There are days in village cricket when the gods smile upon the parish. The sun shines. A breeze drifts lazily across the ground. The outfield glows. The players arrive looking, if not athletic, then at least plausibly connected to sport by marriage.
Sunday at Ermington was one such day.
The weather was glorious. The sun shone down upon the ground with benign approval, a faint breeze wandered about the place like a retired colonel inspecting the borders, and all seemed set fair for an afternoon of civilised cricket against Cornwood 5th XI.
Then, naturally, village cricket happened.
Upon the author’s arrival, it was discovered that the cricket tea supplies had not, in fact, arrived with anyone else. This was greeted not with panic, but with the calm, hollow-eyed resignation of men who have seen this sort of thing before. Blame, after a short and entirely impartial inquiry, was laid squarely at the feet of the captain, who was understood to be suffering the after-effects of a night out of such Homeric proportions that even Bacchus would have advised an early night and a pint of water.
Ben Lane, who had apparently shared in these adventures, did not make it to the game at all. History does not record whether he was detained by fate, sleep, or the wine-dark sea.
Thus the author and Slaps were dispatched in haste to secure provisions, racing off like two heroes of antiquity in search not of the Golden Fleece, but of foil trays, paper plates, and whatever else prevents a cricket tea from becoming a constitutional crisis.
Modbury won the toss, chose to bat, and set about building an innings which could best be described as respectable, if occasionally interrupted by episodes of architectural collapse.
There were some solid contributions at the top, with a few batters applying themselves sensibly and giving the innings the sort of base from which better teams go on to post something commanding. Modbury, being Modbury, instead opted for the more theatrical approach. At one point the author departed for what polite society might call a nervous comfort break. By the time he returned, a sizeable portion of the middle order had vanished, like the Roman Republic after the Ides of March.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man returning from such an errand does not wish to find several wickets gone and people looking at him as though he might be required to bat.
There was, however, one glorious misunderstanding. As the author walked out towards the middle, Ben Stokes retired, prompting a ripple of activity and excitement around the ground. The author, naturally, assumed this must be connected to his own arrival. Few sights stir the blood, after all, like Howard “El Chappo” Williams walking to the crease with a bat in his hand and a thousand tactical possibilities in his head, most of them involving survival.
Slaps, meanwhile, contributed a magnificent 2 not out and celebrated it with the air of a man who had personally reclaimed the Ashes from the Australians at dusk on the final day. There were no open-top bus parades immediately available, but one sensed he would not have objected.
Modbury eventually closed on 119 all out. It was not the Matterhorn. It was not even, if one is being honest, a particularly ambitious mound. But it was a total. Something to defend. Something to gather round and nod at. Respectable enough to encourage hope; modest enough to keep everyone honest.
Before Cornwood could reply, there was tea.
And what a tea it was.
There were sandwiches in their hundreds. Cheese. Cheese and pickle. Cheese and cucumber. Cheese in combinations previously thought purely theoretical. The cucumber sandwiches, it must be said, bore the mark of great craftsmanship, Mark having apparently spent the morning removing crusts with the focus of a Renaissance sculptor releasing David from the marble.
There was also the odd ham sandwich, appearing here and there like a visiting dignitary at a cheese convention.
Sam, with one eye firmly fixed on Dish of the Day, had brought spare ribs in a pomegranate and chilli sauce. This was bold. This was ambitious. This was the sort of move which in ancient Rome would either have earned him a triumphal procession or exile, depending on the sauce.
Then came the cakes. Homemade scones. Victoria sponge. Cherry cake. Chocolate cake. A spread so generous that lesser clubs would have bowed the knee and offered tribute.
Slaps, who had settled in for what became less a meal and more a siege, was later found with cobwebs forming about his person. Whether he was resting, digesting, or entering a chrysalis stage remains unclear. Startled by this discovery, the author managed to drop the remains of his plate over him, thus adding a final decorative flourish to a man already halfway to becoming part of the furniture.
Replenished, overfed, and in some cases lightly garnished, Modbury took to the field.
Lee Merchant opened the bowling, and here the afternoon delivered its most shocking moment. With members of the ancient Merchant clan in attendance, Lee was seen doing something many witnesses described as unprecedented.
He warmed up.
Not only that, he stretched.
A number of Modbury players shook their heads in grave disapproval, though naturally from a safe distance and well beyond the eyeline of the clan. One does not openly question such a house. Julius Caesar ignored the warning signs too, and that ended with rather more daggers than anyone had budgeted for.
Lee bowled with control, setting the tone neatly, while the author was soon stationed in the slips, where he very nearly pulled off an early catch. A sharp chance flew left, the author launched himself with all the elegance of a falling wardrobe, and for one glorious second the impossible seemed on. Alas, the ball did not stick. But the effort was there. The commitment was there. The landing was there too, regrettably.
Sam, meanwhile, appeared to have decided that cricket was too narrow a discipline and that what the afternoon required was a fuller expression of the sporting soul. He therefore spent much of the innings fielding with his foot. Some men stop the ball with their hands. Sam, a visionary, chose the boot. It was less MCC coaching manual and more lower-league full-back, but it worked often enough to avoid immediate disciplinary action.
Slaps did nothing.
This is not meant harshly. It is simply a factual statement, like “the sun rose” or “Achilles sulked.” At one point he was again discovered with what appeared to be further cobweb development, suggesting either remarkable stillness or a long-term tenancy agreement with nearby spiders.
The captain, still perhaps feeling the distant echoes of the previous evening, took to moving fields around with unusual frequency, and usually against his bowlers’ wishes. Whether this was tactical genius or simply the result of still seeing two batters, two balls, and possibly two midwickets is not for the author to say. But the field shifted. And shifted again. And then, because Hannibal did not cross the Alps by standing still, shifted once more.
Then came Guy Speed.
Guy, who had clearly become angry about something, decided to channel that emotion in the healthiest possible way: by taking it out on the opposition batters. Specifically, the younger members of the opposition, against whom he bowled with the merciless focus of a man settling old accounts with the universe.
He took three wickets, including two wicket-maidens, and for a spell looked less like a village cricketer and more like Nemesis in whites. Cornwood found themselves pinned down, prodded, examined, and eventually removed.
The game began to turn Modbury’s way.
Wickets fell. Pressure built. The score, once merely hopeful from a Modbury perspective, began to look increasingly substantial. Cornwood fought, but the chase became heavier with every over. What had once looked like a target with a welcoming smile now stood at the top of a hill in full armour, quoting Latin.
Finally, Tom “10 Toes” Hatch was brought on to close proceedings. And close them he did. Calmly, neatly, and with the air of a man tidying away the last chair after a parish meeting, Tom finished the job.
Cornwood were all out for 80, giving Modbury victory by 39 runs.
It was, in the end, one of those deeply satisfying village cricket wins: sunny, faintly chaotic, tea-laden, occasionally unathletic, and all the better for it. The runs had been enough. The bowling had been sharp. The fielding had included one near-spectacular catch, several footballing interventions, and a period in which Slaps may or may not have become a listed monument.
Afterwards, with the sun beginning to set, the team repaired to the pub for a couple of well-earned beers. All, that is, except the captain, who looked upon the prospect of further alcohol as a condemned man might regard the scaffold, and wisely withdrew from the field.
The rest raised a glass to a fine win, a superb tea, and another Sunday in which Modbury CC once again proved that cricket is not merely a game.
It is a way of life.
A badly organised, sandwich-heavy, mildly hungover way of life.
But a way of life nonetheless.
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