2nd xi vs Southbank CC - Rain and vitriol affected report

HWRCC 2xi vs Southbank cc

Jackson, Goldenshower, Mackie, Fudge, Lofting, Clark, Soppitt, Crane, Greenwood, Donnelly, Lown

HWRCC 267-3 (44 overs)

Southbank 62-8 (22.something)

HWRCC "FLIPPIN MURDERED 'EM"

In this modern age of electronic communication it’s a brave soul that publishes and requests damnation. Any fule with typing fingers and a knowledge of Google can track down opprobrium. Some clubs might even use it as a motivational tool, pin a critical match report the wall and vow to do better the next time out. Who knows, if we play them again, at home, they might get a team out which would be a start. David Lloyd's famous cry of anguish neatly sums up how Wickman feels full three days after this soggy abomination drained away into a winning draw for our plucky boys.

Wickman is afraid that despite a life spent realising that Nemesis follows Hubris almost as certainly as night follows day (at his fourth birthday party he won the balloon race and proudly marched back to the starting line with the balloon tucked under his arm. It burst, of course, causing him to levitate hurriedly and it was a thin margin that prevented an embarrassing soiling of the Wickman undergarments) Wickman can’t resist a sideways swipe at Saturday’s opposition. And the sideways swipe is not a reference to the way that 50 per cent of the opposition wickets fell.

No. We’ve all got lost on the way to an opposition ground. We’ve all scrambled onto the sward breathless and tucking our shirts into our jockeys. But – and this is a big but – Wickman has never played in a side where the latest of the late arrivals has taken to the field in a natty, pointy-toed pair of slip on office shoes having ostentatiously sampled a tobacco product for five minutes before he crossed the line.

This in itself was remarkable enough to draw people to the front of the clubhouse for a quick look. But later, as the rain came down at the end of our innings, as the poor fella (who did not look like he had played much cricket) was tortured by his skipper as a boundary sweeper and could neither take off quickly in pursuit of the ball without traction or fail to overrun it when he coincided with its trajectory, it was difficult to resist a rueful smile or outright guffaw. On one particular occasion he even managed a sort of Rene Higuita fishtale kick which ensured the ball crossed the line for four. Wickman cannot describe it in any greater detail for fear his sides will split and necessitate a trip to Kingston A&E.

These guys were a shower in the dry, never mind when the heavens opened quietly before an eventual unplayable downpour dragged us from the field two wickets short of a table-dominating 20 points. Once again a thoroughly professional approach from The Wick was good enough to reduce the game to a farce which, had the opposition not bowled four extra overs in wides and no balls, would have been over before proceedings were washed away.

Wickman is sorry if this sounds harsh, but turning up with eight and condemning the make up numbers man in office shoes to SWEEP? In the WET? At least stand the guy at 1st slip so he can avoid aquaplaning. It’s not as if when conditions were at their best (dry ball, dry strip, low cloud) anyone came close to edging one to slip so you could have hidden him there, kept him more involved in the game and given him some sense of what the game is about.

Enough. Fudgey was unfortunate to lose the toss. Frankly given what we were to see later Wickman can’t imagine that 100 would have been assembled. In attempting to base our decision of what was a decent total on numbers of overs used first up, we may, in hindsight have batted too long. The 45 minutes it took to go from 160 to 260 off 44 cost us the points and the 100 runs were a luxury akin to having a 4 bedroom flat in Monaco with hot and cold running virgins. Nice to have, but not strictly necessary if you have a house in Hampton Wick, a job in London and you spend your Saturdays in Bushy Park.

AJ, spending time with us as penance for failing to assemble a big innings in the 1s, cashed in on some ordinary fare from Southbank and progressed to a really classy 67. It was a surprise when he perished. A surprise to him as a real shooter smacked into his middle stump at ankle height and a surprise to the bowler who had only just managed to locate the cut strip.

Goldy kept him company in a century opening partnership (Wickman thinks) and will not mind if it is mentioned that he did not score the lion’s share. However, in seeing off the openers and forcing the skipper to turn elsewhere he had made a great impression on the game. He eventually reached 50 by carting a full toss bowling spinner to the midwicket fence. Soon after he perished getting on with it.

Mackie and Fudgey both accumulated. Both hit trademark drives down the ground. Neither looked in any trouble until David fell across his stumps and was sent packing by a colleague who felt unable to deny the plaintive cries of the oppo. MS replaced him. Together he and Mackie milked the bowling to take us to 267 off 44 (the scorebook didn’t quite tally with the scorebox), Mackie reaching a well deserved 50. One bowler ended with the almost surreal figures, in the circumstances, of 8-?-2-16. Surreal because he bowled so many wides in his spell Clarky’s arms hurt from waving them around like a demented farm goose warding off a fox. Delboy’s scoring is to blame here. Interesting to note that in a game where four fifties were scored, the second biggest, at 57 was Southbank Extras.

Tea. DBW. The same.

The light drizzle that had soused the end of our innings continued. The Southbank skipper showed some desire for the chase and sent his boys out to have a look. His boys did not do too much looking. Dom Lown bowled one and secured a plum LBW of another to have SB less-than-10-for-2. The skipper had one shot – the open the face and glide it between keeper and gully – and employed it to reach double figures before being plum in front to a straight ball from MS.

Doc then used his experience to bowl straight balls at the rest of the SB team and four obliged by playing horrible mows and being bowled or LBW, Doc almost picking up a hat-trick were it not for the hat-trick ball being ranker than a chicken that has been left in an oven by sloppy students for eight weeks before it’s eventual discovery when the smell was so torturous that it was interfering with watching the Trent Bridge test in about 1989 (remind Wickman to tell you the story at some point).

The rain, which had become, shall we say, persistent, did for the game with them 8 down and in danger of capitulating totally to full straight bowling. Fudgey rotated the bowling skilfully and the rest of the wickets were shared around including one for Cranesy and another for Tommy. It was incredible that we got this far. The ball was like a bar of soap that has been left at the bottom of the bath for an hour. When you pick it up, you know there’s a hard bit somewhere towards the centre, but squidgy stuff oozes between your fingers… it was a tribute to our boys that they almost got the job done.

There was nothing for it but to sit around in steaming kit until there was no chance of getting out there to finish off. On small margins are such things decided. One early season rival made 179 from 52 overs and ended up having their oppo 8 down too. One run for one bonus point. Could that be vital at the end of the season? We will have to wait and see.

They weren’t a bad lot. In fact Wickman rather warmed to them despite thinking that their skipper’s interest in the game noticeably waned when he himself was out… but contrast his attitude with the oppo over at Olinda Vandals (1s) who were in the bar quicker than you could say “imnotwatchingbigbrother againdon’teventhinkaboutit” Right now though Wickman thinks we are all agreed that we can’t wait for Saturday to play a good game to its conclusion whatever the result. There’s something not quite right about abandoned games. Specially if they are this one-sided.

It’s difficult to say who was MOM on the day. AJ for his dashing 67? Doc for overcoming his ailments and distrust of group hugs to take four wickets and take us to within a whisker of the victory we craved? Too difficult I think. Let’s rather, like a purse for nearest the pin not claimed, carry it over to Saturday and see how we go.