By Hugh Raven
3 August 2016
As the sun set on an early August evening, a bunch of eager Strokers, comprising those who run their own business (and could bunk off early), those who, frankly, wouldn’t have been missed in the office, teachers (with nothing to do for 8 weeks) … and the recently retired … met at the splendid Arcadians ground in Holcot. A truly magnificent setting, its pavilion a haven (sic) of elegance – not a stained sofa or a broken, dusty pint glass from the pub next door or a random stack of paint-stained chairs from the village hall in sight.
Captain Kisiel was deep in negotiation with the oppo’s skipper. The result was that Strokers would field. Perhaps the logic was that they’d go easy on us when we came to bat … in the dark … . Having handed out Stokers caps to some of the newer members of the squad, CK led his troops out with purpose and settled the field placings with an insouciant ‘er, spread out lads’. Those more alert Strokers spotted the opportunity to field in the luxurious open spaces on the off side; those who were less nimble ended up on the leg side, down wind, looking into the lowering sun … and with a field containing 10-foot high maize immediately behind them.
As their opening batsmen, one of whom had won 15 caps for England and the British Isles, swaggered to the crease, the fielders’ collective silence revealed their thoughts: ‘this is proper cricket’. The gawping at the 22-yard motorway, the only similarity to the strip at Southwark being its length, finally stopped and the umpire called ‘play’. Learoyd, eager to get one over on his mates, came charging in from the sightscreen-which-falls-over-in-the-wind-with-a-crash end. Hill, so proud of his new cap that he began his run-up still wearing it, opened from the other end. Arcadians clearly meant business – the opener showed he could play just as well with round balls as he could with odd-shaped ones, those hoping to be spending a relaxing evening impersonating Midds in no man’s land suddenly found themselves ‘running’ after the ball … and regular bouts of vigorous trampling were reducing the 10-foot maize … in quite a few spots in the field.
CK decided that a change was required. He brought the wily, old campaigner, IC-B into the ‘attack’ (probably stretching the point), with instructions to take the pace off the ball, which he successfully managed (at least until it reached the batsman). Learoyd completed his 4-over stint, snaffling a wicket in his final over. Raven and Worthington managed to stem the flow of runs a little … despite the odd visit to that maize field … and, slowly but surely, inroads were made into the Arcadians’ shirts-with-sponsors’-logos-filled batting line-up.
Suddenly, we were in amongst their lower order and, with a couple of overs to go, out strode their number 9 – a lad who appeared to be aged somewhere between 7 and 12 and who, having referred to the umpire as ‘Sir’ when taking guard (quite right), was then almost felled by a Worthington beamer first ball. An insight into how discipline is dispensed at LJS, perhaps. The youngster was to have the last word, however. A fiery closing spell from Hill, showing no mercy to the plucky young batsman, ensured that Arcadians were restricted to 137 for 7 off their 20 overs. Not a bad effort to have done so.
Throughout the innings, the fielding was magnificent. Quite the best from the Strokers in living memory – admittedly, not the highest of hurdles. Sliding stops (Castle), plunging saves (Hollund) and bodies being laid on the line (Foreman). Bradshaw didn’t let through a single bye … a great effort … and, perhaps incredibly, not a single dropped catch, although that was mainly because the ball was hit a long way over our heads (and very hard).
It was now officially dark. And cold. Hollund and Todd, whose exertions in the field had been limited to thinking-up smutty nicknames for his team-mates and performing a strange sort of break dance with his arms as the ball flew over the boundary, strode out confidently to open the innings, the former wearing a lid for the first time and the latter wearing what appeared to be a pair of shades. Interesting. From where we were sitting, peering through the gloom, there appeared to be quite a bit of swishing, some of it almost in the vicinity of the ball. Hollund was yorked, returning to the pavilion muttering that he hadn’t been able to see through his helmet – it wasn’t entirely clear whether, having got dressed in the dark, he had put it on the right way round. Todd, who had been joined by CK, was beginning to get into his stride, the booming straight drive getting the electronic scoreboard moving (if slightly randomly). The Skipper nicked one behind and departed reluctantly, before Todd, looking to reach another retirement (this time at 30) in the grand manner, missed a straight one and returned to the hutch for a well-made 28.
At 40 for 3 after 8 overs (actually, I’m guessing, but that sounds about right), the innings needed some impetus. Foreman and Castle, batting in a pair of red trainers so that he wouldn’t bump into his partner in the dark, were the men to provide it. A mixture of cleanly struck blows and scampered singles followed, before Foreman departed for a well-made 15ish (sounds about right, John ?). Castle elegantly made his way to a career-best 19, before returning to the pavilion for a well-earned smokey treat. It was now in the hands of Worthington (batting in his lucky watch) and IC-B to drag us nearer to the target. However, the Arcadians number 9, having previously survived a lump of leather narrowly missing his throat, removed the Wellington. Bradshaw sensibly braved the cold only briefly, leaving Raven to boost his (meagre) average in conjunction with IC-B. Strokers lurched to … well, none seemed to be entirely sure … at least 98, so we thought we’d round it up to 100 (for 8).
All that remained was for us to enjoy the Arcadians’ very kind hospitality – and to negotiate a return fixture (at Holcot) next year on Sunday, 6 August (30 overs a side). One for the diaries. And, finally, many thanks to Marcus for organising a cracking evening