If ever a day was made for cricket of the most farcical variety, it was Sunday: hot, humid and close — the sort of oppressive weather that makes even the sturdiest flannels cling in awkward places. Think more Tropics than Totnes. South Brent arrived to face a Modbury side buoyed by recent successes but soon to be undone by conditions that sent balls bouncing from palms as though greased by the air itself.
Batting first, South Brent posted 136 for 8 in 35 overs, a total built on the broad shoulders of Bullock, who calmly retired not out on 50 after clouting five boundaries and two handsome sixes. Havard lent muscle to the later stages with an unbeaten 29, including one enormous hit that soared deep into the adjacent forest and which even tracker dogs might have struggled to find again.
Modbury’s bowling unit deserved better for its efforts. Clayton was full of craft, claiming 2 for 24 from his six overs, while Compston’s 2 for 13 kept South Brent from running away entirely. Will Speed showed no little control with 1 for 16, while Mike Lemmings contributed a tidy 1 for 7 from three overs. Guy Speed bowled with commendable zest and no little cunning, and one could only assume the cricketing fates had gone out for tea just as his luck came round, so cruelly was he denied a deserved wicket. Yet all the good work with the ball was undone by Modbury’s butterfingered efforts in the field, with the ball slipping through hands as if anointed with olive oil. One inviting skier traced a slow arc against the brooding sky, but found no willing hands beneath it, falling to earth with all the tragedy of a hero left unrescued.
Perhaps the highlight of the afternoon arrived at the halfway mark: a tea of surpassing excellence. There were scones of heroic stature, sandwiches cut with military precision, and a sponge cake that might have made even the gods weep. Yet Sloman, usually a robust trencherman grateful for any sustenance that didn’t still twitch, took one disdainful glance at this generous spread and delivered a thunderbolt worthy of Zeus himself. “Bring me lobster, not this peasant fare!” he bellowed, with all the aplomb of a Roman emperor addressing trembling kitchen slaves. It was, all agreed, a breathtakingly reckless statement, not least given that Williams’ wife had baked the sponge herself. One wondered if he might survive to recount the tale — for mocking a Modbury tea can invite retribution swifter than a yorker to the toes.
In reply, Modbury managed 113 all out in 30.2 overs, their pursuit undone by South Brent’s steady bowling and a batting order more collapsible than a deckchair in a hurricane. Bell offered a spark of optimism with a crisp 27, peppering the ropes with four sweetly timed boundaries, while skipper Compston contributed a valiant 22, crowned by a majestic straight six that briefly caused hearts to flutter. Merchant stood firm like a butler at a country-house crisis, compiling a patient 17 to hold things together, but alas, wickets fell with such grim regularity that any true chase never quite found its legs.
Williams arrived at number eight with all the tragic grandeur of Sydney Carton on his way to the scaffold, wearing a look of noble resignation while murmuring, “It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done before.” One could almost hear a lone bugler striking up the Last Post as he trudged to the crease. Alas, this gallant self-sacrifice was mercifully brief, for Havard’s bowling displayed all the warmth of a tax inspector in January, and Williams was efficiently dispatched before the crowd had time to fish out their handkerchiefs.
South Brent’s bowling was admirably sharp in the muggy conditions. Havard returned remarkable figures of 3 for 3 in just 3.2 overs, while Friend produced a decisive 3 for 23. O’Hare’s 1 for 11 completed the squeeze.
In truth, Modbury’s downfall was equal parts self-sabotage and South Brent’s quiet competence. Catches came and went like trains through a rural halt, none staying long enough to be claimed, and by day’s end the chance of victory had evaporated, drifting over the boundary like the wistful scent of a half-finished cream tea.
And yet Modbury, as is their noble custom, refused to let a 23-run defeat dent their collective humour. Talk soon turned to dropped catches, heroic failures, and whether stickier palms might be ordered by post. As the sun dipped behind the hedgerows, they made their sacred pilgrimage to The Crooked Spire, where pints were raised and spirits thoroughly restored. For cricket, like life, offers chances anew, and Modbury will march on, ever ready to seize them — and, with luck, to hold on to them next time.
Leave a Reply