The Waiting Game

The Waiting Game

This blog is dedicated to my dear friend Niall Mercer, who passed away on July 4^th. He wasn’t a cricket fan, but he did live on Osborne Avenue and a couple of times over the years, he wandered down for a few sunny Sunday afternoon beers when Northumberland were playing. I miss you my friend.

Many, many years ago, long before I didn’t become a novelist, I used to want a career in the theatre. Seriously, I did. Fired with enthusiasm by the engagé politics embraced and espoused by the likes of 7:84 and the agitprop dramaturgy of Barrie Keeffe, I entertained a short lived ambition to be a radical playwright, actor and director in a committed theatrical troupe that would function as the artistic scion of the imminent class war, scheduled for summer 1981. I got as far as directing a few Samuel Beckett short pieces at College with other pretentious A Level sorts to underwhelming audience reaction, which I put down to the impenetrable text rather than any flaws in the performance. I wrote a play, presciently titled I Have No Experience Of Life, which nobody who read it liked or understood, so I promptly abandoned my dream after accepting I had zero talent for writing convincing dialogue, almost filled my strides every time I stood on stage and lacked the wit or imagination to present plays in an interesting or challenging way. Well, useful to get that learnt, as Larkin said.

However, I did retain a deep and abiding love for modern plays, and not just the kitchen sink realist stuff either. This was possibly on account of the fact that my 2 English teachers for A Level were implacable sworn enemies and refused to talk to each other in any circumstances, resulting in the farcical situation where we studied neither poetry nor novels, but instead immersed ourselves in 8 set plays (Paper 1; Jacobean Tragedy. Paper 2; Post World War II Drama). My favourite was Samuel Beckett’s Waiting For Godot, which was memorably summarised as a piece where “nothing happens, twice.” Basically two tramps Vladimir and Estragon mooch around, talking bollocks to fill their time in until the enigmatic Godot arrives to tell them something. Twice he is due and twice he sends a servant to say that he isn’t coming today but will certainly do so on the morrow. The implication, of course, is that he is never going to show up.

Waiting For Godot acts as a mirror held up to the unremittingly bleak, dissatisfactory and pointless nature of the human condition. As Beckett was a left-arm seam bowler for Dublin University, who played two first-class games against Northamptonshire, making him the only Nobel Laureate to feature in Wisden, the play is also a suitable metaphor for my late-blooming cricket career for Monkseaton 3rds. Having ended my previous cricket blog by stating I’d quite fancy the odd recreational game, things moved to a whole new level of intensity on Sunday 18^th June.

Ordinarily, I would have been en route to South North for the opening day of a MCCA Championship game where Northumberland would lose by 10 wickets to Cumberland, but I chose not to. Indeed, I’m not sure if I’ll be back watching Northumberland again this year. Rather strangely, the brand new Northumberland CCC twitter account (@NlandCricket) chose me as the third person to follow, after JDT and Oli McGee of course. After exchanging pleasant tweets during away games, I went to check on the side for the Cumberland fixture, only to find that I had been blocked from following that account. I emailed to ask why and got no reply; I’m not sure if it’s an accident or what, but as far as I’m concerned, I’ve done nothing other than attempt to publicise Northumberland CCC and be visible in my support. Hell, I even went to Wormsley for the one day final the other year; one of about 30 souls to do so from England’s border county. If anyone knows why this is the case, please inform me as I’m at a loss to understand it.

Instead, I found myself watching Kirkley amass 262/6 at Churchill Playing fields from their 40 overs and Monkseaton 3rds compile 47 all out in reply (G Oliver contributing a stylish 0 not out), where I learned the news I’d been registered for the hosts, but on the proviso I’d only turn out when absolutely necessary, bat 11, not bowl and field somewhere the ball had little chance of finding me. Almost certainly, this would be on a Saturday at an away game, as this would mean Monkseaton needed to turn out 33 players, with 2 teams being away. On the weekends when two teams are at home, the 3rds play Sunday, with numbers bulked out with hired hands from the other two sides. However, despite my nervous availability, the game away to Blyth 2nds on Saturday 24^th June was conceded as only 7 willing participants could be found, which at least stopped me facing the potential humiliation of being dismissed and/or killed by one of my current students who bowls at quick a lick for the putative opponents. A week later I remained extraneous to requirements for the trip to Warkworth on Saturday 1^st. The inclement weather during the previous week meant the 2nds were without a game, so they mingled with the 3rds, helping them to a gallant 5 wicket loss which, in terms of the season Monkseaton 3rds are having, is like winning the Ashes from 2-0 down and following on in the third test.

So, what cricket have I seen since we last spoke? Other than the aforementioned Monkseaton v Kirkley contest, I’ve seen 12 games on 8 different grounds. Not bad considering I missed the first Saturday in June up in the Lothians for my annual trip to the Scotch Juniors and the second Saturday was an utter washout. The month started wet; Friday 2^nd saw a morning downpour, but a dry and breezy afternoon allowed the third of Tynemouth’s 20/20 group games, at home to Burnopfield, to go ahead. We batted first and posted 123/6, which is around the same as we’d got against Durham Academy the week before. Unlike that game, where the youthful and talented opposition made the runs with ease, the rules of the competition rather than the ability of the opposition conspired against Tynemouth after a between innings cloudburst. For the game to be regarded as complete, there must be a minimum of 10 overs bowled, with an over lost for every 3 minutes 45 that play is suspended. Typically, an abandonment was averted by seconds and play was again possible with 10 overs to be bowled. With no Duckworth Lewis Method applying in the NEPL 20/20s, Burnopfield were only required to score 62 to win, which they did off the last ball at a loss of 5 wickets, eliminating Tynemouth with 2 group games to go. It was a deeply disappointing result on a night when there was a substantial crowd at Preston Avenue, though admittedly a large proportion were coastal females making hay while the rain poured, guzzling their way through boating lakes of complimentary Prosecco on what had been styled as Ladies’ Night. Cheers anyway…

The rain had dispersed by Sunday, so having missed a game the day before when in Scotland, while Tynemouth held on for a losing draw at Eppleton by their fingertips (164/9 in reply to 223/5) and Newcastle compiled the highest ever NEPL score of 371/4, with JDT’s contribution a modest 119 from 47 balls, to beat Stockton by 223 runs, I fancied a bit of an adventure, which is perhaps not how everyone would describe a trip to Sacriston by bus on a Sunday. Actually, on reflection, it was an absolute ordeal. Luckily, the one person I know from Sacriston, Tom Keith, came to my rescue and collected me from Plawsworth after I bailed on the glacially slow X21. Cheers mate; appreciated, especially as it meant I was delivered to the door of the cricket club. Unlike football grounds, the lack of floodlights means visual hints as to the location are not always available (witness my previous pitiful efforts to find both Eppleton and Tudhoe). Sacriston has to be the equivalent of the fancy dress shop in Mr Benn as it is accessed by a set of double doors from the main street, next door to a Tesco Express, which takes you into the bar of a social club.  However, it’s not a bad set-up, with a vaguely rural feel to it as two sides look out onto open countryside and another to a care home. Mind the bucolic charm is ruined if you sit the other way as you fix your gaze on the delivery area of a small supermarket.  That day, the peace and tranquillity of the game acted as an antidote to the chaotic scenes of devastation at Borough Market the night before; cricket is only a game, but it’s the best one.

If there is one side that has endured the worst possible luck in league competition recently, it has to be Sacriston. On the final day of last season, a campaign in which they went unbeaten, they were set fair to beat Felling in a winner takes all encounter, until the umpires called them off for bad light. As a result, they suffered a losing draw and Felling went up in their stead. As someone dragged up in NE10, it’s great to see the first place I ever saw a game of cricket hosting top flight games, but Sacriston were understandably devastated. The change in playing conditions to insist games in September start 30 minutes earlier is welcome, but cold comfort to Sacriston. At least this year, it seems justice will prevail as the first team are again unbeaten and about 60 points clear at the top. It wasn’t the first team I was here to see though, but the 2nds who were hosting Mainsforth in a Banks Bowl tie that had been held over from the Whit Bank holiday, as Sacriston firsts were still in the national village knock out and had played that weekend.

Mainsforth are in their second season in the league, having replaced South Hetton following a play-off in 2015, necessitated by the black-balling of Esh Winning. Ironically I’ve played Over 40s football at both Mainsforth and Esh Winning, but never seen cricket there. As Mainsforth are locked in a battle with Seaham Harbour to see who’ll be relegated at the end of this campaign, I’m not in a hurry to get there either.  Their second team did their best, upholding the Corinthian approach, by playing the game in the right way, but like any small club putting out a second team Sunday cup side, they comprised the young and slight cheek by heavy jowls with the aged and portly. Sacriston took them to the cleaners, totalling 338/4 from 45 overs and then skittling Mainsforth for 138 to win by the pleasingly exact total of 200 runs, which was about the number of bus stops I went past on my journey home. Leg 3 from Monument to Tynemouth was easy enough, as was Leg 2 from Stanley to Eldon Square, but Leg 1 took me to places I’ve never even heard of before, much less visited. South Moor, Craghead and Edmondsley; nice to see you, but wouldn’t want to live in you.

In the week that followed, the country went to the polls, which resulted in the rescheduling of the imminent class war that was postponed in 1981, so I returned to Tynemouth for a dead rubber 20/20 tie against, of all teams, Sacriston. Talk around the pavilion benches was more of the lousy forecast for Saturday than post-election inquests, or the decision to relieve Matty Brown of wicket keeping duties to allow him to concentrate on his batting, with Chris Fairley taking over behind the stumps. Sacriston batted first and made 116/9 and Tynemouth won by 6 wickets, but only from the last ball as the visitors kept it tight on an absorbing night. Sadly, the only thing absorbing on Saturday was the ground taking in water. Still, how else would we have got 5 points from Chester Le Street eh?  

Sunday 11^th was dry and very breezy; the storms of the day before long gone. As a result, I undertook another adventure by public transport, this time to Washington for the 2^nd XI 20/20 group competition, where a late start on account of a moist outfield resulted in it being curtailed to a 15/15 format. Common sense had prevailed in game order, with the hosts facing Hetton Lyons first up and winning by 10 runs. Consequently, the tiresome Tynemouth – Monument, Eldon Square – Birtley, Birtley –Harraton journey was undertaken with a little less urgency. Alighting amidst radicalised Christian extremists at the Gethsemane New Life Bible Centre, I arrived to see the principle of loser stops on was being adhered to with Hetton Lyons about to bat. I was nicely settled in time to see Sam Robson take a caught and bowled from the first ball of the innings, then a second wicket at the end of the over, leaving them 1/2. Washington is a big ground; the outfield is probably as extensive as Gateshead Fell, so you’d probably fit 3 Jesmonds into it. However, there isn’t much to it in terms of atmosphere, intriguing architecture or eccentric nooks and crannies. Semis and bungalows down one side, a path at the other and a functional bar and changing room block by the car park. There’s also a big hedge and when one of their lot hit a 6 into it, we had a 10 minute delay before getting the ball back. In the end though, the Lyons went out like lambs, posting a mere 78. We got there for the loss of 5 wickets with 3 overs to spare. The Hetton lads didn’t bother changing for the most part, grabbing a bit tea then clearing off home.

Unfortunately, that win was as good as it got for us; a stuttering, error-strewn 87/7 in the decider, with byes top scoring, was never going to be enough and Washington contemptuously knocked them off for the loss of one wicket with 4 overs spare. On the positive side, James Carr gave me a free tube of toothpaste and Richie Hay gave me a lift home, so it wasn’t all bad. But that’s one of the fantastic things about Tynemouth Cricket Club; the inclusivity and sense of appreciation that you go and watch. It’s why Preston Avenue feels more and more like home every week, and why I went away twice the following week to watch them, courtesy of Vince the Chauffeur.

Friday night was the deadest of dead rubber 20/20 group games away to Seaham Harbour. On the same day Willington conceded against Benwell Hill, showing the lack of appetite for nothing games. As far as I was concerned, it was another ground ticked off the list, though there was a nasty surprise for Vince, who was pressganged into playing the Byronic Hero for the night as we’d only got 10. Due to one of those series of unfortunate circumstances, that happens every so often, the number of players unavailable because of life, work and families interfering, was substantial. Seaham as a place is massively improved; perhaps gentrified is the wrong word, but it’s certainly as quaint as Amble, if not Warkworth just yet. The cricket ground, accessed by a bafflingly circuitous one way system, was decent enough; the train line beyond the far boundary, with a scoreboard that seemed modelled on Trumpton Fire Station, the ubiquitous new builds at the top end and open fields at the bottom, where a dog obedience class was taking place. They went in first and an absolute bear of an opener started clubbing Tynemouth to all corners, until he holed out to young Henry Malton. An impressive couple of catches, and a pair of wickets for him this evening; no doubt he’ll reflect on that when making a double century at the WACA in a few years. Anyway, they got 110/8 and we won by 5 wickets with Tahir contributing an aggressive 42 and one of their lads bowling an 11 ball over, meaning Vince didn’t need to bat and I was in the Lodge for 9.30.

Fourteen hours later, Vince collected me from the same spot and we headed for Hetton Lyons. I don’t know much about the place, other than it’s the home of bizarre right-wing folk group The Weasels who, in one of the epicentres of the former coalmining belt, are proud to be scabs. I doubt the Durham NUM is aware of this, as they are apparently regulars at the Big Meeting.  As regards the cricket club, I’d been before, believing it to be Eppleton, so I’d not seen a game, but learned that it’s a canny shank through the long, thin town from Easington Lane to Church Road. In some ways, I wish I’d been at Eppleton instead that day, which was the hottest of the year. The quasi Moorish architecture of the pavilion, with its Spanish style white concrete stucco walls perfectly fitted a day that was always above 30 degrees, while the less than thoroughbred, haphazardly tethered horses in an adjoining field languidly flicked away flies with a snap of their unkempt tails. Lovely surroundings to watch them compile 240/8 declared. It could have been worse as we got the benefit of a couple of contentious LBW shouts; one perhaps too high and another where the lad definitely hit it. I did feel sorry for their young Aussie; out for 5, with his mum who’d flown over from Sydney, arriving just in time to see him face that one decisive ball from David Hymers. A tough total, but not an impossible one.

My admiration for Tahir grew exponentially that day, when I discovered his observance of Ramadan meant he wouldn’t even take a sip of water; his faith preventing him from indulging in even that minor respite when the drinks came on. Indeed, I missed his single ball innings when stirring my coffee in the snack bar cum book depository that does a magnificent bacon sandwich. Magnificent was not the word you’d use for Tynemouth’s batting; 1-1 (Nick caught in the slips), 1-2 (Ben caught off a leading edge), 1-3 (Tahir; missed it), 3-4 (Hallas caught when the ball stopped on him), 3-5 (Sam bowled, playing back), 12-6 (Lineas gloved it to the keeper) and 19-7 (Smithy, caught). You get the picture? The 33 against Newcastle was looking a formidable total at that point, but the next wicket fell at 35, before Niall Piper and David Hyners doubled that as we eventually folded for 72. The final indignity was Hetton asking for the extra half hour before tea.

Defeat confirmed, we skulked back through the tunnel to watch the 2nds show how it should be done, chasing down 226 in the reverse fixture, with the kind of dogged obduracy that had been noticeably absent in the first team, where blind panic of the kind most often seen in stampeding crowd scenes in a B-list disaster movie had been the order of the day. Still after a few beers, things didn’t seem quite so bad.

The following Friday, I thought about heading to Burnopfield for their 20/20 quarter final, but the weather didn’t look promising and I thought it better to spend time with my son, celebrating his IIi in history from Leeds; well done Ben. Shame you don’t like cricket.

Saturday saw the final fixtures in the first half of the season, with the Manchester City of the NEPL, South North, coming to Tynemouth. Marcus North started ominously for them with a four and a six, but then fell to an awful short from the bowling of the returning Finn Lonnberg. It was a dismissal almost as delicious as the chocolate éclair Ken the photographer presented me with; man of the match for him for sure. In fact, Tynemouth bowled very well to restrict them to 213. Sadly, the batting remained fragile, if improved from the week before and we were dismissed for 118. Only Matty and Tahir looked secure and both fell to unbelievable catches that show why South North are destined to be champions yet again, while Tynemouth dropped to third bottom of the table and had to digest the seriously depressing news of Felling’s thumping home win over Newcastle.

Sunday was another day of course and it’s not often you get chauffeured to the game by the opening bowlers, but that’s what happened. Finn, together with Sean Longstaff, fetched me to Stockton where the seconds were facing Stockton in a Banks Bowl quarter final. It all got off to a special start when Sean bowled their opener first ball; it’s what you’d call a bad leave.  Minutes later Sean’s dad David turns up and I have the happy task of breaking the news to him. Stockton don’t look much cop, but our fielding is abysmal; their opener makes 93 but is dropped 8 times, with nearly every one being a horrific error. However, their tail is a pronounced one and they subside from 182/3 to 224 all out.

During the break, David and I head off in search of petrol and a sandwich. There do not appear to be any garages between the A19 and the impressive if slightly ageing Grangefield ground, though we find a Tesco Express in the middle of swinging Norton, where the bars are heaving with Sunday afternoon revellers. The importance of healthy eating for an athlete is underlined as he gets a large bag of Monster Munch for sustenance.  We arrive back in time for the first ball of the innings, from by the lad who got 93. He gets 3 wickets as well, bowls his 9 overs through and then leaves; job done? Not quite. It does look a bit doubtful at 140/5 when Sean joins Matty McDine at the crease, but thankfully Stockton’s bowling is possibly the weakest I’ve ever seen. Sean whacks a few into the car park, including leaving a substantial orange-tinged dint in Sam Robson’s roof and we’re home and dry. I take a lift back to the club to collect my bike and find Halla, Vince and Fanta home and wet, in a state of severe inebriation as I give them a quick match report, before leaving them to another keg of medicinal San Miguel.

The next week, when the first ever round of day/ night county championship games are supposed to be played, is ruined by 4 consecutive days of torrential rain. Leaving work on Friday teatime I can’t see any possibility of play on the Saturday. However, an immediate 16 dry hour spell and a titanic job by Jacka the groundsman, who tears himself away from Social Media for once, results in the home game against Benwell Hill starting on time. We’re batting first, so the cynic’s question is, what will we all do after 4.30? In the event, loins are girded and we make 176 all out from the whole 58. Ben, Sam Dinning and Tahir contribute useful runs, though the latter is run out by Chris Fairley who’d been on the gargle until well after 5. At least he made it to the game, unlike the sheepish looking club chairman who cried off sick with Peroni poisoning and didn’t get out of bed until mid-afternoon. In his place, visiting 17 year old South African Rhys Unsworth makes 12 and looks like he has a superb technique; fair play to the lad. And fair play to all our bowlers, especially Sean and Tahir who win the game with 4 wickets each, even though we’d all felt sure the total was 30 runs short of what we ought to have made. It’s after 8 when Kyle Coetzer runs out of partners and the cheering is pretty loud, borne out of relief as much as anything when the last wicket falls. The news Felling have lost to the Academy, giving us a 45 point cushion on them, is warmly received. And then we all got completely bladdered. God knows how I got home with the bike, even though I was only pushing it.

Sunday morning, a fragile Vince gives a fragile me a lift to Eppleton for the Banks quarter final for the first team. It’s the yin to the splendours of Hetton Lyons’ yang. A rough, no nonsense place, but they love their cricket. Having lost Ben early, I’m convinced Matty edged one behind immediately after, though later he claimed he hadn’t touched it and I’d believe his instinct. They are incandescent when the umpire turns it down and their captain loses it for the rest of the game. I know a few umpires read my words, so I’ll state unequivocally that I am full of admiration for what they do; blokes often beyond retirement age giving up 8 hours on a Saturday to stand in all (dry) weathers. The level of concentration needed is substantial and if a fella in his 60s, whose vision and hearing may not be as razor sharp as the 20 somethings making those appeals or being given out, then that’s part and parcel of the game. No umpire makes a deliberately bad call and players need to remember that; mind they’re all choirboys compared to footballers, but that’s not saying much is it?

Matty makes 35, then the middle order collapse (poor young Rhys out first ball and Smithy caught behind when his bat was 8 inches away from the ball), leaving us 97/7. Thankfully the bearded wonders Fairley and Hymers get us up to 159 all out and it looks tight, their spinner taking 5. During the break, I have a good long chat with the dad of Leicestershire’s Ben Raine about local football and cricket, while David opts for a mild curry pot noodle from the snack bar as part of his healthy eating campaign. Paul Lonnberg is still thirsty and so fires half a gallon of alcoholic Ribena into him.

Eppleton  look to be on course at 96/3, until Sean runs their skipper out, who displays a volcanic display of petulance walking off. The bit is between our teeth and Sean, Tahir and Polly, the latter with an eye catching 3/17, dismiss them for 125, meaning we’ll host Benwell Hill in the semis. The day has a sour tinge when their captain sends his pal over to confront Tahir in the field, claiming without any evidence, Tahir had racially abused him. It’s pathetic and it spoils things, watching a little angry man channelling his frustrations at losing a game by making specious allegations. Game won, we get in our cars and leave. Another perfect weekend courtesy of Tynemouth Cricket Club.

July looks promising as well; Tynemouth home to the Academy, away to Felling and then South Shields on Saturdays, interspersed by a chance to get to both Brandon and Willington when Benfield play a pre-season friendly against Durham City. On Sundays we’ve got the delayed Banks QF between Newcastle and Sunderland as well as the 1^st XI 20/20 finals day at South North this weekend, with the two semi-finals for Tynemouth; the firsts home to Benwell Hill and the seconds away to South North. There are 4 occasions when all 3 Monkseaton teams play on the same day in the rest of this season; ominously, two of them are in July…