It was one of those perfect Devon afternoons — not quite blazing, not quite brooding — where a gentleman might safely trust the heavens not to dampen his spirits or his scone. Wembury won the toss and opted to field first leaving Modbury to bat. And bat they did, with the gallant assurance of a regiment charging uphill into light cannon fire.
First Innings: Modbury CC – 158 for 6 (30 overs)
The top order led by Bell (28) and Capt Compston (27) nudged and nurdled like seasoned diplomats in cricket flannels. They didn’t quite light up the scoreboard with fireworks but rather tended it like a good stove: slow, warm, reliable.
Then came the flourishing middle: Elias (33), who batted like a man late for lunch but unwilling to scuff his shoes — elegant, efficient, and with just enough menace to make the fielders twitch. But it was Merchant — serene, unbeaten on 33, who doth bestride the narrow wicket like a colossus (or at least as far apart as a rebellious hip would permit) — who proved the lynchpin.
A supporting cast of earnest tryers came and went, but the real drama was delivered in wides and byes — the Wembury bowling unit generously gifting 22 extras, as if trying to keep the fixture friendly by diplomatic means.
Modbury finished on a handsome 158 for 6. The pavilion purred.
Wembury Grasshoppers – 104 for 8 (30 overs)
The Grasshoppers marched out like chaps off to a garden party, collars stiff and hopes high, only to be promptly tripped up by Modbury’s devilish fielding and bowling which had the bite of a schoolmistress denied her gin.
Wilkinson (34) offered the strongest resistance, looking for a time like he might turn the tide. But then Hatch, Modbury’s very own deliverer of justice, sent him packing with a ball so well delivered it could’ve been sent by first-class post.
Thereafter it was wickets, glorious wickets: Collidge (2–13) bowled like a man late for supper, and Hatch (2–12) mopped up with the casual cruelty of a prefect confiscating sweets.
Clayton, not wishing to be left out of the wicket-taking festivities, should have had one early. Alas, with Williams stationed beneath the catch, a sense of impending doom – the sort that usually precedes Greek tragedies – drifted in the air, much like the ball itself. And, true to form, it was fumbled. Clayton, now wearing the expression of a bulldog refused the last piece of cake, returned to his mark with a snort and a new sense of purpose. Justice, thankfully, was swift: a few deliveries later, he claimed the wicket his bowling had long since deserved.
Though Wembury gave a few flickers — notably Kings (22) — they never once looked like matching Modbury’s mastery. Extras dried up. Spirits waned. Fielders chirped. A plucky 104 for 8 was all they could muster.
Modbury in Majestic Form
Victory by 54 runs! A performance so polished it practically winked in the sunlight. The Modbury men went about their business with the calm assurance of a butler uncorking a vintage claret — precise, unfussed, and quietly devastating.
Leave a Reply