Brothers & Sisters

Three summers ago I was at my lowest ever ebb. A seemingly endless array of health issues and personal problems had left me facing the prospect, aged 50 that my working life and general usefulness as a person were coming to an end. It was a grim time and I was in a bad place; somewhere I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy. However, the care, support and love of those around me gave me the strength to go on and, little by little, I got better and turned things around. Clearly, those I must thank most of all are my friends and my family, who will forever have my boundless appreciation of their efforts and concern. However, with the benefit of time, hindsight also tells me that The 3 Cs, namely Cats, Coffee and Cricket, were also vital factors in my recuperation.

Most people seem to have an instinctive preference for canines or felines; I’m a firm supporter of the latter camp, and not just because I was bitten up the posterior by a Rottweiler on February 8^th 1992 either. Cats are brilliant. Just as I nosedived into my period of ill-health, things became immeasurably more painful when my beloved moggy Mista Leggyfur died suddenly in my partner Laura’s arms. We’d had him a touch less than 4 years, adopting him as a stray and he’d been the softest, most endearing animal imaginable. It broke both of our hearts and that of his feline brother Paw Paw when Leggy left us. Happily a few months later we took possession of a deceptively cute bundle of unkempt black fur called Tromszo and the healing had begun. These days Tromszo spends her every waking moment attempting to decimate the NE30 mouse and bird populations, seagulls included, but as a tiny kitten, her curiosity and affection made me understand why we must all strive to move on. The sense of wonder and amazement in her wide, shining eyes made me reconsider the vastness and beauty of our universe. I didn’t want to let go of this.

All my life I’ve been a coffee drinker; never have been able to abide the taste of tea. Several of our neighbours feel the same and part of my routine of recovery was the daily ritual of preparing hot drinks in the garden with Laura and her lady friends in the late afternoon. This simple act of helping people made me feel useful, appreciated and connected to the world again. A small gesture perhaps, but an enormously important one for me.

And then there was the cricket, where I found community, ethics, morals and companionship. We’re not talking Test Matches or even the County Championship; we’re talking local club cricket. It has charmed, beguiled and fascinated me in a way I no longer believed any sport could do. As I’m somewhat ashamed to admit, I grew up in Felling; that scenic fishing village on the south bank of the Tyne. However hideous NE10 may be; it is blessed with the delightful Felling Cricket Club ground on Watermill Lane, which is where I saw my first games back in the days when the telly only had 2 channels, and both of them were in black and white. I’d always loved the game but other than infrequent visits to Durham or the odd game at Percy Main when I was involved with the neighbouring football club, I had merely followed cricket on telly or on-line for a quarter of a century or more; a tragic waste of too many years that I’ll never recover, but which I’m working hard to compensate for. Then, in the same way his seminal work The Far Corner reaffirmed my belief that non-league football was the only morally defensible level at which to watch football, my pal Harry Pearson’s wonderful Slipless in Settle made me realise I was missing out on so much by living without club cricket. I simply had to investigate what was out there.

I’ll admit to knowing next to nothing about the local game when Harry and I arranged to see the first day of Northumberland against Norfolk at Jesmond on July 7^th 2013. The previous time I’d been to County Club, as was, would have been either one of those Callers Pegasus all-star events in the mid-80s, or to see Northumberland cuffed aside by Middlesex in the Nat West Trophy, possibly around 87. Suffice to say, that baking hot July Sunday was memorable enough, possibly because Andy Murray won his first Wimbledon title and I didn’t see a single stroke of it, to make me take out Northumberland membership there and then. Indeed I’m proud to say I have maintained it since to support them; in 2015 my mate Gary Oliver and I went to Wormsley to see them lose the Unicorns One Day final to Cornwall and in August 2016 I was in despair that a heroic 2 wicket win over Cambridgeshire wasn’t enough to win the Minor Counties Eastern Division, as Lincolnshire claimed the title by a single point. Mind, the least said about the performances in the Unicorns One Day competition so far in 2017 the better.

After clouting 348 against Cambridgeshire at Saffron Walden on Shakespeare’s Birthday, they contrived to lose by 2 wickets. The week after, it was the turn of leafy NE3 to host a game. Typically delayed metros made my arrival later than intended, by which point Cumberland were 54/1 and there was nobody on the gate at the NEPL Etihad. Cumberland made 239, with Captain Nicotine claiming 4 victims. Between innings I headed out for hot drinks at Greggs. In the shop a lass with make-up smeared across her dial like a Heath Ledger tribute act was sobbing into her iPhone. Perhaps she had a portent of the innings to come, as Northumberland subsided from 89/2 to 123 all out after JDT departed. It wasn’t all bad though; it had been such a blustery day that so august an observer as Geoff Cook had described climactic conditions as “bloody perishing,” so it was relief to get inside for a warm, as me, Gary and another pal Kev Carling worked a 6 pint round in The Brandling in the time it would have taken to bowl the missing overs. Meanwhile, a trip to Norfolk resulted in another defeat before a final group game rout by Lincolnshire at Jesmond saw Northumberland finish bottom of the table. The 3 day games will be atrocious to endure if the batting disintegrates the way it has been doing.

However, putting the county set aside for a moment, what I’ve truly fallen for is NEPL cricket: the spirit, the community, the friendships, the conversation, the beer, the settings, the people, in fact everything about it. I adore non-league football, especially my beloved Newcastle Benfield, but the warmth (I’m not talking about spectating conditions here) of the cricketing environment knocks spots off the winter game, when it comes to convivial, civilised, intelligent conversation. To give an example; at the end of the 2015 season, I’d travelled to Eppleton to watch Tynemouth in the Banks Salver final. The home side won by a fair margin and I trudged away a little disappointed at around 7pm on a baking hot Sunday evening, with the prospect of 2 hours on the bus (I don’t drive) back to the coast ahead of me. As I stood waiting for the bus, a car drew up and the driver offered me a lift; it was Tynemouth’s Director of Cricket Vince Howe who’d seen me around the grounds (well I’m fairly easy to spot I suppose) and wanted to repay my support with this gesture. I’ll always be grateful to him for that simple act of kindness. Indirectly, that is one of the reasons why Cricket joins Cats and Coffee as part of my redemptive recovery. Directly, it’s why I sponsored Tynemouth v Newcastle in the NEPL on the last Saturday in May, which became the first meeting of the sides this season as the 20/20 on Friday 19^th was washed out before noon; six hours before the scheduled start.

The two Saturdays before I’d seen Tynemouth and then Newcastle put in dismal showings in heavy home losses that were as surprising as they were comprehensive. On May 13^th, I arrived at Preston Avenue with Tynemouth 54/0 chasing 187 against South Shields. Of course I was conscious the big game of the day was probably Benwell Hill, who’ve started like an express train, in particular Kyle Coetzer, against Newcastle. South Shields seemed to be ready to scrap it out with Eppleton and Felling for the relegation spot. Nobody told this to Matty Muchall who took 7 wickets as Tynemouth disintegrated to 91/9 and then 111 all out. Good bowling or horrible batting? A bit of both, unlike up at Denton Burn, where Coetzer flayed the Newcastle attack all around the park to win the game by himself, as he had against Tynemouth on the opening day; 120 not out off 65 balls to be precise.

May 20^th I got to see some lovely batting at Jesmond. Unfortunately it was Durham Academy who made the most of a generous declaration that meant they needed 229 from 57 overs. I got there at 36/1 and the young stars moved sedately to 110 before losing another couple, but a fine unbroken fifth wicket partnership of 90 saw them home with a couple of overs to spare. Newcastle’s maddeningly inconsistent home form continues; this season they’ve beaten Chester, drawn gallantly with South North but lost limply to Eppleton and the Academy.

Consequently, I made Tynemouth slight favourites for this one, especially with JDT missing out through injury. Of course, attempting to be purely neutral, I made it known my preferred result was a tie. It didn’t happen that way. Ben Debnam won the toss and elected to bat. Bad move.  Oliver Sale, Calum Harding and Sean Tindale tore through the home side, reducing Tynemouth to 19/6 when a torrential rain shower made for an early lunch. Clearly the catering is the high spot of any cricket match; the fresh salmon, Waldorf salad and a strawberry Pavlova that deserved an Oscar made this a feast as memorable and soothing as the cricket had been troublesome and stressful.

Post refreshments, the resumed game got no better for the hosts, even in brilliant sunshine. Tynemouth posted their lowest total in living memory; 31 all out from a tortuous 29 overs and Oli McGee didn’t even get to bowl. Newcastle knocked off the runs for the loss of 3 wickets in 8 overs before 4.30. There wasn’t even the consolation of watching the 3^rd XI, as they’d already lost to Cramlington 2nds on the adjoining field. It was still a great day out, despite the result.

Of course, there are many other cricketing adventures I’ve not mentioned as yet, since my previous blog on the game back in mid-April.  The second Saturday of the season was a busy day for me; the last connection with Wallsend Boys Club Over 40s was severed as my retirement was confirmed after we lost the Ironside Cup Final 3-0 but claimed the Division 2 title on account of other results. This was followed by a mad dash back from Wearside to Tyneside for Record Store Day to purchase my annual Trembling Bells and Wedding Present releases (see elsewhere for glowing reviews). Then, it was a case of catching the X21 for the Chester Le Street against Newcastle show.  As I’d lucked onto an express bus, I arrived in CLS earlier than anticipated, but with no option to get off at Chester Moor for the football. Consequently, I headed for Ropery Lane to see Newcastle 2nds play the home club’s shadow squad, giving me a chance to catch up with The Man with the Golden Ankle, Phil Hudson, and Keith Brown, who were optimistically doing a few slow laps as the visitors looked to be accumulating a steady total. Lunch came with Newcastle 117/2 and I journeyed onward by foot to Chester Moor Park, where Benfield ended the season in decent fashion with a 2-0 win; Paul Brayson scored a superb and memorable 52^nd goal of the season to bring the curtain down in emphatic style.

After the football, I availed myself of a lift back to Jesmond from the Benfield Hipsters Jamie and Alix, where Newcastle’s first team were doing a number on Chester Le Street, which was important for a couple of reasons. Newcastle’s season had started with a poor loss to Eppleton, while 2016 had ended in controversy with the outrageous gamesmanship of the Chester lads that coerced the umpires into bringing everyone off for bad light, a decision at least partly responsible for the new playing regulations that state games in September will start at 11.30 from now on. No such problems with light this time, though nerves came into play as Newcastle lost 8 wickets in chasing 240; sadly, nervous batting collapses seem to be the order of the season in many of the games I’m seeing.

The following Saturday (the day before Northumberland waved the white flag against Cumberland at South North) I went to see my present play my past as Tynemouth hosted Felling. It took a while getting in to Preston Avenue, not because of crowds, but because of the traffic bringing the stage and lighting for the Fake Festival taking place next door. I’ve never got my head around the tribute band phenomenon, which seemed even more baffling as a cricket game took place to the incongruous background of 1977’s sound check; definitely more New Rose than New Road. I remember attending Darlington 3 Crewe Alexandra 0 in September 1992 at the old Feethams, where the PA bloke announced that there would be no music played that day as there was a cricket game on next door. Attitudes change in a quarter of a century and on the surface, it appeared Tynemouth’s bowlers rather than Felling’s batsmen responded best to a cavalcade of punk classics, dismissing the visitors right on lunch for 76.

I cycled off to John Spence to see North Shields Athletic battered 5-1 in the Alliance by the sneering, gobby, foul-mouthed oiks from Walker Central, reminding of nothing so much as the Sex Pistols being interviewed by Bill Grundy. Decent game mind, but not a contest; same with the cricket, Tynemouth had eased to a 7 wicket win before I got back. Instead, I pedalled on past the ground and towards home, half deafened by a terrible version of Led Zep’s Black Dog blasting out of the Fake Festival tented village.

And so we arrive in May, desperately hungover after the aforementioned session in The Brandling. I’m not quite a cricket groundhopper yet, but with Tynemouth and Newcastle both receiving byes in the first round of the Second XI knock out competition, the Banks Bowl, I decided to head somewhere exotic to tick off my list of unvisited grounds. A long metro journey from Tynemouth to South Hylton was followed by a nervous trudge up an unpromising dirt track towards Pennywell, in order to reach the Ford Quarry Complex home of Sunderland West End FC who were hosting the Wearside League Monkwearmouth Cup final against Redcar Athletic. The day was as cold and windswept as the day before. The pitch hard, rutted and undulating; the football rough, aggressive and uncompromising, but it was a new ground. Redcar, who played the tiny fraction of football that could be discerned, deservedly won 2-1.

At full time, I scrounged a lift to Hastings Hill and caught the delayed 78A to Burnmoor, where Sunderland were finishing their innings on 175/8 as I arrived. You could tell it was village cricket County Durham style; a Victorian former board school is the clubhouse and the ground is rustic pretty on three sides, with clumps of daisies flecking the outfield. The fourth provides a vista of smoking chimneys atop pit cottages and the smell of anthracite. Chris Rushworth’s dad walking his dog, last heard barking when Notts lost a wicket at the Riverside on Good Friday, around the boundary in company with chainsmoking Norman. Burnmoor lose their wickets regularly; 33/4, 65/7, then 76 all out. Three games I’d seen that weekend and not one of them a contest. Still, 14 NEPL grounds down and only 10 to go for the full set.

May 5^th; Einsturzende Neubauten at the Boiler Shop for £35? Durham v Leicester at South North for £15? Shankhouse 3 Walker Central 0 in the NFA Benevolent Bowl at Blue Flames for £4? Go on then; well worth it to see Russell Ward rolling back the years with a Man of the Match captain’s display, including the winning goal from the spot. Anyway, Neubauten was too late and Durham, over by 5.00, too early. On the Saturday and we’re into the final football stretch; the 3 last Tyneside Amateur League fixtures of 2016/2017 and Cramlington Town lost them all. That’s a league decider 3-0 at home to Ponteland Reserves, the Neville Cowey Cup final 4-1 to Wardley at Benfield on May 13^th and the Tyneside Amateur Challenge Shield 2-0 to Morpeth Town Seniors at the same place the week after.

After the first of these, I made it to Jesmond for the Cavaliers v Roundheads battle between Newcastle and South North, where the NEPL Millionaires had been dismissed for 224, with JDT claiming 3 and Oli McGee a brace. Newcastle were 20/0 and it seemed beautifully poised on the first warm afternoon of the season. Johnny Wightman was trying to wrest control back to the Gosforth Parliamentarians; he could have been turning out for South Shields as they humiliated North Shields 5-0 in the Northern League Cup final, to the extent the father of a Robins player invaded the pitch to beg the Mariners for mercy, but instead he was on Osborne Avenue, in front of a big crowd in NEPL terms. He took the first wicket. Alastair Appleby caught behind; 42/1.

Joining O.F. McGee at the crease was his younger (by a year) brother B. J. McGee. Hyperactive Oli; a non-stop bundle of energy, constantly talking his way through games,  improvising with bat and ball, the outgoing one who wears his heart on his sleeve, showing both the pleasure and the pain the game brings. Studious Ben; half a head taller, the lawyer in waiting, considering decisions carefully, the elegant batsman who keeps his own counsel. The stage was set for them to bat through and win the game, in memory of their grandmother who’d just passed away. Instead reality, and terrible umpiring, intervened; 67/2 as Ben is given LBW to one that hit him on the thigh pad and was still rising. Almost as infuriating as the noise of screaming Jesbairns tearing backwards and forwards across the wooden decking in front of the pavilion as their bourgeois parents sip Prosecco oblivious to the sporting magnificence unfolding. Walking off, it’s the first time I’ve heard Ben swear. Ever. Oli does loads of that, but his mam still tells him off for it.

Progress slows as another wicket falls and it’s 81/3 at tea, meaning there’s 34 overs left to get 144. Not impossible, but successive maidens after tea make the job a mite more exacting. Arriving round about then are my friends John and Ciaran McQuaid from County Kildare; they’re not of the cricketing tradition, but of the GAA one that frowns on Garrison Games. Mind they’re also Newcastle fans over for the Barnsley game, so the chance of a few beers and a bit sport is more than appealing.

The downstairs function room is booked for a landmark birthday party and a Talking Heads tribute band have been engaged, continuing the tradition of incongruous NEPL soundtracks; Burning Down The House, Psycho Killer and Take Me To The River are given faithful renditions. Magnificent and almost soothing, but the tension is building. Oli falls over his stumps and is out hit wicket for 45. JDT comes in, plays effortlessly then pops up a simple catch to go for 34. The atmosphere is so thick I can’t breathe as Newcastle teeter at 211/8 with an over to go and 15 theoretically needed. It’s 211/9 and the last 5 balls are blocked in semi darkness for honours to be almost even. It was an amazing afternoon; community, unity and drama that you just have to visit at least once in your life to appreciate. This game means something, but not too much to the participants. It’s sport at the most essential and elemental level. To me, it’s theatre of the greatest quality.

Perhaps not all of the spectators at every game see it that way. Take Tynemouth v Durham Academy in the NEPL 20/20 on Friday 26^th May for instance.  As big a crowd as I’d seen at Preston Avenue, but for many it was the coastal equivalent of Jesbairns; the children weren’t running riot, but they didn’t sit still and shut up, while Dad downed endless San Miquels and Mum worked her way steadily through a pair of Proseccos. Meanwhile, Tynemouth clock up a slightly disappointing 119/6, which the fluent young tyros from the Emirates see off for the loss of 2 wickets. I’m with my pals Olly Scholes and Ginger Dave, who pronounce the beer to be excellent and a decent preparation for an evening in the Tynemouth Lodge.

Come Sunday, after the Newcastle fiasco, I didn’t make it to Preston Avenue 3 days in a row, opting for Monkseaton 3^rd XI v Rock in Northumberland Division 3, of which more in a minute.  However, I did get there for 3 out of 4, with a trip to the Banks Bowl second round game against Sunderland 2^nd XI on Monday. The weather had predictably turned for the Bank Holiday and it was cold and damp, reducing the game to 37 overs. Tynemouth steadily accumulated 256/8, with a far stronger and older side than the seemingly rag bag collection of 10 pressganged teenagers in a baffling array of mismatched cricket clothing who dragged themselves unwillingly northwards from Wearside to waste a Bank Holiday. At least, that’s how it seemed until Sunderland started to bat. In conditions whereby they could easily have gone off for fog, the visitors gave it their best shot. Once 20 overs had been completed in brightening conditions with the temperature falling, a result was definite. Even when the run rate was bordering on the ludicrous side of impossible, Sunderland kept plugging laboriously away, though it wasn’t compelling stuff.

I took the opportunity to have a good chat with Sean Longstaff about his time with Kilmarnock and his options for the future, as his Newcastle United contract is up for discussion. I doubt they even know he turns out for Tynemouth 2nds, much less care.  When he nips home for his tea, Sunderland are 90/3 from 23 overs and I’m the last spectator in the ground. A kids’ party is taking place in the pavilion, so I head across to the far side and watch the dying embers from the benches in front of Jacka the groundsman’s cottage, where he is no doubt still smouldering about Saturday’s result and the criticism of his wicket, taking out his frustrations on social media.  The Sunderland opener is still battling on and really deserves a century for his efforts; sadly he’s out for 94 in the last over as Tynemouth win by 75 runs and I head home to thaw out. Summertime in England; what can you say?

If you want a definition of the true spirit of recreational cricket in summer, you need to see Monkseaton 3^rd XI at their home ground of Churchill Playing Fields. Bottom of Northumberland Division 3, they were hosting table topping Rock. I chose this game in order to see Gary back in action behind the timbers, as he’s started playing again for the first time in over a decade. His opening bowler  identifies as a non-binary woman.  The brilliant thing about Monkseaton is that they’re totally supportive; they are a side who embrace Corinthian ideals like no other I’ve seen. Skipper Nigel is back playing after a hip replacement and many of the rest of the team are advanced in years; Gary is the fourth youngest in his late 40s. Their forbearance and perseverance in the field is an education for any footballer; this lot love their sport, regardless of the result.

It’s a hot day and the Rock openers are merciless. Both take centuries as Monkseaton toil in the field, until Gary whips off the bails and it’s 257/1 as Keith Fairley grabs the first wicket. He gets the second one as well and it’s 289/2 with 4 overs to go. The lad who came in at number 3, forearms like a spinached-up Popeye, who’d been enjoying an ice cream from the van parked up next to the adventure playground across the road, shows even less mercy in hitting 10 boundaries and 7 maximums to get his own ton and close the innings on 370/2 from 40 overs.

The asking rate is a theoretical 9.25, but Monkseaton are not concerned with that. As there are no draws in this league, all that matters is trying to get a few batting points and maintain a gracious and dignified attitude to defeat. They end on 118/5, just missing out on an extra batting point, but Gary is there at the end on 28 not out. His previous scores have been DNB and 0, so he’s leaping up the averages. In all seriousness, I watch his performance, in the company of Kev for a while, with a sense of warm, semi-paternalistic pride. He’s out there doing what Kev and I wish we could.

After the game, there’s the opportunity for a couple of quick pints in the Monkseaton Arms; the result forgotten, the forthcoming blank weekend without a fixture creates far more anguish. It’s convivial, it’s civilised and Nigel asks me if I’d like to play for them. My heart sings and my soul leaps upward. You know what, I damn well would. Not in 2017 perhaps, but if I winter well and shift a few clem, you never know… No Bass for me, I’m in training.