A VERY ENGLISH SCENE

Pershore Cricket Club, with the Abbey in the background

I don’t watch much cricket these days. An occasional county game, the odd day at the Test… and that’s about it. Nor am I glued to ball-by-ball coverage on the television. I cannot explain this; all I know is that many former professional cricketers are similarly lukewarm about the current game. It’s significant that at former players’ reunions at their old clubs, nobody, nobody, watches any of the cricket. The score, the state of the game, the identity of the players, even the name of the opponents, remain very much in the background. It’s not that we have fallen out of love with the game – far from it. We follow the fortunes of our county and the England team with interest, but it’s just that we have, well…moved on. We had our time, and it was – largely – great fun, but now our priorities have shifted, and it is the turn of another generation.

However, a few days ago, I agreed to meet a friend in Pershore, not far from where I live in Hanley Swan, near Malvern, in Worcestershire. He was playing in a veterans’ match between Wiltshire – he lives in Marlborough – and Worcestershire. I was a little early, so I sat down on a bench by the boundary’s edge to while away the time whilst enjoying the pleasant midsummer sunshine. One by one, players from both sides, engaged in a little, gentle loosening up, stopped to have a chat. “We don’t get much of a crowd at these matches,” said one, “So, welcome to the mad house!” None of them, I think it fair to say, was in the first flush of youth. “What competition is this?” I asked. “County Over-70s,” was the reply. Over 70! I had no idea that anyone over 70 still played the game. “Some of us are over 80, you know,” I was further informed. But this was a proper match, not the equivalent of Walking Football for pensioners on a cricket pitch. All were dressed immaculately in white and round about their desultory warm-up, the timeless ritual of a

cricket match was unfolding. The ground looked a picture, with Bredon Hill looming on the horizon, the groundsman was marking out the creases, another was hammering in the stumps, a third was laying out the round white markers for the obligatory fielding restrictions, the umpires were watching on with a critical eye and ladies were making coffee in the pavilion and setting out cutlery and crockery for tea. It was a scene to set your heart singing.

 The White Horse of Wiltshire (except here it’s green!)

“Don’t expect too much,” my friend warned me, “It’s a bit geriatric.” Well, yes, it could hardly be anything else, but you could see in an instant that some of them knew – or had known – how to play. My surprise was not so much at the standard of play but at the fact that they were playing at all – and so obviously enjoying every moment. Once or twice, you winced as a ball was cracked at a fielder; would he stop it without serious injury? One fellow went to field a ball, bent down and with a little cry, crumpled into a heap. Cue ribald laughter. I wondered if he would ever get to his feet again but eventually, he levered himself upright with a little rueful smile. My sympathy went out to the poor sod who would have to collect the ball from the long grass whenever a boundary was struck. His journey seemed an awfully long way and took an awfully long time.  

It would have been easy to scoff but I didn’t. It was actually an uplifting experience. My admiration for these aged warriors knew no bounds. The match was taken seriously, but not that seriously. It was important to win but it was not a matter of life or death. Close proximity to the latter tends to lend a perspective on things. Furthermore, these county teams – for that is what they are – travel far and wide to fulfil the fixture list. “Imagine driving for three-and-a half hours down to Devon or Cornwall,” my friend pointed out, “to play a 40-over game and then travel for three-an-a-half hours back home again.” That is dedication, I thought to myself, and can only be born out of a true and enduring love of the game.

Alas I could not stay. Another engagement pressed. But the Marlborough linchpin of the Wiltshire team kept me abreast of the state of play. His breathless missives reminded me of the old Telex machines that used to keep us up to date with the football scores: “Worcs 237-4 with a couple of retirements…1-50 off 7… Scored 39 in opening partnership of 100+…Now need 28 off 7…. Other opening bat still going with unbeaten hundred…Wilts win by 5 wickets with 14 balls to spare!”

And nobody died!

My correspondent signed off with: “There will be dancing in the streets of Trowbridge tonight!”

That is, if they have any energy left.