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RED BAT NOTCH FIRST WIN OF 2002 AS SUN SHINES ON WORCESTER

From our man at long leg with the duff knee and a grievance against the unnecessary honesty of the collective's umpiring.

The Red Bat 2002 cricketing carnival rolled into the sun-bathed hills of Worcestershire at the weekend and came away with a draw and a win to show for some often inspired and uncharacteristically disciplined cricket, interspersed with some rather more predictable spells of self-destructive folly.

Saturday afternoon in the country house setting of Spetchley Park saw skippy Gummer undermanned by one due to a combination of red wine, an obstinate desire to listen to all four sides of the Basement Tapes before going to bed, deficient French alarm clock technology and, if we are going to be honest, a smidgeon of personal disorganisation on the part of your correspondent. The Peckham Maestro responded by winning the toss, inserting the Fossils (for the mature cricketer) and placing his faith in a combination of British Rail and a rather fetching pink taxi from Oxford to get his 11th man onto the field sometime before sundown.

A curiously arranged time game (7:30 finish with no last 20) got off to a sluggish start on an unreliable track surrounded by a vast and snail-like outfield. The Fossils showed little inclination to emerge from their shells in the face of some straight and persistent bowling from the usual suspects (O'Connor, Kennedy, Lee, Pott and Lloyd) as well as a couple of passers by who most people would have walked straight past in an identity parade. The balmy air of South London obviously supplies life to parts of the cricketing brain that remain dormant in other locations and Matt's choice of Dave Muir and Lloyd Peters to complete the attack was quickly vindicated. Unhappily, Red Bat adopted their usual policy on the holding of catches ("two out of three ain't bad but one out of six is good enough for us") and allowed the Fossils to creep to around 100 for 4 at tea and an eventual declaration at 124 for 8. Pick of the bowlers might well have been Giles Pott if he had been allowed more than three overs to show off his wares. Only two things wobbled more than ACUI72's generous stomach as he approached the wicket; one, pleasingly, was his outswinger, the other, sadly, was his fielders' hands as a string of chances went to ground. Top marks here went to the crack combination of 'keeper and first slip both dropping the same cunningly induced outside edge. Other notable moments included Phil Jones' helpful running commentary as he ran in ever decreasing circles somewhere near (but never quite under) a skier to mid off and an incident involving Dave Lloyd which I did not witness but which was so comical that nobody managed to finish explaining it to me before becoming speechless with laughter.

Jones and Gummer got the collective away in pursuit of the target with just under two hours play left. Matt's new helmet attracted particular attention and a good deal of comment, none of which could be described as supportive, constructive or well-intentioned and he was soon back in the hutch listening to some more of it while a second wicket stand developed between flickin' Phil and, well, err me actually. The back of the task looked broken at 76 for 1 whereupon both batsmen threw their wickets away and left someone else to pick up the pieces. Faced with the need to come in and crack on from the start as the clock ticked down, only Dave Muir (briefly) looked comfortable and positive. The rest of the story was one of vertiginous decline to the ignominy of N° 11 Kennedy having to keep out the last ball to avoid a twenty run defeat. As we had all expected, Rowdy's scientifically cocked left elbow got to exactly the right place and the match was saved. A relatively disappointing end to a decent game against a very decent bunch of blokes in a superb setting.

On the grounds that everyone can guess what happened next we will skate gracefully over the details of Saturday night in Worcester and move right along to the undoubted highlight of the weekend.

Sunday against Knighton-on-Teme in Newnham Green was one of those days you would like to last for ever, or at least come around once a week.

A good natured oppo proudly explained the local rules concerning the silver birch twenty yards inside the long on boundary and the visitors soaked up the scene, ticking off the requirements. Yip, it was all there: clear blue sky, tree lined hills, hundred acre hop field down one side, fast and true looking track, pav looking like a converted chicken shack, sheep accompanied by a frisky carthorse grazing in a turd strewn meadow round two sides of the ground and a well kept outfield. As skipper Jones won the toss and buckled on his pads there was only one question on the collective's mind: could Red Bat produce a performance worthy of the setting?

Well some of them might be able to, but it wasn't going to be Phil or Jon. Two inept pulls against an innocuous sexagenarian opening bowler left Matt and Big Andy Lee to face a scoreboard of 20 for 2 against a Knighton side containing rather more obviously regular players than we can usually handle. The watching Red Bat faces assumed expressions of grim foreboding and tension crackled round the ground. It needn't have bothered. Matt was a changed man; yesterday his helmet made him look like a windy boy amongst men; today it made him look like a Roman Centurion standing firm against the fury of the local celtic tribesmen. Rasping drives and clunking sweeps did more than keep the barbarian hordes at bay; they scattered them to all corners of the ground. At the other end, Andy bore no resemblance to any known historical caricature. He just looked like a big bloke from Egham who would hit the ball fucking hard if you pitched it in his half. After a while he metamorphosed into a big bloke from Egham who would hit the ball fucking hard even even if you pitched it in your own half and the scoreboard click-click-clicked its way to 154 for 2.

I'll just say that again: 154 for 2.

Cruel fate and sheer fatigue had their way at this point and Andy walked off looking like a big bloke from Egham who'd just got himself out for 49. Cruel fate was probably feeling quietly optimistic at this stage as the distinctive silhouette of Lloyd Peters fidgeted its way into the middle. This was the same Lloyd Peters who had taken bets that he would score at least 25 and spent a good deal of the previous evening challenging an apparently well supported view that he was a scratchy little git who never got the ball off the square and had no place in the top ten of a Red Bat order. The same old Lloyd, except subtly different and in an unusually white pair of trousers. Into the usual texture of a Peters innings (combining anally watchful defence and sneaked singles off the last ball of the over) the man who looked so like our Lloydie interwove firm drives and a stream of sweetly timed hoiks which led to the backward square leg boundary being re-christened "Peters Corner". Eyes popped, heads were scratched, jaws clanged to the ground and explanations were sought. Some suspected drugs were involved (but couldn't say whether it was the ones they had taken or the ones Lloyd had taken), others blamed a collective hallucination in the unaccustomed heat. I can now reveal the true answer. All the credit for Lloyd's rapid and welcome unbeaten 37 out of an unbroken stand of 65 goes to the man who took pity on the waif from Leeds and gave him his first pair of real cricket trousers. Yes the man we have to thank is not Lloyd himself but, well, err, me actually.

And what, you may ask, of Emperor Matt in all this? Well what is there to say about a man who bats through 40 overs, hits 12 fours in 145 minutes at the crease and guides the team to the heady heights of 218 for 3 dec with an unblemished display of skill and application which must be a serious contender for best ever innings played for Red Bat? I can only think of one thing; he looked a right prat standing on his own in the middle wondering why everyone else had left the field when he thought he had one more over to stroll from 94 to the magic three figs. Great knock Matt and a touchingly human final flourish.

Yes you read that right; 218 for 3.

A defendable total, but did Red bat have the guile, guts and gumption to defend it, or were they going to be left with nothing but exuberant alliteration to show for one of their best ever batting performances?

The answer seemed plain to see as back-in-the-groove Paul O'Connor hit middle and off with a true pearler in his first over (wasted on the shot it had to beat, but a pearler none the less). Rowdy was getting his angles right at the other end and it looked as though we could at least keep pressure on two good players who were picking off the bad ball but not getting away from us. The fielding was far from disgraceful and there was even a whiff of agility and athleticism hanging (together with some less palatable odours from the slip cordon) about an extremely tidy performance behind the sticks from 'oor Wiggy.

This however was the point where Giles Pott's rollercoaster tour seemed to go irretrievably off the deep end. He waddled up to deliver two overs of truly dreadful tripe and give some real momentum to Knighton's run chase. With Bruce flagging at the end of a good spell, 90 coming up at better than six an over and the home number three hitting the ball so hard that he might have been a big bloke from Egham (if he hadn't been a small wiry bloke from Worcestershire with a fucking good eye and a decent, uncomplicated technique), the horse seemed to be bolting out of control with skipper Jones simultaneously trying to hang onto the reins with one hand, bolt the stable door with the other and still conjure up an unmixed metaphor with the third hand he didn't have.

Well, It may have looked that way to the literary dreamers from down south. The skipper himself saw things differently. Down to earth, plain-speaking character that he is, Phil cut straight through the descriptive crap and concentrated on more prosaic aspects of the game, like choosing fresh bowlers and setting them an appropriate field.

First Fresh Bowler; D Lloyd. Mister containment had been stuck on 99 Red Bat wickets for some time, but none of that mattered now as he found the line and nagging length to finally stem the tide of runs.

Fresh Bowler two: BA Lee, who rumbled in off his full run looking like a big bloke from Egham who was going to pitch it up and hit if you missed. Hit he soon did and once the second wicket partnership was broken, Red Bat were scenting blood. Big Dave finally made it to three figures with the wicket that really counted, trapping N° 3 bang in front as he tried to pull a skidding topspinner. The multi-storey from Bristol ended with some very creditable figs obtained just when they were needed, but which I won't recite just now as Dave has volunteered to tell you all individually next time he sees you.

The game was certainly not over; at least two youngsters and a lanky left-hander looked capable of hitting the quick 40 which would still swing the contest Knighton's way. Red Bat however were in good hands. Phil tetchily waved away proffered similes and even some rather good oxymorons in favour of a more focused brand of thinking. The miniature taktik-meister did however draw gulps of apprehension when he tossed the ball towards a man with grey hair and a big stomach. It was obviously right to ask a portly middle-aged bloke to bowl at this stage; after all there were only portly middle-aged blokes to choose from. But why, with so many pendulous tums in his bull pen, was Phil giving the nod to the seemingly spent force of two-dinners Pott?

The answer was soon apparent as the real Giles Pott stood up to be counted. Discarding his Mr Blobby persona and taking up the rather more becoming mantle of the silver fox, Giles changed ends and produced a teasingly untwattable little spell with at least one nasty lifter to dispose of a handy looking N° 6. His tour redeemed, Giles looked on with quiet satisfaction as another member of the heavy brigade stepped out of the Red Bat chorus line and into the limelight. Once again, it was Big Dave Muir's line and length which finally closed the door as ten pairs of eager hands groped for a key to throw away and Knighton were all out for 180-odd.

Playing for Red Bat retains its top position amongst ways of spending a summer afternoon and when you get to do it in superb surroundings against a team of just the right strength and playing in exactly the right spirit, well you frankly don't care that all you did yourself was get out third ball for nowt and trickle round the field like a cripple.

Roll on Ledbury

Jon