Commonly used words in a sporting context, words like ‘breathtaking’ and ‘incredible’, always seem to fall short on days like these. Most words would. On 14 July 2019, two famous cricket teams packed with talent and determination tore into one another, on hallowed ground, for a whole day. And as the game built to a quite unprecedented climax, both refused to believe they were beaten, until one of them was, by a margin as thin as a cigarette paper. Then to cap it all, both teams crowded round a television in the pavilion to watch the comparatively straightforward dénoument of the Cricket World Cup Final.
In the beginning, winning the toss and opting to bat, the Earl’s top order (principally Paul McKechnie looking imperious with his driving and Shaks, looking like…well, Shaks) motored along without a care in the world to 50 for 1 (opener Richard ‘Creepy’ Crowley was back in the sheds, having – as BBC commentator Phil Tufnell might put it – ‘copped a good one early doors’). 120 for 1 by lunch looked more than likely. Then Shaks got on the wrong end of a grotesque Jason Roy-style decision (it was hard to tell if the time he took to depart once he’d been excused was as a result of his dissent, or whether it just represents the time Shaks usually takes to move anywhere) and if you’ll permit the split infinitive, things started to seriously unravel. Young upstart Carter (no relation to the archaeologist hired by the 4th Earl of Carnarvon to heist the contents of Tutenkamuhn’s mausoleum) missed a very slow one indeed which held its line and removed his off bail for 0; Harry Lucas drove elegantly until a pea-shooter knifed him down in his prime; Andrew Robbins steadied the ship by defending stoutly before lunch but he lost a disgusted Piers Lucas to a leading-edge caught & bowled and suddenly it was eighty for 5. Trouble.
After lunch all of Highclere knew our innings had to be rebuilt from the ground up and Robbins and Waterfall batted with supreme control to stem the bleeding and cauterise what had gone before. When Waterfall (who by now was literally sweating rosé) perished leg before, Marr and Robbins opened their shoulders (both hitting a clutch of devastating sixes) and with some help from the tail (Hope and Jameson) we ended at 219. At least forty runs below par on this pitch.
Allen (who did not bat as we had twelve and nobody wants to see that) was confident that Highclere had the bowling attack to give the Hunts (not rhyming slang) the hurry up. Leading the charge with raw pace (Carter and Robbins) the immediate outcome was not to anyone’s liking, as the Hunts had sent in a prototype league T20 type opener with his name on his back who teed off from ball one, showing little respect to our bowlers or to the occasion and maddeningly, managing to middle most of what was flung at him. The Hunts were eighty for nothing and some head-scratching ensued. Three quick wickets before tea gave us a chink of light, Archie Marr’s over of off-spin accounting for their other opener and Carter downing their danger man as he contemptuously walked across his stumps to attempt to swat a 70mph yorker to leg.
After tea, the Hunts skipper, Sanjay, fully aware that his team’s task was to bat sensibly and win easily with about an hour to spare, seemed to have closed the door on our efforts but this is cricket and there were plenty of demons lying in wait. Harry Lucas, who had forced a little on the Pimm’s at lunch, positioned himself at silly cover for no obvious reason and stayed there for the duration of the innings, spending the entire afternoon a) talking to players from both teams b) tweaking the field every ball and c) imploring bowlers and captain to put players where he wanted them put. The noise he generated seemed to have a peculiar galvanizing effect on Highclere’s team and the gentle words he had in their direction had a destructive effect on the Hunts, who started to make mistakes. Sanjay was bowled (leg stump) by a pearler from Jameson, the coyote-like McKechnie picked up a wicket and one dangerous Hunts batsman drilled a full toss out of the guts of his bat straight at Lucas, who pouched it with a look of absolute amazement on his face. Cue massive celebrations. Something was stirring.
However, with Hunts needing only 40 runs from 120 balls and with four wickets still intact, they were still smoking hot favourites. But the Hunts still couldn’t shake the feeling that things might not be going their way. Crowley was superb in the field, hustling for everything and piling on pressure. McKechnie twirled and tweaked from one end and the bundle of electrical energy that was Zed Jameson was turning them square from the other. In the end, William Morris came in at no. 11 and they needed two runs to win and fifteen overs in which to score them both. They got one of them, but not the second as Jameson closed the innings with a simple caught & bowled, setting off like Imran Tahir, wild with delight. The Earl’s XI had won by one run.
I have been playing cricket (badly) for forty years and I have never – ever – seen such scenes of celebration on a cricket field as were witnessed after this one. The generosity of our team spirit, underscored by Harry Lucas’s relentless encouragement (“well bowled, Buddy” will linger long in the memory) and – frankly – skill, got us over the most improbably of lines. As the shadows lengthened over the Highclere track, England were winning their own match and the Earl’s XI were only too happy to share the joy around.
JA
19.7.19
Arkadin Cricket Club 