I remember absolutely nothing about the preamble to the Saturday game, but one way or another eleven of us were on the field of play at Parkers Piece only half an hour or so after the appointed time. I took the first over, and bowled a diminutive opener third or fourth ball with a long half volley. Jon Harry has since explained to me that a half volley bowled from a height of eight feet looks like a bouncer to a short-arsed batsman, so that he pushes his little legs back when they should be going forward. On this basis it was just as well for the test averages of Don Bradman, Sunil Gavaskar and the rest of the short-arse brigade that I wasn’t around to launch lumbering half volleys in their direction.

Two hours later I had three wickets and the oppo had 160 or so. But the pitch was flat, the outfield was lightening, and there were more transient spectators than Crystal Palace in our early years. Our batsmen addressed the target with responsible abandon, so that by the time I was shambling to the crease we were only 12 or 14 runs short with 3 wickets left. Five minutes later we were 12 or 14 runs short with 2 wickets left, and the Beard was wandering towards me in his Formula One cap. Barry Read was down at no 11, and I think it fair to say that even in our team this was Barry’s rightful position. Barry was temporarily famous for clean bowling someone in the last over to win an unexpected victory, but he was principally known for being the only man to stop attending our AGM’s on health grounds.

What I remember of my innings is resolute certainty, watchful defence, makers name, and murderous punishment of the loose ball. This contends with photographic evidence which shows me stuck on the crease, bat permanently turned to mid wicket as the ball thuds into my pads. There are however two shots I remember – a sliced back foot slash at catchable height through gully, and a pushed straight on-drive for four. John H told me later that the on-drive was the most difficult shot in the book, which explains why I have not successfully played the shot before or since. In reality it was probably a leading edge as I tried to twat it behind square.

With these two boundaries and a few finessed singles the scores were level. The only other time I’ve been in a similar position with Red Bat was a game against Ravensbourne Vags at Bel Air and I got Phil Sol run out by a comfortable margin, although arguably Phil’s stumpy legs played their part in that mishap. I played out an over or so hitting across the line as the Beard looked keenly for the winning single by remaining motionless in his crease. As the sun went down the Beard eventually carted a ball in the direction of mid-wicket. It made a very nice sound off the bat so I him called for the run. The Beard paused only to watch the ball arrive with the fielder before placing a steadying hand on his cap and setting off in hurry. If the midwicket had gathered cleanly and sent in a half way competent throw, one or other of us would have been run out by a street. Fortunately he’d spent some time watching us in the field, fumbled the ball like a novice and sent in a flabby, inept throw of imprecise direction. The Beard careered through triumphantly, and we returned to a heroes welcome from a gaggle of half-dressed ne’er-do-wells who happen to be the best team in the land to play cricket for.

Somehow in Beard’s mind this turned into a personal triumph of Herculean proportions.

He’d gone for plenty and arsed about for not many, but he’d hit the winning run and that was enough. It was his match - and it still is.

As another correspondent said, Red Bat on tour – unbeatable fun (apart from Nottingham).