The Bacchus XI vs Dulwich Lawnmower CC

At the last possible moment...

MATCH REPORT – The Bacchus XI vs Dulwich Lawnmower Cricket Club - Hilly Fields, Lewisham – 7th May 2022

“Be men, or be more than men. Be steady to your purposes and firm as a rock. This ice is not made of such stuff as your hearts may be; it is mutable and cannot withstand you if you say that it shall not.”
MARY SHELLEY, Frankenstein

“We’re bound to get a team together”. Coming from Patrick, this sounds positively rosy; the whimsical acknowledgement that although this dear old team can be a ramshackle affair, things will always work out for the best. So I was happy to believe when, with a nonchalant “You’d better take this one Old Thing, I’m graduating on that day”, he entrusted the first match of the season, a tilt against some charming gentlemen calling themselves The Dulwich Lawnmower, to my limited cricketing powers.

In reality, the saying “We’re bound to get a team together” refers to the fact that Patrick has made a pact with some eldritch abomination, more-or-less guaranteeing the presence of a team in return, no doubt, for 100 years of service aboard the Flying Dutchman (bringing his running total to 1400). Such is the only possible explanation for the manner in which teams form, wither, disintegrate and finally reappear from the ether, several times and with no apparent input from either captain or selectors. All the while the date of the match draws nearer with nightmarish pace. Nevertheless, the arcane forces will, in the end, deposit 11 cricketers in roughly the correct location, approximately 30 minutes either side of the appointed start time. I therefore consider it a singular achievement that, with all the angelic or demonic powers at work (delete as applicable) we still only managed a team of 10.

As the match was due to begin, six players, a motley assortment of camp followers and a parrot were perched along a fallen tree at the side of the pitch, a place operating under the unnerving moniker ‘Hilly Fields’ (several of the team instantly recalled the horrors of the field at Wytham (working title: The Bermuda Rectangle) and began to set their affairs in order). The field itself was mercifully flat, but with an outfield to bog down a rampaging hippo. We had the finer points of its evil nature broken down to us by the delightful opposition captain, along with a cheerful description of their wicket as ‘a leveller’: the thing apparently hadn’t been watered in 30 years. Then commenced the traditional Bacchus negotiation, as I asked whether we could, pretty please, bowl first, with the novel excuse that some players had to be off before the likely close of play. The opposition captain politely, yet firmly, pointed out that the match should have begun half an hour ago, and that the players who wanted to leave early were still yet to arrive, so perhaps I might like to wind my fucking neck in. His logic could scarcely be faulted.
So it came to pass that our opening partnership trudged into the middle, clear in their mission to bog down the match for long enough to allow a middle order to assemble. I chatted to keeper, took middle and made as much of a fuss over surveying the fielders as I could, resolving to dig in for all I was worth. I lasted one ball, clean bowled for the team’s first ever platinum duck. So much for the plan. Tom Blackledge strode to the crease with all the confidence of a man who had never played cricket but had “a pretty good idea of the rules”. He survived his first ball, in marked contrast to the bowler, who pulled his hamstring and retired to leg slip. The ‘Mower deployed their backup bowler, who’s first delivery clipped the top of Blackledge’s off stump at about 70mph, affirming his strong Bacchant credentials by dismissing him for a Gate. By now those on the side-lines were contemplating the logistics of getting the parrot to pad up, and it was even suggested that Helen Shannon might put down her glass and pick up a bat. The team clearly needed a hero; step forth George Jones. It so happened that our avenging angel counted several school friends amongst the opposition. Naturally, all crowded round his bat like vultures, desperate to be the one to claim this prize wicket. All we could ask of him was to survive; the two runs he scored were far beyond the call of duty, and the opposition now knew we meant business. The first over ended with all to play for, the score a respectable 2-2.

All this time, Richard Cubitt’s hat had been poised nonchalantly at the non-strikers’ end. Keen-eyed observers were able to perceive through the glaring colours that Richard Cubitt was underneath it. This wonderous spectacle now found itself on strike, and set about the important business of building the score. A late cut and a flick off the pads brought three much-needed runs, and with help from the ever-reliable E X Tras we were approaching the dizzy heights of double figures before Cubitt edged a devil of a ball to slip. No matter, he had at least had fulfilled his brief, and batted long enough for the rest of the team to arrive. Abdul Zafar now made his merry way to the crease, unfazed by the display of full, quick stuff he’d been seeing (or not seeing, as was frequently the case). He and Jones plugged away, sticking around long enough for no-balls and wides to carry us into the 20s. The opposition’s lethal pace attack was steadily blunted, baffled by a series of nameless shots that scarcely troubled the ball but imperilled any fielders nearer than extra cover. Eventually the danger men gave it up, retiring to the relative safety of the boundary. They tossed the ball to an unassuming youth, whom they treated benign condescension. Clearly the partnership had broken their strength, and the batsmen finally cast their gaze beyond the crease, ruminating on just how far away the leg boundary might be. Jones resolved to find out, and hoisted a gentle full-toss high onto the leg side, just within reach of the ‘Mower’s monopodal opening bowler, who dragged himself over the 10 yards to take the diving catch. As this latter-day Lazarus limped alliteratively back to his post, it was agreed that the batsmen had crossed in the mayhem, and Abdul fortified himself with thoughts of the half-century he was about to score. The next gentle full-toss bowled him, as the over ended with the issue of the hattrick still unresolved. Freddie Gate spent the next over playing himself in, long hours in the nets coming spectacularly into their own. Five runs were added to the total, the last being a quick single to retain the strike for the crucial moment. The youth sauntered up. The gentle full toss came in due order, but mercifully wide of the leg stump. Gate, however, fully understood his responsibilities as a guest. For form’s sake he swung viciously at the ball (which helpfully failed to bounce more than an inch or two), cunningly allowing his momentum to carry him round and utterly destroying the wicket.

The ‘Mower were ecstatic, and the Bacchus XI smiled contentedly at the site of duty nobly done. Riley was next in, and indeed next out, helping a short ball to fine leg as thoughts turned towards lunch. This left us in the unlikely position of having Jeremy Larken (rejoicing once again in his acquisition of a runner) hold up one end while Dom Hudson, recently arrived, set about smacking the ball to all corners of the ground in blatant disregard for the tactical situation. Such a spectacle could scarcely last in these troubling times, and once Jeremy’s stumps had disintegrated in response to the renewed ‘Mower pace attack, Hudson had no other recourse than to hoist a drive to long off. All players present having now batted, Cubitt went in for another go, playing splendidly to add another 13. The final spot in the order was promised, quite separately, to two opposition players, both of whom insisted upon claiming their due, and to avoid a war of succession á la 1066 it was decided that we should have 12 batsmen. These two batted with competence and technique, a marvel to those who had forgotten the existence of such things over the preceding hour (and not a minute more). It all came to an end in appropriately sordid fashion, the 11th wicket falling to leave us on a score of 69 all out. Auditions for the follow-up porn film commence at the next match.

Our opponents took their ease over lunch, looking forward to completing one of their easier victories: little did they realise their error. There was cloud cover, it was the afternoon, and we had just the man for the crisis. We put 50p in Sam Riley and sat back to watch the fireworks. We are, after all, more of a bowling team really.

The first 8 overs were a testimony to what is possible when line and length are combined with a truly vindictive pitch. Riley and Cubitt produced some excellent quick stuff, some of it very bouncy indeed, and gratifyingly few deliveries pierced the keeper/first slip axis, assembled not for its ability but for the fact that one of our players had destroyed his ACL and another had two metal hips. With Jeremy executing diving stops that would have made an orthopaedic surgeon turn pale, the bowlers pressed the attack, dismantling the top order with scarcely hoped-for rapidity. Both sent stumps flying at regular intervals (just how regular I leave to your imagination – I haven’t seen the scorecard) and tempted the batsmen into dubious slogs which were caught, whimsically enough, by substitute fielders provided by the ‘Mower. Soon, an excited whisper was sweeping around the field; they were scoring even slower than us. When the knackered corpses of the opening bowlers were hauled away to recuperate in the covers, Dom Hudson proclaimed that his ACL was fine, thank you very much, and that he was prepared to send some missiles of his own at the opposition’s creaking middle order. This he did, and before long he had taken his first wicket for Bacchus. Dulwich Lawnmower were 5 down; things were getting silly. Something clearly had to be done.

Thankfully for our reputation as a good sporting side who would never embarrass or inconvenience their hosts (as is the lifeblood of any touring team) this was the moment I chose to have a bowl myself. Readers of previous match reports will not be surprised by what followed: two overs were all it took to tip the balance firmly back in the opposition’s favour, and despite a delightful debut wicket from Abdul and Cubitt bowling their keeper around his legs, the total was made with two wickets to spare. So ended the saga.

The season is up and running again, and while it would be sporting with your intelligence to refer to this incarnation as an XI, Bacchus are back in business. Join us next time for the return of most of the regular cast, proper catering infrastructure (Riley’s already throwing darts at a world map to decide where to source the wine from) and, most importantly, Patrick’s resumption of journalistic duties.

Until then,
xoxo

SCORECARD

Bacchus VI/IX/X/XII (depending on the stage of play)
T Larken (bowled) 0
Cubitt (caught) 3
Blackledge (bowled) 0
Jones (caught) 2
Zafar (bowled) 2
Gate (hit wicket) 5
Riley (caught) 0
Hudson (caught) 14
J Larken (bowled) 0
Cubitt (2) (caught) 13
Aston (bowled) 15
Evans (not out) 6

Extras 9
Total (15 overs) 69

Dulwich Lawnmower
Fuck knows, but Cubitt and Riley took 3 wickets each, with Zafar and Hudson claiming the other two.

DULWICH LAWNMOWER WIN BY 2 WICKETS