Sunday Evening Run Out

 Quite unbelievably, I played indoor cricket for the first time in 45 years the other day...

One of the hardest things about doing Dry January I always find, is the temptation caused by the sheer volume of drink lying around the house after New Year. Not just the usual boatload of cans in the fridge, the array of bottles in the wine rack and the secret stash of single malt at the back of the sideboard, that’s there for emergencies only, but the prohibition-busting lake of various, nefarious spirits that only get bought in late November and, seemingly in our house at any rate, only get drunk in early January.

We’d got through the first week back at graft without any alcohol temptation related mishaps, but then Saturday 7^th came along and, on the back of Percy Main’s home loss to Rutherford in the Alliance League Cup and then Chris Wood’s inexplicable miss at Hillsborough that went a long way to assisting Sheff Wed’s dismissal of Newcastle from the FA Cup, it seemed a long, dreary evening of shit television lay ahead when the final whistle went. This is when a litre of dark rum and half that amount of Spanish citrus gin, as well as the appropriate mixers, that our drinks cabinet (aka the downstairs netty) coughed up, can act as a port in a storm. Port you say? Well, there’s also a bottle of that and some pongy cheese that needs eating up. You know where this is going, right? Fairly soon, we moved on from simply smirking at Liverpool’s defence against Wolves to blasting out Give ‘Em Enough Rope in singsong memory of friends passed. Suffice to say, I retired later than at New Year, in a very jolly frame of mind.

Things weren’t so amusing about 6 hours later when I had to take the dog out for his morning constitutional, when the wind stung my teeth and my eyes. Being rational, all that the day seemed to offer was a dozen lethargic hours, spent in front of televised FA Cup action, before an early night in preparation for the working week. As Joe Strummer once so sagely observed; Monday’s coming like a jail on wheels.” And then, just when obscure mediocrity beckoned, my phone went. It was a text from my old mate Martin Pollard.

Poll’s a good lad; off spin legend at a rake of NEPL clubs this past quarter of a century, he’s still doing his thing, despite serious health issues in recent years, for my beloved Tynemouth. One of his particular things is organising the club’s annual tilt at indoor cricket over the winter. Before lockdown, I’d twice followed Tynemouth to Old Trafford (and once to a leisure centre in Horwich, directly opposite the Reebok Stadium when Old Trafford was double booked) to the northern finals of the national indoor 6-a-side competition, only a step away from the grand final at Lords. Things aren’t so grand for the team from Preston Avenue these days; despite beating Cowgate, subsequent losses to Benwell Hill and South North in the North East group competition, meant there was no chance of progressing in 2023. The final game against Seaton Burn was therefore a total dead rubber. Presumably, that’s why I got asked to fill the vacant slot. Despite the raging juniper-fuelled hangover that afflicted my brain, I said yes immediately, failing to recognise that the 8pm start would prevent me from watching Call the Midwife. Result, eh?

Being serious, it is an absolute honour to be asked to represent Tynemouth at whatever level, wherever, whenever and in whatever competition. Despite not having played indoor cricket since about Year 8, I would not have missed this opportunity for the world. So it was, in a snug-fitting, borrowed TCC hoodie (we third teamers don’t require multicoloured pyjamas at our level of the game) and my padded goalkeeper strides, I trod the green vinyl at South North’s indoor cricket centre, on the darkest day in Tynemouth’s proud 176-year history. Having refuelled in the afternoon with several gallons of Vimto and a bunch of bananas, I took my place alongside 5 first teamers (Phil Morse, Andrew Smith, Joe Snowdon, Richard Stanyon and Poll) in as good a state as could be expected for a 58-year-old with a raging hangover.

Briefly, indoor cricket is a 6-a-side game, where batters retire at 25, but can come back. Indeed, you play last batter standing. Runs are scored by hitting the ball against the side or back netting (1), far end netting behind the bowler (4 or 6), or by running (2). You can be caught off the roof, side or back netting. The general standard is 12 overs a side and it’s expected that 5 of the fielding side get to bowl, which is what caused me a little unease as I’m not used to mixing with such elevated company, well apart from my famous appearance at Shotley Bridge in the NEPL 1^st XI T20 competition last year of course…

We batted first and did alright. Smudger and Morsey both got to 25 and had to retire, while Stanners and Snowy holed out, smashing the hard but light hollow plastic ball around the place. This was my cue to simper nervously to the crease to join Poll. His knee reconstruction surgery and my age and heft meant quick singles weren’t on the agenda. Indeed, in similar situations I’ve seen batters deliberately get themselves out (hello Poll), to get the big hitters back in. In the event I did get out first ball, but totally unintentionally and perhaps a touch unluckily. Unbelievably I made a good connection (we’ll not say timed it though) and on a Saturday it could have gone to the rope, but instead a tallish bloke stood at approximately mid-wicket, reached up and snaffled it. Could have been a contender…

Morsey continued the good work and we amassed 127/5 from our 12 overs. The rule of thumb for indoor cricket is that you’ll never win unless you’ve set the opposition at least 10 an over. When I’d played at Shotley Bridge, first XI skipper Matt Brown knew exactly what to do with me in the field; stick me at short fine leg out of harm’s way. In the end I fielded the ball once and found my ideal role in telling Barry Stewart whether the batter was left or right-handed, so he knew where to stand. Similarly for this one, I was kept as far from the action as possible at long on. I think I got to touch the ball about 5 times in total, including one of the most inaccurate shies at the stumps you’ll ever see. It looked like I was suffering from triple vision, though there is the fact that until my recent physiotherapy on my shoulder, I couldn’t throw overarm for about 3 years.

When fielding, I found it difficult to judge the flight of the ball, especially after it bounced. The thing seemed to stop abruptly and fly lower than I expected. Luckily though, it is reasonably easy to bowl with. I did my usual mincing 3-step and then deliver, without attempting to do much other than get it on target and, being honest, I didn’t do badly. A couple of overs for 15 runs, including a wide (not leg side incredibly), when I had to bowl at a left-hander as well, wasn’t a bad effort. Smudger also ran one of theirs out while I was bowling, which I’m claiming as a wicket for no good reason. Incredibly, all 6 of their batters were run out. I wouldn’t say we were the greatest team in the field, but they seemed to panic with the victory target in sight. The result was we won by 20 runs with an over to spare. It may have been a meaningless game in the greater scheme of things but taking part in it is a memory I’ll treasure forever.