Folsom Praise
You can choose love or hate…I choose love. (Johnny Cash)
A glorious late August day greets the penultimate match of the season. There is something at stake for the home team, a win will give them an outside chance of promotion. Already relegated, the visitors arrive with bags under their eyes heavier than those containing their kit. Late night, Umps, explains the captain, with an assumption that I wasn’t once his age.
On this ground, the combo of baking sun and perfect track always makes for a run fest. The visitors’ skipper wins the toss, and rather than chase a thousand, he decides to bat. He knows the rules of engagement – anything short of 250 is going to lose, especially after the night his revellers appear to have enjoyed, not to mention the home club’s Kiwi batting import who comes in at three. Maybe this will be the once-in-a-season game where I arrive home considerably earlier than the norm, with Mrs Umps either entertaining one of her girlfriends from the book group, or, perhaps getting busy in the kitchen.
You’re early, darling (not the first time in married life that I have heard those words). Leek and potato soup will be ready in half an hour. Sort out your washing, I’ll pour a G&T and we can settle down to Midsomer Murders. I’m living the dream.
Despite the perfect weather and track, the revellers are in long-handle mode and get bundled out for around 160, as a lack of foot movement at the crease precipitates a great deal of movement towards the pavilion. They are at least a century short of a target that would make the home team begin to worry. It’s one of those innings where a batter gets to 20 and then loses the plot. The skipper, who belongs to a select group of recreational cricketers able to hit a half century with consummate ease, falls short with 40-something. And I’m impressed with a youngster making his debut for the Firsts who comes in at nine and gets his head down to accumulate a double-figure score.
I reckon we could be out of here in two hours, including the time spent enjoying an excellent tea that this club provides. The openers read my mind, dispatching a surfeit of wayward deliveries to the rope. At the first drinks break after 17 overs, each has a half-century and the target is down to 30. The game will be over in half an hour and I look forward to Johnny Cash Live at Folsom accompanying me home.
And then from nowhere.
The debutant youngster comes on to bowl at my end. This is his big moment, leaving behind the circus of the lower Divisions to play some serious cricket. Who knows, in a few years, he could be the chosen one steaming in at The Gabba to deliver the first ball of an Ashes series. Marking a longish run, the lad means business, sending a few practice balls to mid-off and shouting to the guy patrolling the mid-wicket boundary: Squarer, Douggie (it would be callous of me to point out that more square is the correct discourse).
His opening ball is slashed over the slips for an ugly four and the lad ensures the batter knows what he’s up against with a hands-on-hips stare, honed to perfection in front of the bathroom mirror. The next three deliveries confirm he has ability, but the final two balls are short and are comfortably dispatched to the square-leg boundary. Head down, the urchin collects his cap and trudges off to patrol the nether regions. His day will come.
Three boundaries in an over should be more than enough to rub the rookie’s face in a cow pat. But this batter is not satisfied – he isn’t going home until the stocks are erected for teammates to throw rotten tomatoes at this new kid on the block. He walks down the track to meet his partner for an end-of-over powwow and declares at a decibel level that I assume was not meant to reach my ears:
Sending down that crap, what does the kid expect?
I would have been surprised if the batter had invited the youngster to participate in a group hug after his unsuccessful first over with the big boys. But this kind of machismo is all about context. The finishing rope of a long season is in sight, we’ll be shaking hands in 20 minutes, and from next week we won’t be seeing each other for another eight months. That said, a few years ago, I bumped into a player at the meat counter in Asda on Christmas Eve.
The batter is picking a fight in an empty room. The thumping win does not satiate his appetite, he also needs a slice of humiliation from the dessert trolley. It’s a kind of B-list psychopathy which would not earn him the subject profile on The World’s Worst Serial Killers (highly recommended, the episode about a guy in Texas who confessed to a half century of homicides hits my sweet spot a lot quicker than Midsomer Murders).
Perhaps feeling a touch of guilt, a couple of overs later the batter throws away his wicket hitting over a straight delivery from the youngster. Next over, the game reaches its inevitable conclusion and I’m soon on the way home in my UMP51 jalopy with Johnny belting out I’m Here to Get My Baby Out of Jail.
At a red-light queue on an A-road, an image appears from my misspent youth. I’m 12-years-old, playing summer holiday cricket with mates on a recreational field that hosts a local League team. We cobble together a nine-a-side game, the weather is glorious and without a care in the world we set up a makeshift wicket in the outfield. I’m bowling and grab a wicket. A friend of a friend who has kindly agreed to make up the numbers and play for our opponents, comes into bat.
He blocks a couple and then misses a straight ball that uproots middle stump. As he walks off, I can’t help myself:
If you want to play in our game, you’ll need to come up with something better than that.
I don’t want to play at all. Shut your f***ing mouth, or I’ll shut it for you.