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REDBAT FINALLY CREAK TO THREE FIGURES IN BC CLIFFHANGER/THE DAY I NEARLY TOOK MY FIRST FIFER

From our man on the 13:15 from Birmingham International trying desperately to keep his adolescent son out of mischief

It had to happen sometime, it had to happen somewhere. The time was 6:12pm on Monday 28 August 2006. The place was a windswept hill in Shropshire.

On a day of paradox, conundrum, rejuvenation, bad language and a tea boasting several hundredweight of pre-cooked chicken, Redbat lined up under the imaginative yet disciplined leadership of Big Paul O'Connor.

Paul descended from cloud nine (about nine pints of cloud nine actually) and applied his razor-like mind to the immediate issues: how was he going to conjure Redbat's 100th victory from the ashes of yesterday's abject surrender at Clun? After 5 straight defeats, did anyone remember what it takes to win a cricket match? who would open in the absence of Matt who was still cooking the chicken? Who was going to eat the chicken in the mystery-shrouded absence of Dave Lloyd?

The man with all the answers played for time. He sent out Phil and Jon to open.

He needed to time to think, a quiet spell with not much happening.

He certainly got that. Perhaps it was the knowledge that N°3 was still in his pinny in the Porch House kitchen that led his openers to keep the ball firmly on the square for 6 long overs as extras rocketed ahead of them and swept the score on to, err 6. Perhaps it was the nagging accuracy of the Casualties' attack. Perhaps it was the track. Probably it was none of the above and they were just batting like a pair of ageing tossers.

And there was the first of several paradoxes. A mere 16 overs later exactly the same pair of myopic has-beens were gazing in bewilderment at a scoreboard which told them that the collective's record first wicket partnership was firmly in their sights.

It didn't stay there long. Jon looped a sitter to mid-off and trudged off to try and adjust reality with some undignified nagging at the scorer.

A now-dominant Phil scorched on for a while to reach 60 before Jon transformed himself into the finger of fate and gave him leg before. Jon did the same thing to Matt. That left BA Lee and Redbat's most improved batsman of 2006, BD Muir, to nudge the total up to an eminently defendable 166 for 3 off the allotted 35.

Thanks, said the Skipper.

What a nice man.

The teatable groaned under the weight of chicken. Matt groaned in despair. His last real hope flickered and died as rumour and conjecture were confirmed by a chilling voicemail on Dave Muir's phone. Big Dave Lloyd was not going to be getting any bigger just yet. He was unavailable for selection, or, more importantly, for tea. He was in casualty with a (suspected) broken thumb.

Visibly shaken by the news, but resolutely determined to "Do it for Dave", Redbat strode out onto the field.

Danny and Bruce opened for the defence with a miserly display of seam-up stinge. With the fielding rejuvenated by the immaculately-coached technique of Arthur Muir and the utterly uncut hair of Arthur Harry, a wicket had to come from somewhere. Sadly it didn't fall to Danny, whose artfully induced top-edge clanged out of Wiggy's gloves provoking a rare outbreak of bad language.

There are several meanings of the word "rare".

The Redbat pressure cooker did its work soon enough though. A suicidal run-out got the collective back on track before Arthur H darted in from mid on and kept his hair out of his eyes just long enough to latch onto a spoony drive off Bruce.

As you would have expected, and with the Skipper resolved to hold himself in reserve for a crisis, it fell to Big Andy Lee to rip the heart out of the batting by foxing both Jim Gaffney and his powerful brother in law with his legendary ever-decreasing pace trick.

The scientifically minded may care to consider the following conundrum: if a bowler (let's call him Andrew, for the sake of argument) bowls each ball half as slowly as the preceding ball, how many balls does he have to bowl before one of them fails to complete the 22 yards?

Oddly for a man of broad interests, it proved difficult to interest Paul in conundra. He seemed obsessed with tweaking and fiddling at the controls of his bright Red machine.

He got tidy spells of almost-medium pace out of Keith, Matt and Dave. Wickets fell steadily. Jon dropped the Casualties' stubborn opener at cover. Then he caught him off a skied pull.

The Casualties were well adrift at 70 odd for 6 but still Cap'n O'Connor kept tinkering.

Spin. That was what he wanted now. He glanced instinctively around for the comforting bulk of the collective's premier tweaker. He saw plenty of bulky silhouettes, but not the one he wanted. It was blocking out the light in Bristol Royal Infirmary.

Paul had no choice. He whipped out the final card from a neatly played hand by introducing an unexpected secret weapon from the boiler room of his big red ship. Up stepped the Welsh spin twins of John A from one end and Jon H from the other.

As a controlled experiment with a view to broadening the bowling options for next year it was, at best, inconclusive. As a way of reviving public interest in the contest it was a rip-roaring success. The home crowd came back to life and positively bellowed approval and encouragement. The ball started to explore distant areas of the ground it hadn't been expecting to see again. It also visited the adjacent strips several times an over. In between, it dodged the bat once for JA, giving Wiggy his third stumping of the tour, and (fair's fair) once for JH, clipping the top of leg to deny Wiggy his fourth stumping of the tour.

A stern-faced Paul recognised the crisis had come and stuffed most parts of the genie back into its bottle of Weston's extra-dry with 6 venomous deliveries which had dot written all over them.

But still the Casualties needed only 36 off the final over.

"Only" 36?

Have you ever seen me bowl?

With the help of some kindly umpiring Jon managed only 2 wides and the clash of the capital C's ended with the Collective beating the Casualties by 22.

Nearly took a fifer? Well I got Phil and Matt with my right index finger, that's two. I took a catch, call it three. I bowled a bloke who probably had to to put down a white stick to pick up his bat, that's definitely four.

Let's face it, I'm never going to get any closer.

So there it finally was. Redbat's all time 100th win of all time on a sunlit hillside ground with children of all ages capering happily round the outfield as the team posed for photos and Matt desperately gave away chicken pieces to anyone, everyone and their dogs.

Cricket was the winner and playing it with Redbat on tour remains what it has always been; the best fun you can have with your trousers on.

Love and Peace

Jon