The cricket game

A gaggle of boys walked down the road from the nearby village carrying a small amount of cricket gear; a couple of bats, a tennis ball and sticks for stumps. Led by Alf Weston they were a motley group, several Weston brothers, my distant relative David Simons, and an assortment of other boys aged mainly 11 or 12 ranging up to Alf who was 14.

In this summer afternoon of 1954 I realised immediately their objective. They were visiting me but far more important they were looking for a pitch for a game of cricket. As I was the boy down the lane I was recognised as an authority on the options near my house. I soon picked the field opposite my house. This had latterly been used for cattle grazing but was now empty. Climbing over the gate we set about locating a suitable spot. This was not as easy as it sounds. Apart from avoiding new cowpats we also had to select somewhere without the tussocks where luxuriant coarse growth had occurred at the site of old cowpats.

 On this beautiful summers day I have been out and lain on my back watching a distant skylark with its wonderful song.. My mother always said this was her favourite bird because of its elegant song.

After some discussion a pitch in this large field close up to the road with back to the hedge was selected. It was set up with wicket at one end only, the other end just marked with a stick.

We did pick sides although this was almost immaterial as everyone had a turn batting, bowling and fielding as it was individual performance which counted. The picking of sides followed the usual practice: two captains were chosen and they then chose in turn from the players. Usually I was among the last to be picked as my uselessness at sports was well known. However in acknowledgement that it was “my pitch, my rules” I was declared a team captain. Unhesitatingly my first choice was Alf, who not only was the eldest, but also my well established friend.

Playing commenced; underarm bowling of course with a wicket keeper whose main job was to stop the ball going into the hedge behind him. There were no bails for him to whip off. The batter faced the interior of the field which gave plenty of scope for big hits. There was no boundary as such with fours or sixes awarded by general acclamation. In fact a four was difficult because of the pockmarked tussocks in the field. Skying the ball was easier for the inexperienced batters and made for more exciting fielding.

Our bats were a rather weird miscellany. Mine, probably inherited from my cousin, for some strange reason had a hole about an inch wide in the middle. Rather than tapering towards the handle it had a constant cross section below the handle. I’m not otherwise left handed except as a batsman- it just felt more natural that way.

Without an umpire close decisions were the subject of some good natured wrangling. As I said positions rotated. Because there were only maybe ten or a dozen players anyone not batting, bowling ( or wicket keeping who was effectively a fielder ) was in the field. It was expected that fielders did their best regardless of whether it was their side batting or not. Because everyone was really looking to their individual performance this worked

After a couple of hours in the sun energies wilted. I don’t recall that any decision on the winning team was ever made; we had all played for the enjoyment of playing. We then sat on the grassy verge outside my house while I got drinks. This was orange juice. Well it was orange in colour at least, made up from water added to a spoonful of crystals. Whatever the taste it satisfied young thirsts. They all set off to walk home while I went in to tea.