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From our man in the shade trying to look healthier than Dave Muir
(and pulling it off pretty easily)
Redbat's second mini tour of the year was a rip-roaring success
(at least for those tourists who managed to dodge sunstroke and/or Worcester tummy) and
the collective came away with some significant pluses to set against the usual collection
of basic cricketing lessons to re-learn.
Won one, lost one just about sums up the weekend, which started only marginally late on
the immaculately kept Cinderella ground in the suburbs of Worcester. One of very few past
or present first class grounds on which the collective have appeared came complete with
some seriously distinguished ghosts of greats who had played there. Sadly, none of WG
Grace, Jack Hobbs or even the fastidiously thorough Don Bradman, had remembered to leave a
jock strap behind for Lloyd Peters to inherit. The lippy tyke once again took the field
with his team-mates secretly hoping that his trousers wouldn't split to reveal the kind of
secret which should always remain secret.
The vagaries of the toss gave the Fossils first use of quite the best strip your
correspondent can ever remember the collective playing on, Redbat getting the opportunity
to spend the hottest hours of a hot, hot day gliding elegantly over a correspondingly
smooth outfield and swwwwooping vulture-like on the speeding ball. The boys didn't exactly
latch onto that opportunity (or much else) with both hands, but they did at least hobble,
wobble and creak into positions between the ball and the boundary in support of some
generally tidy and persistent bowling. The spare frame of Rowdy Kennedy sent down 13
consecutive overs in prevailing temperatures somewhere in the 90's. Shame we'll never know
what he might have achieved with his first-choice frame. BA Lee came up with an awesomely
stingy spell on either side of tea and the Fossils eventually declared on 155 for not very
many and under two hours to get them.
Ever mindful of the collective's fitness levels, skipper Gummer looked around the
dressing room in search of the pair who most needed to lose weight and sent the largely
untried combination of Pott and Harry out for a short sharp sweat bath.
No-one can have been more surprised than Matt, but this time it worked and Red Bat sped
out of the traps like underfed greyhounds. No doubt flummoxed by the heat, Giles clean
forgot one half of his batting personality. Fortunately it was the half which consists of
spectacularly inappropriate shot selection, iffy footwork and monumental lapses of
concentration. As long-term Pott-watchers know, all that leaves is an upright body
position, a clean straight swing of the bat and sweet, sweet timing of anything in his
half. That was exactly what the bowling got as the record first wicket partnership tumbled
and the score rolled along to 91 before Giles got back to basics and played all round a
straight one for a verrreee relaxed looking 46. Mmm, that's nice Max, err Giles.
So who would take up the mantle and see the collective through an apparently
hurdle-free home straight? Not Matt Gummer, not Andy Lee, not in this heat, not on your
life mate, phworr, I'm off.
112 for 3 counts as high altitude for Redbat, but just as dizziness was taking hold,
Lloyd Peters twitched in like a man fresh from an oxygen tent. Well, something that had
been in an oxygen tent anyway. A firm straight drive and a crisp cut finally settled the
issue in the penultimate over and Red bat had won by 6 wickets in only just over 30 overs.
There may be someone who knows how many times RBCC has successfully chased more than
150, but it ain't me. On the other hand I did go on record as believing that we could
thump the Fossils with ten men and that's exactly what we did. They didn't hold it against
us though. Indeed our nemesis of last year, Gerald the 'tache, kindly volunteered to haul
his bulky frame even further out of retirement by pulling on a Redbat shirt for the
Barnard's Green clash the next day. No problems there, it was only going to be his fourth
game. Of the year? Nah, the week.
Ahh, Sunday at Barnard's Green.
So there we were, shattered but triumphant in the dressing room, basking in collective
glory and wondering how many tubby forty somethings could be fitted into a two head
shower.
Not for long. Looking increasingly like a red version of Steve Waugh, Matt the Cap
ordered the side into the bar of the Olde Talbot for a full-length post-mortem and a group
exploration of how we were going to win on Sunday. We might think we were good, but how
good were we? How badly did we want to find out? What strengths could we take confidence
from? What were the individual and collective chinks that a canny oppo might exploit? How
could we help each other more? How could each of us give that little bit extra that might
make the difference? Were we proud to be part of the Red Machine? Were we up for it? Were
we RED BAT? OR WHAT?????
Hmm, that bit of the agenda was despatched in ten seconds flat and the collective bent
its mind to the real issues:
Q: As a friend, if you put yourself in Phil Jones' shoes at this difficult time, how do
you feel he would prefer to learn that his much-cherished first wicket record had been
consigned to the dustbin of RBCC history: A sympathetic phone call on his home number?
Same, but on his mobile? Voicemail? text? email?
A: All five. Several times I think. Go easy on the sympathy.
Q: Is Lloyd Peters a better batter than he is a wickie?
A: to be better at one thing than another, you've got to be able to do at least one of
them.
Q: How many mixed grills can one man eat?
A: Dunno, but keep an eye on Dave Lloyd and you should find out within a few hours.
Q: What the fuck is "gland-packing" when its at home?
A: Its the gunk you put round a prop-shaft to stop the water getting in, you pillock.
Did I ever tell you....(© BA Lee)
Q: Didn't Jon play well today?
A: Where'sssh yerr jugg yerr bald bashtaddd?
Q: Paul, I thought you bowled really well today, no really I did. Do you happen to know
just how many wickets you've taken for the collective down the years?
A: (Inaudible to all but a couple of cronies standing next to him at the bar) 350
actually, would anyone like a drink to celebrate?
Q: Who here's never skippered Redbat?
A: ...................................Wiggie!
And so it fell to Christopher Justin Lewis, an unassuming lawyer from the quiet suburbs
of Surrey, to finally read out his first RedBat teamsheet. At a surprisingly uncrowded
breakfast press-conference the new skipper confirmed that Paul O'Connor and his 350 career
wickets could fuck off to whatever crap party they had on in London, 'cos we'd already got
one ringer confirmed. Besides G Fossil was a much better bowler than him and what's more
yer too tall etc. etc.
As the sun cranked up to maximum altitude, the red cavalcade straggled onto another
fitting stage secured by the peerless skills of the tour organiser (Mrs P Fouassier,
personal assistant, C/O Lovells Paris, please book early if you want a single room...).
Just in the lee of the blue Malvern hills, the field of dreams was surrounded by tall
thorn hedges and towering oaks. It boasted short straight boundaries and frankly massive
sideways ones, separated by a serious slope of short cropped grass, just browning slightly
in the heat. Barnard's Green had built it and the collective had indeed come. But what
would they do now they were here? The toss won, Skipper Lewis collected his thoughts and
announced his decision in a brief ten minute address to the court.
Redbat would field. They would of course bat. There would also be some bowling. In
today's conditions, Chris ventured to suggest that we would probably be doing the fielding
at the same time as we were bowling. Though of course members would readily agree that
only some of us would be bowling. Members should also be aware that everyone would be
fielding, even when they were bowling. In conclusion, it was clearly important to
recognise the need to decide whether we should bat before we fielded, or maybe the other
way round, and Chris advised that he was certainly thinking hard about that.
The issue was eventually resolved by Ringer one (G Fossil) picking up the scorebook and
writing some Redbat names in the "Batsman" column. The in-form combo of Pott and
Gummer padded up and strode to the wicket while Ringer two (S Le Mare) emerged as a truly
unusual person by readily admitting to being a friend of Dave Lloyd's. A slumped bulk in
the corner of the dressing room was identified as Dave Muir, turning the first of many
funny colours and some sweetly timed driving into the V got the Collective up and running.
That was more than Matt was when called for a suicidal single and, not for the first time
in the 40 overs, Redbat stumbled just as they seemed to be taking control.
Giles and Jon looked comfortable for a while until Giles self destructed for a
so-near-and-yet-so-far sort of 29. With the change bowlers proving tougher to get away
than the new ball attack, Redbat were chaffing at the bit but not scoring fast enough on a
fast-scoring ground. At 80 for 2 off twenty their big chance seemed to have arrived. The
opposing Skipper tossed the ball to his youngest child with the giveaway words "keep
it up, Emily". Jon smirked into his spare chins as the tubby teenager measured out
her run. Seconds later the collective's own flat-track bully scooped a daisy cutter into
square legs hands and entered history as the first man to be dismissed twice by girlies in
a Redbat career.
An oddly out of sorts Andy Lee still managed to put together 40 odd, Steve ringer was
pick of the batsman with an unbeaten 42, but it was a pig-headed 'keeper who contributed
most to Redbat's eventual 176 for 5. He just kept on standing up, the ball just kept on
going straight past him and extras was just top-scorer.
Tea was served. Phil Jones absence became glaringly obvious from the ready availability
of egg mayonnaise sarnies and big Dave Muir, pausing only to turn from red to green and
back again, confirmed that, dodgy guts or no dodgy guts, there was no way he would let the
skipper down by sitting on his arse in the pavilion whilst the lads sweated it out in
field. No way, not when there was a perfectly good patch of grass in the covers for him to
sit down on.
Battle recommenced with Andy Lee in the same stingy mood as the day before and Bruce
picking up an early wicket only to run into a storm of hitting from the best batsman of
the match. The Skipper mused deeply and threw the ball to Giles, but things were
undeniably not going Redbat's way. All the combined cunning of the collective's top
scientist and the sometime silver fox was unavailing. The more they dobbed and wobbled it
down, the quicker it went to some far distant corner of the ground and the always
inadequate target was looming closer like a runaway looming thing.
What happened next will surprise many readers. The collective did not droop, it did not
whither, it did not surrender. Was it Foghorn Lee's regular reminders that we should
remember WE ARE RED BAT? was it Dave Muir's face turning a strangely cheerful shade of
blue? Or was it the skipper's canny rotation of his bowlers? Whatever, we did what we are
usually incapable of by somehow clawing our way back into a game we were obviously losing.
Most of the clawing was done by Gerald the Fossil and the awesome bulk of Dave Lloyd.
Their 16 overs went for 50 max and they both picked up wickets, including the vital No 3,
snaffled behind by a gleeful Lloyd Peters off Dave's killer long-hop ("I do tend to
get wickets like that you know, that's why I usually bowl with two out on the leg side and
one in close at point and I'm just trying to...." (full explanation available on
request)). There was even, sto-one me, one of those run out things that are about as
common as hit ball twice for Red Bat and the day seemed destined for a perfect close with
a refreshed Andy Lee ready to rumble again and Barnard's Green looking beat as they
creaked into the last 4 still needing 40.
Sadly the roulette wheel of the collective's boom-bust cycle had one more spin up its
sleeve and the lads signally failed to deal with the final enemy of the day. Alright
complacency's not a demon we have to wrestle with every game, but eight people who really
should know better by now (plus two ringers and a sort of vermillion coloured Dave Muir)
all forget how hard it is to get 10 an over with nine men round the fence. In a few short
minutes a hefty no 9 had clattered Barnard's Green through and over a milling collection
of one-savers and into the last over with only seven needed.
Two boundaries off three balls and the tiring tourists were left to rue what might have
been as stumps were pulled on another fine weekend and Dave Muir completed his tour of the
spectrum with a whiter shade of pale.
God I love this game.
Jon
PS Here for comparison
purposes is the oppo's match report ("old school friends"??? do you mind).
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