 'keeper were the pick. Chris' time with the bowling machine has apparently left him unable to bat against human bowling. The Collective can not risk the same thing happening to his glovework and he is under strict instructions never to practice keeping to the machine. So, Red Bat were keeping the runs down but where were the wickets to come from? The skipper with the apparent golden touch dipped into his box of tricks and conjured up an unexpected trio of secret bowling weapons. First up was Dave Muir. The big geordie seamer (yes it could have been worse he might have tried those things he thinks are leg breaks) was so shocked to be called up before he had even started his ritual of subtle hints about fancying a bowl that he dropped straight into a length and line and was duly rewarded with the opening wicket. Steve Hewlett just had time before a suitably executive early departure for a flight to Canada to remove the other opener with a cunning full toss which was deposited in the bucket like hands of Andy Lee. Matt too repaid the skipper's trust by provoking another skier to Andy Lee and Beckley were looking down and out at 60 odd for 4 after 22 overs. They seemed to be actively running up the white flag when they sent out their number 6. The gnarled old pros of the collective grinned knowingly to each other as he appeared in black pumps and a tee shirt and with palpably little practical experience of shaving. The kid taking guard in fact turned out to be the end of the good times for Red Bat. A series of fluent drives and pitiless pulls off good length balls rapidly removed the contented and faintly patronising grin from the collective's collective face as Beckley edged past the hundred still more or less in touch with the rate. Some were getting twitchy, but when you take a trouser size like Dave Lloyd's you can be pretty sure of keeping your feet on the ground. Cold calculation and an almost feral instinct for the kill both told him it was time for the big guns. Moments later big Paul O'Connor was peeling off his sweater and measuring out his run. The lanky pace man from leafy Cirencester was later at a loss to explain what happened next. I'm stumped myself, unless it was something to do with having his first bowl of the season on a mudslide which meant he had to bowl round the wicket off a half pace run up to a good batsman who was already well set and needing to score at sevens or eights. Whatever, the big fella went to the same parts of the ground as everyone else (almost, but not quite, all parts). Big Dave tried most of the tricks; brought himself back on and removed one bloke who looked like he might keep the milky bar kid company; offered singles at appropriate points; thought long and hard about bribery and physical violence. Still the scoreboard whirred round until, without so much as a Wannsee conference, the man in the hot seat ordered the Final Solution: Big Andy Lee from the damp soggy end with Steve the ringer continuing from the downright subaqua end. The maniacally stingey cricketing brain which used to reside in Andy's boots when they were still held together by gaffer tape, but has now migrated to a more conventional site roughly between his ears, had registered two facts which were lost to others in the ongoing mayhem. One: no-one had seen the problem teenager hit the ball between third man and mid off. Two: his (Andy's) shoulders were two of not very many working body parts at his disposal. In a blinding flash of revelation he put one and two together and implemented his cunning plan. Walking in off two doddery paces he bent his shoulders (and fuck all else) into a string of scrooge-like brutes just short of a length on off peg. At last the tide turned again in Red bat's favour and Andy started the last over with nine needed to win. He made two mistakes out of six goes; the first was to bowl a stright one which the little git twatted straight back past him for four, the second was to listen to Jon shouting "mine" from mid on as ball three described a towering parabola into the early evening sky. The birds stopped singing, everything went into slow motion, large sums of money changed hands (most of it backing the ball), Jon moved silkily (yes, that is the right word) into the perfect position, raised cupped hands to the descending ball, and.............................. spilt it. A bye to the keeper off ball six and Beckley scraped to a well-deserved tie (despite some uncharacteristically legalistic chuntering from O'Connor about us winning 'cos we lost fewer wickets). A great game, a great ground, a great pub and a nearly perfect oppo and playing for Red Bat remains the best fun you can have with your trousers on. No match report for Sunday's game which was played exclusively in everyone's head inside the Red Cow in Chesterton with the rain pissing down outside and was remarkable only for A Cumbersome Umpire Interjecting 72 times (© P. O'connor). Keep on keeping on Jon |