With no opposition willing to face the wrath and erratic seamers of Modbury CC this weekend – the Committee (after a short but meaningful debate over who’d forgotten to arrange the fixture) declared a ‘pairs’ match instead. There was no tea, barely any sun, and several confused bystanders —but, by Jove, was there fun.
Opening the batting: Bell and Williams, two men who strolled to the crease with the solemn air of explorers about to discover a disappointing archipelago. They made a brisk start, helped in no small part by Bells ability to heave anything roundish towards the horizon. Unfortunately, Williams then began surrendering wickets with the frequency of a minor aristocrat auctioning off heirlooms, prompting Bell to emit a noise not dissimilar to a wolf stepping barefoot on a lego. Bell, however, rallied ending with a flurry of stylish strokes and a final score of 4, which he contemplated like Marius among the ruins—handsome but tragic.
Next came Capt. Compston and newcomer Roberts, the latter under the cheerful delusion that he’d been paired with the skipper for reasons of security and stability—rather like being handed a live ferret and assured it was a woolly scarf.
Alas, Capt. Compston like Macbeth believed “if it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly.” This philosophy, while admirable in tragic kings and homicidal plots, proved less effective in running between the wickets. Somewhere between a “yes,” a “no,” and an “oh dear,” Roberts found himself marooned mid-pitch while Compston steamed through like a man catching a train he hadn’t paid for. The pair pressed on with grim resolve, like two men bailing out a sinking dinghy with a teacup in a stormy sea.
Coates and Clayton followed, eyes gleaming like Visigoths spotting an unattended villa. They descended on the bowling with all the restraint of Augustus Gloop in a fudge shop. The runs mounted; the bowlers despaired. “Sisyphus had it easy” murmured one bowler. Clayton dispatched deliveries with the studied grace of a man swatting wasps, and Coates struck with the precision of a German railway timetable. The scoreboard, usually reserved for sighs and apologies, positively sparkled. They finished with a princely 58.
Bringing up the rear: Field and Sloman. The bowlers, now muttering eldritch oaths and staring into the middle distance like men remembering overdue tax bills, fixed the batsmen with the baleful gaze of The Ancient Mariner. Field launched into his innings like young Lochinvar come out of the West—bold, fearless, and entirely uninterested in playing defensively. Sloman, not to be outdone, prowled the crease with the restless energy of the hosts of Midian, or at the very least a man who suspects that the bowler took the last cucumber sandwich. Together, they batted through all eight overs without surrendering a wicket—a feat of gallantry and grit—but alas, their valiant tally fell just short of the Coates-Clayton colossus.
All in all, it was an afternoon of gallant efforts, minor heartbreaks, and hamstrings stretched to the limits of medical science. No medals were handed out—this was cricket, not Rorke’s Drift —but the true prize, as ever, was the tale to be told later, ideally over a well-earned pint or two at the White Hart.
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