Dear reader,
One does not feel oneself to be an especially thin-skinned chap. Indeed, when at her leisure, there is nothing the good Mrs Williams enjoys more than finding fault with her lesser half. One builds character and resilience from this sort of thing, much as oak is strengthened by the prevailing wind.
However, if you have read the opus produced after Sunday’s fixture by Elias Brutus, standing in from the usual author, you will naturally understand my chagrin. Usually, this author sleeps like a babe — a circumstance he attributes to sound digestion and a clear conscience. Yet these last few nights have been restless ones, a burning sense of injustice nestled to my bosom like some infernal hot-water bottle of grievance.
At two in the morning, staring meaningfully at the ceiling, one murmured darkly into the night: “Et tu, Elias?” This, I concluded, could not go unanswered.
For beyond the grievances contained within the article itself, one has suffered egregiously from pre- and post-match badinage of the most savage variety. There are men, dear reader, who can endure ridicule with a lofty smile. I am not one of them.
I shall begin, then, by first putting right the matter of my own contribution before moving on to the shortcomings of others — a task, happily, of no great difficulty.
Cruel words were written regarding my attempt at stopping a ball. Howard “El Chappo” Williams, according to this piece, “fell from grace” in a manner usually reserved for disgraced ministers and minor dictators.
Pah!
To understand how the author missed the ball, one must first appreciate that a cricket ball moves in mysterious ways, its wonders to perform — especially when one is fielding on what can only be described as a Devon cliff face during a gale-force hurricane. A miss it was, certainly, but circumstances must allow a degree of leeway. Indeed, the same sort of leeway Guy Speed notably declined to offer the children he was bowling at.
Then there is the monstrous suggestion — put forth most gleefully by Jim, to whom I shall come shortly — that I had not touched the ball all game.
My umbrage, dear reader, was immense.
One was reminded forcibly of those great silent professionals of history whose contributions go unnoticed by the masses. The sentry at Thermopylae. The fourth chap rowing in the galley. The fellow who tuned the violins on the Titanic. Greatness often passes unseen.
I take you next to our villainous author, Elias, and his bowling efforts at Cornwood.
Now, dear reader, I am a fair-minded man. You will observe no serious attack upon my fellow player. Yet such an assault upon my noble name forces me, reluctantly and with great sorrow, to revisit his own contribution in detail.
One knew matters might prove difficult when his first delivery — missing the wicket by some distance — ended somewhere in the vicinity of square leg. Still, encouragement from the team would no doubt settle the nerves.
Alas, no.
His second ball was rather like Icarus. It rose magnificently towards the heavens before falling disastrously short of its intended destination. The thing had less line and discipline than Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. It remains one of the few recorded instances of James “Slappaccino” Sloman being rendered temporarily speechless — praise be — as he collapsed to the turf in hysterics like a man who had just seen a bishop slip on a banana skin.
The author stops here, feeling enough has been said on a painful subject.
But one must also mention Sloman himself who, in between bouts of coarse badinage, spent a remarkable amount of time horizontal while fielding in both matches. The period required for him to regain an upright position was extraordinary. Odysseus, dear reader, returned from Troy in less time than it took Sloman to rise after a diving stop somewhere near cow corner.
Sloman, however, was not the only chap seemingly engaged in prolonged negotiations with the ground.
Price, on debut — and who has also antagonised the author with depictions of him as some tyrannical despot lurking within the quiet hamlet he inhabits — could at times have been mistaken for participating in an entirely different sport altogether. A one-man wrestling contest against earth and ball alike.
Then we have Jim Esquire, seemingly only content when savagely assaulting opposing wicketkeepers with bat in hand and all the diplomacy of Wellington entering Badajoz. One half expected the poor fellow to require diplomatic intervention from the United Nations.
Monsieur Clayton, meanwhile, spent more time giving vent to observations regarding the author’s sartorial shortcomings than he did actually playing cricket. Rarely has a man in mirrored sunglasses and questionable batting attire spoken with such confidence on matters of fashion. One felt Bond Street would have lowered the blinds had he walked through it.
The author must also speak of the Merchant clan, whose WhatsApp group took such delight in the villainous article’s attack upon my noble name. One, with a sensible nod towards self-preservation, shall not name names within this ancient and warlike dynasty. To do so would be to invite reprisals of a sort not seen since the Borgias began taking a lively interest in dinner parties. It is enough to say that the clan gathered upon WhatsApp like nobles in a candlelit chamber, whispering darkly of succession, betrayal, and whether the author had indeed touched the ball during the entire match. I shall say no more, save that the matter has been entered into the ledger of grievances under the heading: Merchant, Clan of — Treachery, Miscellaneous.
And so there we have it, dear readers.
What once appeared to be village cricket conducted in the spirit of utmost cordiality has revealed itself to possess a darker underbelly entirely. Like the weather over Dartmoor, these things change with alarming speed.
Thus does pleasant village cricket descend, Macbeth-like, into suspicion, faction, and poorly executed fielding.
Still, one shall endeavour to forgive.
Though not, of course, forget.
Leave a Reply