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RED BAT TURN THE FORMBOOK UPSIDE DOWNFrom our man on the 7:09 Eurostar with his own wallet and Giles Pott's mobile 'phone.Beckley, 4 June 2004. Beckley CC v RedBat CCRedbat turned the pundits' expectations inside-out on the 2005 season's opening weekend under the glowering skies of Oxfordshire. Few were taking the turf accountants' generous odds for a historic first loss to Beckley, fewer still were tempted to back the collective to an even more unlikely first win over Isis. That, however was indeed the final analysis as the the ageing masters of patchy performance delivered an eerily symmetrical two days of cricket to the fans huddled round their mobile phones 200 miles to the North. Going into Saturday's game, Redbat's record under the radio mast at Beckley read "Won 4, Tied 1". It still reads the same, except it now continues with "Lost 1". Even on a complete pudding with mounds of grass-cuttings to stop the occasional well struck shot reaching the boundary, the collective's 122 for 8 was at least 30 short of what was needed to put anything like a grin on the face of skipper Biggs (P). The number of runs which it would take to put a grin on Pete's face is of course anyone's guess. A sorry tale of ineptitude and self-destruction unfolded as a windy afternoon ran its course under heavy cloud cover. Redbat couldn't bat (at least for more than half an hour each) and they certainly couldn't call or run. Witness three runouts, each one moving farce to new levels, two involving blokes called Biggs and one casting shadows of doubt over just how hard Dave Muir had needed to listen in order to get his name on that much-vaunted ECB coaching ticket. Where there are clouds there are often silver linings. Sometimes there are slim glimmers of hope. Some days all you get is soggy straws to clutch. Saturday was one of those days and the only thing that the collective's shaky grip had to latch onto at teatime was the knowledge that Dave "kingmaker" Muir had sired a perfectly adequate replacement for the team's accredited short-arse left-hander. Long years of watching the grown-ups from the boundary allowed wee Arthur Muir to step seamlessly into the size-4 boots of Phil Jones. Suspicion that the short bald one was no longer needed began to spread as soon as the little chap took guard and poked his arse purposefully towards the square leg umpire in order to get his eyes down to the optimum height (just below the bails). Four balls later, suspicion turned to certainty as the sort of slow long hop just outside leg stump that people only ever bowl to left-handers was hoiked in the air for two past the despairing lunge of backward square leg. RIP Phil Jones (RBCC 1984-2004), epitaph "He stayed home, we replaced him with an 11 year old". The old short cag-handed git is dead, long live the new short cag-handed person. So, back to the narrative. The collective had, by common consent, batted poorly. On the other hand, they had bowled Beckley out for a lot less than 122 in the past. Could skipper Biggs rouse his rabble and infuse them with the ruthless commitment and steely, hard-nosed realism that they needed to do it one more time? The short answer is "no" and the long answer doesn't have that many qualifications, caveats or nuances either. The collective's unbeaten ground record essentially fell to one bloke with a decent eye, nothing you could describe as a technique and no ability to hit the ball outside the arc between midwicket and long on. Assorted luminaries lumbered out of the Redbat bull pen, turned creaking arms (just about) over their aching shoulders and disappeared over the fence. Honorable exceptions were few and far between, but Danny Whitelock at least was his parsimonious self and everyone was moved to see cap'n Biggsy's fond fatherly faith and gentle coaxing encouragement at last get its reward when young Robin finally trapped the batsman of the match dead in front with a chinaman which straightened as it pitched and, crucially, went straight on through its next three bounces. There are those who believe that your bowler is, typically, a whingeing fusspot who spends most of his time fiddling with his boots, glowering at umpires and kicking stumps. He is also, it is said, less than self-sufficient and will lose few opportunities to tell you that he needs the wholehearted support of an alert, agile and determined fielding unit equipped with fly-paper palms if he is to get the job done. There are though moments when that argument unravels and disappears up its own rectum, leaving even the idlest fielder to reflect that maybe he might be partially at fault himself. Saturday was just such a time. It would obviously be unfair to single out individuals. Then again it would be unconstructive to reel off a full list of offenders. So we'll just let the spotlight linger a moment on the sight of Dave "soft hands" Muir at mid-on spilling an absolute sitter from his clenched paws. Of course no defeat is just one person's fault and Dave shouldn't be feeling he let the side down. On the other hand, the opener he dropped then hung around just long enough for the match to remain beyond the collective's grasp even after somehow getting Beckley's last man to the crease with 4 still needed to win. You'll have to wait a bit to find out about the Sunday game, but I can promise you:
Queens College Ground, Oxford, 5 June 2004. Isis CC v RedBat CCThe latest reader-satisfaction survey having revealed a degree of weariness with "incoherent rambling" (©D Muir), we'll obviously be keeping this snappy and to the point.
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