By John ‘Capt’ Compston, Captain, Modbury Cricket Club
There are days in cricket when a captain arrives at the ground with a clear mind, a steady hand, and an outlook unclouded by the after-effects of the previous evening’s refreshments.
Sunday was, unusually, one of those days.
I mention this not to boast, but merely to record a fact so rare that future historians may wish to mark it down. I was not hungover. Not even slightly. I had slept. I had hydrated. I could see out of both eyes. And, in a development that shocked several team-mates and possibly myself most of all, I played rather better as a result.
It was a very hot day at Fawns Close as we welcomed Ugborough, the sort of day on which sensible people sit in the shade with a cold drink and only fools put on pads. Naturally, we chose to play cricket.
Having won the toss, I elected to bat first. This was met with the usual level of enthusiasm from the team: a mixture of nodding, muttering, and men suddenly remembering how warm it was. Still, out we went.
The innings lost an early pillar when Ethan, so often reliable at the top of the order, fell early. It was a rare failure with the bat, which is only worth mentioning because it happens so infrequently that it should probably be logged with the parish council.
From there, Tom Coates and I set about rebuilding things. I had gone in determined not to get a third duck in a row. There are many things a captain can survive: tactical errors, poor bowling changes, even chirping from slip that ruins a perfectly good over. But three ducks in a row begins to attract the wrong sort of attention.
Thankfully, I managed 35, which felt less like an innings and more like a personal rescue mission. It was not always elegant, but it was determined, and I shall take that every day of the week.
At the other end, Tom Coates batted with unexpected sense. I do not write these words lightly. Tom produced a mature and steady innings, helping put on a partnership of around fifty with me, and for a while the two of us dragged Modbury towards respectability. It was sensible cricket from Tom, which was both welcome and, frankly, totally out of place in Modbury.
By drinks we were 75 for 3, which felt a reasonable platform. Not quite a launchpad, perhaps, but certainly a decent patch of flat ground from which one might assemble something useful if nobody panicked, tripped, or attempted anything too extravagant.
The next passage of play was less fireworks and more careful construction. Runs were not hurled about like confetti, but nor were they entirely absent. The innings was being built, brick by brick, in the sort of steady, methodical fashion that would have pleased a clerk, a surveyor, or anyone who has ever owned a clipboard.
We knew that a little more urgency would be required later on, and eventually we found enough of it to scramble our way to 119 all out — not a mighty total, not one to carve into marble, but on that pitch and in that heat, one that felt somewhere around par.
As the innings moved towards its final act, things took on a rather more village-cricket hue. Tom Hatch, faced with one of Ugborough’s younger bowlers, decided that sentiment had no place in the modern game and launched him for six with the cold efficiency of a man removing a wasp from a picnic.
This would have been comic enough on its own, but cricket, being cricket, had further material prepared. The same young bowler later returned to bowl Mark Trevethan, an event which pleased the umpire to a degree that seemed frankly indecent. Mark accepted his fate with dignity, or at least something adjacent to it, while the rest of us quietly stored the incident away for future use.
Dan Clayton had been demoted to number eight and given clear instructions: get on with it. Dan, taking this advice in his own unique way, produced a first-ball prod that was neither attacking nor defensive, but some mysterious third thing known only to batsmen who have already decided the captain is at fault. He was bowled immediately and blamed me at once, which I respect. Good players always know where to direct responsibility.
Jim added a few handy runs at the end, and it must also be recorded with great relief that the moustache has gone. Whether this improved his batting, his running, or simply morale among the rest of us, I cannot say. But the overall effect was positive.
We finished on 119 all out. Defendable, perhaps. Comfortable, certainly not.
At tea, we reflected that wickets would be key. This is the sort of thing captains say when they have not scored enough runs. Still, in this case it was true. If Ugborough were allowed to settle, the game would go quickly. We needed early pressure, sharp spells, and ideally no prolonged conversations with the laws of physics.
Before we get to the bowling, though, tea must be addressed.
The sausage rolls were class. Absolute class. There is no need to dress this up in fancy language. They were exactly what cricket teas should be: warm, generous, and capable of briefly making grown men forget their batting averages.
Lee’s wife’s cookies were also very good, which was fortunate, because Lee himself was not in the mood to provide much sweetness. More on that shortly.
Then came Ben Lane’s blueberry muffins.
Now, on first inspection, they looked the part. Blueberry muffins are, generally speaking, a welcome sight at any cricket tea. But after the first bite, it became clear that something was missing. That something was sugar. All of it. Every grain. Ben had somehow produced a cake entirely untouched by sweetness.
They were, in fairness, tasty in their own austere way, though one had the sense of eating something designed by a Victorian schoolmaster to build character. They were also rock hard. So what we had, essentially, was a sugarless blueberry cricket ball. Nutritious, perhaps. Dental work, almost certainly.
Still, spirits were high. We had eaten, hydrated, and attempted to recover from Ben’s experiment in baked punishment. Now we had to defend 119.
Tom Hatch and Lee Merchant opened the bowling and set about Ugborough with fierce, short spells. In that heat, nobody was going to be asked to bowl forever. The plan was short bursts, full effort, no prisoners.
Lee, in particular, had fire in the belly. Earlier in the day he had been dismissed to a delivery he believed should have been called a no-ball for height. The call did not come. Lee did not forget. Lee rarely forgets. By the time he had the ball in hand, the matter had clearly become personal.
The result was a spell of bowling that took no prisoners, including, at one point, a younger batter who wore one in the ribs. It was less a delivery than a formal complaint, sent by seam.
At the other end, Tom Hatch bowled with good pace and control, asking questions throughout. Between the two of them, they gave us exactly the start we needed: pressure, intent, and the sense that Ugborough were not going to stroll to the target.
The tone in the field was set almost immediately by Tom Coates at point. In the first over, with the ball flying over him and most mortals already beginning the slow turn of resignation, Tom went backwards, leapt, and took a quite ridiculous catch.
It was a stunner. There was hang time. There was elevation. There was a brief moment where I wondered whether he was coming back down at all. Had he stayed up there any longer, air traffic control might have become involved.
It was the sort of catch that changes a fielding side. Suddenly 119 looked less like a modest total and more like a puzzle Ugborough might not enjoy solving.
Ethan kept very tidily on a difficult pitch, which should not be overlooked. Keeping on that surface was not straightforward. The ball did enough to keep him interested, and he dealt with it calmly throughout. A rare failure with the bat, yes, but an excellent day with the gloves.
I also had a few moments in the field and with the ball. I dropped a tough chance at first slip second ball, which was not ideal, though I maintain it had “difficult” written all over it. I also managed to hit myself on the shin off my own bowling, which is the sort of thing that keeps a man humble just when he is starting to enjoy being sober and competent.
First change brought on Sam Collidge and Callum Lee-Oldfield. Callum bowled with good control and kept things tight, but Sam’s spell deserves particular mention because it involved a delicate social complication: he was bowling at his neighbour.
Now, nobody wants neighbourly relations damaged on a Sunday afternoon. Bins have to be put out. Hedges must be discussed. Parcels occasionally need taking in. So when Sam began making his neighbour hop about, there was a moment when I considered removing him from the attack in the interests of community harmony.
Fortunately, before I could act on this rare burst of diplomacy, Sam took a wicket with the final ball of the over. He then took another in his next over, proving that sometimes the correct captaincy decision is to almost do something and then not do it.
There were, naturally, a few Modbury moments. Lee was bowling well until I began chirping at a fifteen-year-old batter from slip, at which point the over briefly unravelled and the last ball went for four. Lee may say I put him off. I prefer to think I was creating theatre. Either way, I have filed it under “captaincy presence” and moved on.
The fielding, overall, was strong. The bowling stayed disciplined. The heat was fierce, but the energy stayed up. We knew the target was not large, so every dot ball mattered and every wicket changed the shape of the game.
Slowly, the pressure told.
Ugborough were made to work for everything. Nobody was allowed to settle properly. The scoreboard never got completely away from us, and the longer the chase went on, the more that 119 began to look like it had hidden depths.
It was enough.
In the end, Modbury defended it with spirit, discipline, and just the right amount of village cricket madness. Tom Coates produced the catch of the day and batted with unexpected maturity. Tom Hatch bowled fiercely and hit a child for six. Lee bowled with righteous fury. Sam risked neighbourly peace and was rewarded with wickets. Ethan kept tidily. Jim contributed usefully and without a moustache. Dan blamed me, as is tradition.
And I, for once, was not hungover.
A fine win, a fine tea, and a fine reminder that cricket does not always require huge totals. Sometimes it requires nerve, short spells in the heat, a flying point fielder, and a captain whose liver has been given the weekend off.
Modbury 119 all out.
Ugborough beaten.
Ben Lane still under investigation by the Baking Standards Authority.
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