It’s mid-August, and a vicious rainstorm batters much of the British Isles; the type of warm, thunderous precipitation not usually seen outside of the tropics. In the car park of Clapham Junction’s village-sized Asda, the downpour is particularly aggressive. Shopping trolleys are whisked away by the force, many still containing bags of groceries and small children that were not unpacked hastily enough by parents who had casually strolled from shop exit to vehicle in the moderate early-afternoon sunshine, unaware of the devastation soon to befall them, their discount shopping and their hapless offspring.
Elderly ladies, tracksuit-clad jobseekers and swaggering teenagers spouting incomprehensible slang all crowd together under what little protection the increasingly crowded supermarket sheltering can provide. A child wails for its mother, presumably washed downstream by the ever-quickening river that has formed in what used to be the roadside gutter. Against the backdrop of rolling thunder and bolts of lightning, a murder of crows fly ominously overhead squawking demonically, as though enjoying the distress unfolding beneath them.
Amongst all this confusion and carnage stand James Hewlett and Henry Wickham, a densely packed cricket bag between them, on top of which rests an even denser black forest gateau, lovingly prepared by Mrs. Hewlett for the Hendrick’s XI 2018 tour of Oxford. It’s an annual event around which many summers are now meticulously planned, but this year, prospects for play look bleak. The two men silently utter a prayer unto the cricketing gods, begging for the deluge to cease, or at least temporarily abate, praying also that the venue for the evening’s match has a pretty solid drainage system. Like the kind seen at multi-million-pound Premier League football stadiums. A not unreasonable request.
Squinting through the gloom, they finally espy what they’ve been looking for. Bravely making its way through the surging riptide is the distinctive blue Volkswagen Fox of one Oli May, pulling up a mere 40 minutes late. Which, to be fair, is considerably more punctual than Hewlett’s previous attempts at pick-up schedules. As the two men hasten to the car, charging through the chaos and waist-high* waters, May flings open the door and they fall gratefully inside. As they wring out their t-shirts May guns the accelerator and they speed from the biblical scene behind them. “Animal Biscuits?”, asks Wickham, proudly offering around his recent Asda purchase.
Cookies are contentedly munched, and another tour is begun.
*Details possibly embellished for moderate dramatic effect.
Friday: Far From the MCC CC
Having feared the worst for the playing conditions on a journey north that had featured a significant amount of dangerous aquaplaning, the weather in Oxford proved to be nothing short of paradisiacal. Shafts of sunlight cut through puffy white clouds, an enormous lawnmower trimmed the immaculate outfield, and several of the opposition were already settling in pitch-side with their usual selection of deckchairs and cans of Red Stripe.
But question marks remained over the Hendrick’s recruitment. With James Rollett and Ravi Patel having been added to the ever-growing list of squad absentees, the depleted roster was undoubtedly a concern. Not since The Great KFC Chicken Shortage of 2018 had an institution been so alarmingly bereft of its principal resources.
Thankfully, club captain Tim Saunders had greased some wheels and worked some expert backchannel diplomacy to bring in a trio of Bodlean CC ringers for their much-anticipated clash with fellow Oxfordians Far From the MCC. The offer of lucrative appearance fees and industrial-size slabs of Mrs. Hewlett’s increasingly anticipated black forest gateau had been enough to secure the services of three highly rated regulars.
Elderly ladies, tracksuit-clad jobseekers and swaggering teenagers spouting incomprehensible slang all crowd together under what little protection the increasingly crowded supermarket sheltering can provide. A child wails for its mother, presumably washed downstream by the ever-quickening river that has formed in what used to be the roadside gutter. Against the backdrop of rolling thunder and bolts of lightning, a murder of crows fly ominously overhead squawking demonically, as though enjoying the distress unfolding beneath them.
Amongst all this confusion and carnage stand James Hewlett and Henry Wickham, a densely packed cricket bag between them, on top of which rests an even denser black forest gateau, lovingly prepared by Mrs. Hewlett for the Hendrick’s XI 2018 tour of Oxford. It’s an annual event around which many summers are now meticulously planned, but this year, prospects for play look bleak. The two men silently utter a prayer unto the cricketing gods, begging for the deluge to cease, or at least temporarily abate, praying also that the venue for the evening’s match has a pretty solid drainage system. Like the kind seen at multi-million-pound Premier League football stadiums. A not unreasonable request.
Squinting through the gloom, they finally espy what they’ve been looking for. Bravely making its way through the surging riptide is the distinctive blue Volkswagen Fox of one Oli May, pulling up a mere 40 minutes late. Which, to be fair, is considerably more punctual than Hewlett’s previous attempts at pick-up schedules. As the two men hasten to the car, charging through the chaos and waist-high* waters, May flings open the door and they fall gratefully inside. As they wring out their t-shirts May guns the accelerator and they speed from the biblical scene behind them. “Animal Biscuits?”, asks Wickham, proudly offering around his recent Asda purchase.
Cookies are contentedly munched, and another tour is begun.
*Details possibly embellished for moderate dramatic effect.
Friday: Far From the MCC CC
Having feared the worst for the playing conditions on a journey north that had featured a significant amount of dangerous aquaplaning, the weather in Oxford proved to be nothing short of paradisiacal. Shafts of sunlight cut through puffy white clouds, an enormous lawnmower trimmed the immaculate outfield, and several of the opposition were already settling in pitch-side with their usual selection of deckchairs and cans of Red Stripe.
But question marks remained over the Hendrick’s recruitment. With James Rollett and Ravi Patel having been added to the ever-growing list of squad absentees, the depleted roster was undoubtedly a concern. Not since The Great KFC Chicken Shortage of 2018 had an institution been so alarmingly bereft of its principal resources.
Thankfully, club captain Tim Saunders had greased some wheels and worked some expert backchannel diplomacy to bring in a trio of Bodlean CC ringers for their much-anticipated clash with fellow Oxfordians Far From the MCC. The offer of lucrative appearance fees and industrial-size slabs of Mrs. Hewlett’s increasingly anticipated black forest gateau had been enough to secure the services of three highly rated regulars.
First Innings: Fewer Drops Than Usual (Far From the MCC to bat)
The reassuringly reliable partnership of Ed Robinson and James Gilbert kicked off proceedings with the usual control and aggression – like the Broad and Anderson of sub-village cricket, they continued to amass wickets and maidens, the only question being who would get more of which. On-loan Bodlean skipper James Shaw fielded with a tenacity and elasticity that left many of the younger Hendrick’s contingent in the shadows, springing athletically to give Robinson the game’s opening wicket. Their robustly constructed foundations were then built upon by the customary rotation of first-, second- and third-change bowling options, with the usual rag-tag band of merry chancers all being afforded a hopeful shot at claiming a small slice of sporting self-respect. |
The highlight was undoubtedly a superb piece of wicket keeping from Saunders – a man better known for his sometimes hilarious, often convoluted and always extravagant sledges at the stumps than for his catching behind them. But today was different. Swapping humour for something resembling concentration, he sprang into action and took a glorious chance off the outside edge following some tidy bowling from May. Speechless but elated teammates flocked to congratulate the equally dumfounded keeper.
But he wasn’t done. As the run rate crept up and the fourth wicket partnership passed 60, Captain Wickham turned to his invaluable troupe of ringers, tossing the ball first to the single-named and highly mysterious Asad, and then Bodlean batting supremo David Shackleton, who proved his frustrating levels of talent did indeed run across the disciplines. Asad was a man with a plan. In fact, few could have claimed to be in possession of either more manliness or better planning. He quickly overhauled all of the captain’s lackadaisical fielding positions, selecting his own off-side heavy setup. When questioned by Wickham whether he’d need more legside cover, he replied simply “It’s ok, I won’t be bowling it there.” Ah, to have a proper bowler in the ranks.
He set about the task of taking wickets like a man keen to be back home on a balmy Friday, striking three times in quick succession, but not without further intervention from the luminous, magnetic Saunders. Surpassing the greatness of even his earlier catch, he leapt nimbly once more, expertly holding a thin edge to help wrestle back a measure of control as the game ebbed and flowed. Shackleton kept things similarly tight down the other end, picking up a couple of late wickets to leave a tasty chase of 122 in prospect. Almost as tasty as the sumptuously rich and moist black forest gateau that had been ferried so carefully from Crystal Palace to Oxford; a cake so heavy and structurally sound it could have provided ample ballast to even the largest Zeppelin airship.
Second Innings: A Tasty Chase (122 to win)
The Hendrick’s response would start with two familiar, well-seasoned faces, as Qas ‘Tropic Thunder’ Khattak headed out alongside Saunders, the latter still on a dizzying high from his surprisingly acrobatic wicket keeping. But the former was also fresh from mighty heroics of his own – against North Enfield CC a few games previous – in which he had become only the second Hendrick’s player in history to register a century, doing so with his usual degree of casual demolition and merciless boundary hitting, while in the process tightening his already painfully tight stranglehold on the club’s coveted ‘Most Career Sixes’ accolade. Sadly, that halcyon afternoon in which he rapaciously plundered 103 runs from just 73 balls was now a distant memory, and piratical ransacking against Far From the MCC would prove a leaner enterprise.
A slightly scratchy start from the talismanic big-hitter was made to look positively fluent by Saunders, who’s departure for a five-ball duck would later see him handed the tour’s first ‘Performance’ forfeit. As chastened as they were by the early loss of their record run-scorer and ubiquitous opener, a ripple of excitement spread through the team when his replacement stepped out to bat. For lining up at number three, for his debut Hendrick’s appearance, was none other than the effortless smasher of boundaries, breaker of hearts and destroyer of bowling averages: Shackleton.
His devastating performances in years past against various incarnations of Hendrick’s bowling attacks had left many scarred, battered and mentally incapable of holding a cricket ball again. They even say he sweats the world’s finest cologne and lions roll over and purr just by looking at him.
His legend preceded him, the way lightning precedes thunder.
Now, for one night only, his allegiances had shifted and many among the touring contingent were already envisioning an explosive cameo that would kick-start the run chase and propel the team towards a famous – and first – victory against Far From the MCC. Unlike Mrs. Hewlett’s black forest gateau, you could cut the anticipation with a knife.
Naturally, then, it came as something of a disappointment when, to his first ball – a beautifully angled, in-swinging left-arm seam delivery – instead of a classy lofted drive for six (ordinarily) or four (on an off day), his new team witnessed the off-stump being pegged back and the bail flying through the air. A deadly hush descended upon the stunned tourists watching in shock from the boundary edge.
Such was the surprise at seeing the extravagantly destructive Shackleton, er… shackled… that May, batting at five, hadn’t yet thought it necessary to pad up, find his gloves, or even put on cricket kit, lounging as he was clad immodestly in boxer shorts, industrial levels of suncream and wide brimmed floppy hat on the club’s pitch-side deckchairs.
But he wasn’t done. As the run rate crept up and the fourth wicket partnership passed 60, Captain Wickham turned to his invaluable troupe of ringers, tossing the ball first to the single-named and highly mysterious Asad, and then Bodlean batting supremo David Shackleton, who proved his frustrating levels of talent did indeed run across the disciplines. Asad was a man with a plan. In fact, few could have claimed to be in possession of either more manliness or better planning. He quickly overhauled all of the captain’s lackadaisical fielding positions, selecting his own off-side heavy setup. When questioned by Wickham whether he’d need more legside cover, he replied simply “It’s ok, I won’t be bowling it there.” Ah, to have a proper bowler in the ranks.
He set about the task of taking wickets like a man keen to be back home on a balmy Friday, striking three times in quick succession, but not without further intervention from the luminous, magnetic Saunders. Surpassing the greatness of even his earlier catch, he leapt nimbly once more, expertly holding a thin edge to help wrestle back a measure of control as the game ebbed and flowed. Shackleton kept things similarly tight down the other end, picking up a couple of late wickets to leave a tasty chase of 122 in prospect. Almost as tasty as the sumptuously rich and moist black forest gateau that had been ferried so carefully from Crystal Palace to Oxford; a cake so heavy and structurally sound it could have provided ample ballast to even the largest Zeppelin airship.
Second Innings: A Tasty Chase (122 to win)
The Hendrick’s response would start with two familiar, well-seasoned faces, as Qas ‘Tropic Thunder’ Khattak headed out alongside Saunders, the latter still on a dizzying high from his surprisingly acrobatic wicket keeping. But the former was also fresh from mighty heroics of his own – against North Enfield CC a few games previous – in which he had become only the second Hendrick’s player in history to register a century, doing so with his usual degree of casual demolition and merciless boundary hitting, while in the process tightening his already painfully tight stranglehold on the club’s coveted ‘Most Career Sixes’ accolade. Sadly, that halcyon afternoon in which he rapaciously plundered 103 runs from just 73 balls was now a distant memory, and piratical ransacking against Far From the MCC would prove a leaner enterprise.
A slightly scratchy start from the talismanic big-hitter was made to look positively fluent by Saunders, who’s departure for a five-ball duck would later see him handed the tour’s first ‘Performance’ forfeit. As chastened as they were by the early loss of their record run-scorer and ubiquitous opener, a ripple of excitement spread through the team when his replacement stepped out to bat. For lining up at number three, for his debut Hendrick’s appearance, was none other than the effortless smasher of boundaries, breaker of hearts and destroyer of bowling averages: Shackleton.
His devastating performances in years past against various incarnations of Hendrick’s bowling attacks had left many scarred, battered and mentally incapable of holding a cricket ball again. They even say he sweats the world’s finest cologne and lions roll over and purr just by looking at him.
His legend preceded him, the way lightning precedes thunder.
Now, for one night only, his allegiances had shifted and many among the touring contingent were already envisioning an explosive cameo that would kick-start the run chase and propel the team towards a famous – and first – victory against Far From the MCC. Unlike Mrs. Hewlett’s black forest gateau, you could cut the anticipation with a knife.
Naturally, then, it came as something of a disappointment when, to his first ball – a beautifully angled, in-swinging left-arm seam delivery – instead of a classy lofted drive for six (ordinarily) or four (on an off day), his new team witnessed the off-stump being pegged back and the bail flying through the air. A deadly hush descended upon the stunned tourists watching in shock from the boundary edge.
Such was the surprise at seeing the extravagantly destructive Shackleton, er… shackled… that May, batting at five, hadn’t yet thought it necessary to pad up, find his gloves, or even put on cricket kit, lounging as he was clad immodestly in boxer shorts, industrial levels of suncream and wide brimmed floppy hat on the club’s pitch-side deckchairs.
After a slow start, a promising partnership would eventually develop with the energetic Adrian Crawford, as the two began to drag the team back towards the required run-a-ball rate. But with plenty of wickets in hand, the vociferous cries from the boundary edge – along the lines of “get a shift on”, only with considerably more vicious expletives and sickening threats of physical intimidation and abuse – grew steadily as boundaries remained hard to come by.
Taking the hint, May finally teed off impressively, crashing a series of balls to the fence and beyond, including a trademark towering six, before he arrived at the novel retirement score of 42 – the two sides’ on-going homage to Douglas Adam’s Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. |
As the statesmanlike Gilbert arrived at the crease, impassioned calls from the deckchair-entrenched contingent to up the run rate grew louder still as second and third runs continued to be politely declined, despite the obvious athleticism of both batsmen. They would eventually get their arses in gear to set up a thrilling final over in which victory seemed deliciously close and yet remained, somehow, agonisingly out of reach. For the second time in three years, the Hendrick’s XI would inch to within four runs of their Friday night tormentors, but a hat trick of successive defeats was sealed after a breathless finish.
What they said…
“I’ve never enjoyed being beaten more”, remarked an outrageously chipper Robinson, taking the loss in his stride. In fact, taking it better than he took most victories. Ineffective stand-in skipper Wickham was less sanguine in the face of defeat. “Well, yeah, you know, of course, we just didn’t get the rub of the green today,” he reflected philosophically, pensively stroking an imaginary beard. “For Shacks [Shackleton] to get cleaned up first ball after we shelled out the remainder of our annual budget to secure his services was pretty disappointing. A travesty, some may say. Needless to say it leaves us a little light on petrol money for the remainder of tour”, he concluded, before letting forth a short, violent exclamation and stomping off to the pub.
The evening’s electric entertainment came courtesy of Saunders who had, for the first time in five years of touring, finally incurred the sacred ‘Performance’ penalty courtesy of his misfiring display with the bat. Following a hearty curry, a reduced seven-man contingent hit the Oxford streets in style only for Saunders to abruptly pull up and declare, “The time has arrived.”
He promptly launched in to a surprisingly moving and in-key rendition of Aretha Franklin’s timeless classic ‘A Natural Woman’, the silent streets filling with the reverberations of his tender performance. So much so that a nearby apartment window was flung open and a warm round of applause and appreciative cheers echoed from two impressed onlookers. |
Sad news would hit the front pages a just few days later that the pioneer of soul and R&B had passed away. It seems a fitting tribute to her legacy of female and African-American empowerment that one of the last known live performances of her 1967 standard was performed by a white, middle-class man on a cricket tour of Oxford while drinking a Hendrick’s and tonic.
Saturday: Steventon CC
Saturday began in typical tour fashion, with Saunders enthusiastically lobbying for a punt along the Thames. Gilbert, Hewlett and Wickham were eventually worn down so pastries were secured, Test Match Special was found on Big V’s phone and the quartet set off for a brief but surprisingly eventful adventure along one of Oxford’s more picturesque, foliage-laden canals.
Once back on land, the day brought with it a much-needed batch of personnel reinforcements. Bright eyed, fresh faced and full of vigour, they rocked up with confidence and optimism, like new American soldiers arriving at Vietnam’s Da Nang airbase in 1965. They came in the form of four delightfully contrasting and equally valuable recruits.
There was Tom Summers, genial, ginger and gregarious, with the bearing of a particularly athletic darts player and the disarming giggle of a schoolgirl. He wasted no time in setting a new Hendrick’s precedent, walking out to field with a pint in one hand and a fag in the other, placing the mostly full glass gingerly on the uneven turf next to him at extra-cover. It would prove to be an inspired piece of motivation, as he sprung into action with a particularly nimble diving stop to prevent the possibility of ball and beverage colliding. The commitment on display was even more impressive considering the stop was largely unnecessary, with Wickham fielding almost directly behind him at mid-off. “That’s the fastest I’ve ever moved,” he was heard to remark as he hobbled awkwardly back to his position.
Next, there was Chris Thomson, bespectacled, affable and in possession of a slow left arm of unnervingly little pace and a hint of turn. He proved to be a more than capable understudy for the absent Metcalf, in both appearance and technique, and would quickly write himself into the folklore of Hendrick’s history with some Metcalf-esque displays of batting solidity, showing a stoic refusal to play all but the gentlemanly forward defensive.
Owez Madhani, veteran of the Hendrick’s previous heavy skirmish (and brave, battling defeat) against the All Stars XI in a pre-tour game, also came back and reported once more for active service. Rounding off the fab new foursome was Charlie Wickham, whose previous tour of duty had come during the Hendrick’s maiden voyage to Oxford way back in 2014. Dug out from retirement, he arrived looking even taller, more heavily bearded and shaggy haired than before, resembling something between a modern-day Viking, relatively well-dressed drifter and heavy metal Jesus.
First Innings: Respectable Returns (Hendrick’s to bat)
With the new pack in place, the Hendrick’s XI took the unusual decision to bat first – Khattak’s first action during a disappointingly brief spell as skipper. Proceedings started poorly with Hewlett contriving to dismiss himself in comical fashion, awkwardly prodding his first delivery into the air for the simplest of catches. New man Thomson then came in and dropped anchor in an ironically Hewlett-inspired display of diligence. He scored only reluctantly as the ball cannoned off one of his impressive series of straight-batted defensive shots during an extremely watchful 11-ball debut. With the innings in need of some impetus, Khattak’s arrival at the crease seemed fortuitously timed, placing himself, as the likes of Joe Root, Virat Kohli, Kane Williamson and Steve Smith have all famously done, at number four. Lamentably, the mantle of leadership laid a little too heavy on his shoulders and a tortuous time in the middle that continued to take its toll on his strike rate came to an end with Hendrick’s at 44-3, and requiring some big hitting. Once more, May took it upon himself to get things going, hammering a few boundaries to keep up his solid recent showings of rapid strike rates and even more rapid departures, leaving soon after for a useful 15 from 9 balls. |
As the the afternoon wore on the scoring picked up, despite the attempts of Steventon to upset the Hendrick’s rhythm with some bawdy sledging and particularly lewd ‘Who would you rather…?’ jokes being deployed behind the stumps. Tellingly, even Wickham Sr. was able to notch up a career-high of 30 during a surprisingly fluent 50 partnership with Saunders, whose classy 69 was also his highest Hendrick’s contribution. The length of his innings did raise concerns for the club captain’s bionically supported heart – the increasingly audible ticking of his metal valve reminiscent of the ominous sound of Captain Hook’s nemesis, the hand-eating, clock-swallowing crocodile. Thankfully Saunders was eventually dismissed, after admitting he felt “rather delirious”, following a 75-ball stint that recently-retired crease-occupier extraordinaire Alastair Cook would have been proud of.
Once both men had fallen and Wickham Jr’s knock had lasted just one ball longer than his previous innings for the club, in a solidly constructed three-ball duck, Madhani was then run out at the non-striker’s end without having faced a ball. But their ever-accommodating opposition to allow him a reprieve and he made the most of his second life, batting elegantly alongside Robinson for his own personal best of 18. Robinson himself launched a brutal all-out assault on the bowling attack – charging down the wicket to cream the ball repeatedly over extra-cover for a succession of useful late-innings boundaries, ramping up his deceivingly low batting average.
Having edged the score past 200 he clearly considered his work done. With the warmth, food and craft ales of the clubhouse calling, he smashed one final ball down the ground in the direction of long-on – the lone, terrified fielder just about managing to hold on to a catch that saw Hendrick’s finish their innings a couple shy of the 35-over allotment.
Once both men had fallen and Wickham Jr’s knock had lasted just one ball longer than his previous innings for the club, in a solidly constructed three-ball duck, Madhani was then run out at the non-striker’s end without having faced a ball. But their ever-accommodating opposition to allow him a reprieve and he made the most of his second life, batting elegantly alongside Robinson for his own personal best of 18. Robinson himself launched a brutal all-out assault on the bowling attack – charging down the wicket to cream the ball repeatedly over extra-cover for a succession of useful late-innings boundaries, ramping up his deceivingly low batting average.
Having edged the score past 200 he clearly considered his work done. With the warmth, food and craft ales of the clubhouse calling, he smashed one final ball down the ground in the direction of long-on – the lone, terrified fielder just about managing to hold on to a catch that saw Hendrick’s finish their innings a couple shy of the 35-over allotment.
Second Innings: The Weather Snatches Success (202 to win)
Robinson was soon back in the action alongside Gilbert for a typically merciless opening eight overs, taking three wickets and conceding just 18 runs between them. Summers continued to back up the bowling by fiercely protecting his half-drunk pint, cigarette still wafting from between his fingers, before making his debut with the ball in his free hand. Darting it in with a precision that would prove somewhat elusive in later games, he soon claimed his maiden scalp before Wickham Jr. also chipped in to add to the lone wicket he had claimed four years previously. There was evidence of having faithfully scoured Oli May’s bowling playbook as he bowled a succession of leg-side wides before undoing the batsman with a rare hittable delivery that was obliging hit and promptly caught by the irrepressible, omnipresent Summers. |
With Steventon teetering at 39-5 chasing a target of 202, the Hendrick’s XI looked well placed for victory. Sadly, it was at this point that the cricketing gods intervened and the heavens opened, with Steventon quick to produce a unexpectedly professional-looking set of covers from behind the clubhouse, hastily trotting them out to the middle to signal a disappointing end to proceedings. With the tea still lukewarm and the casks of ale still plentiful, both teams returned to the bar and settled in to watch the remainder of an enthralling televised encounter between Everton and Wolverhampton Wanderers. Fantasy Premier League teams were checked and rechecked, respective fortunes were discussed and barbs exchanged, as the online world of draft football became the auxiliary conduit for the days’ field of sporting confrontation.
Later that day…
Thankfully, the entertainment did not end there. The golden ducks of Summers and Hewlett had been enough to confine them to the ignominy of the evening’s performance duties, and the two conspired to belt out a vintage duet worthy of the cosy pub they found themselves in, although perhaps a touch unseasonal considering it was mid-August. ‘Fairytale of New York’ has rarely been heard outside of December, but it was trotted out here to great effect, with Summers perfectly embodying the growling, beer-soaked, Irish-tinged drawl of Shane McGowan and Hewlett doing a rather less convincing job of reanimating Kirsty MacColl’s jaunty, bittersweet melodies.
Later that day…
Thankfully, the entertainment did not end there. The golden ducks of Summers and Hewlett had been enough to confine them to the ignominy of the evening’s performance duties, and the two conspired to belt out a vintage duet worthy of the cosy pub they found themselves in, although perhaps a touch unseasonal considering it was mid-August. ‘Fairytale of New York’ has rarely been heard outside of December, but it was trotted out here to great effect, with Summers perfectly embodying the growling, beer-soaked, Irish-tinged drawl of Shane McGowan and Hewlett doing a rather less convincing job of reanimating Kirsty MacColl’s jaunty, bittersweet melodies.
Summers would also go on to contribute the new ‘Hendrick’s Celebration’, a strange, unnerving noise that was quickly adopted by the rest of the platoon. Difficult to describe, it pitched somewhere between a stifled yelp of elation, the death-throes of a wounded antelope, and a disappointed middle-age man prematurely ejaculating. In many ways, it perfectly defined his storming debut tour for his new team.
The night ended with a return visit to Tim’s favourite Oxford hotspot, the Jamaican-inspired ‘High Lows’ nightclub/dive bar/occasional restaurant, where the delightfully schizophrenic doorman/bartender/part-owner was once again on hand to distribute rum & ginger ales of varying quality and strength, as well as rambling, elaborate tales of his aggressive run-ins (necessary or otherwise) with the bar’s clientele and random bystanders. The night ended with Saunders convinced his stolen can of Red Stripe had been spiked with something a little stronger. He was spotted arriving back at the team hotel shortly after six in the morning, a dizzying grin still plastered across his contented visage. |
Sunday: Bodlean Library CC
In 1942, on the eve of his legendary tank-based tactical skirmish with German Field Marshal Rommel, decorated British Lieutenant-General Bernard Montgomery famously declared, “In my profession, you have to mystify the enemy.” It was to this end that Oli May, captaining his first (and so far only) Hendrick’s match, set about orchestrating one of the most meticulously planned campaigns seen outside the theatre of mechanised warfare.
A baffling two-overs-for-everyone-expect-Saunders strategy was quickly put in place, apparently in an attempt to unsettle an opposition who had become overly comfortable against standard Hendrick’s tactics. But this was not merely the closing match of a tiring tour party, nor was it simply a fifth successive encounter with a side who had moved past the Warwick University Christian Union as their most frequently played adversary. There were many fascinating sub-plots at play which gave the encounter almost Shakespearean levels of Machiavellian intrigue, guile and misdirection.
In 1942, on the eve of his legendary tank-based tactical skirmish with German Field Marshal Rommel, decorated British Lieutenant-General Bernard Montgomery famously declared, “In my profession, you have to mystify the enemy.” It was to this end that Oli May, captaining his first (and so far only) Hendrick’s match, set about orchestrating one of the most meticulously planned campaigns seen outside the theatre of mechanised warfare.
A baffling two-overs-for-everyone-expect-Saunders strategy was quickly put in place, apparently in an attempt to unsettle an opposition who had become overly comfortable against standard Hendrick’s tactics. But this was not merely the closing match of a tiring tour party, nor was it simply a fifth successive encounter with a side who had moved past the Warwick University Christian Union as their most frequently played adversary. There were many fascinating sub-plots at play which gave the encounter almost Shakespearean levels of Machiavellian intrigue, guile and misdirection.
First Innings: Records All Round (Bodlean to bat)
It was a game where Hendrick’s records were being eyed up greedily. In the absence of all-time leading wicket-taker Metcalf (still on standby for the Canterbury Magicians in the New Zealand Burger King Super Smash T20 League) his coveted crown was unprotected and well within range of two opportunistic chancers. Beginning the game level on wickets with the legendary slow left-armer, Hewlett and May squared up for the honours, butting horns like two mighty stags doing battle at the height of a particularly aggressive mating season. The tension was almost visibly ricocheting off the sides of the nets during pre-game practice (although that would later just transpire to be some of Wickham’s looping deliveries clearing the net and landing on the roof like unexploded WW2 shells). |
But there were high honours up for grabs among the newcomers, too. Following a rare wicket-less opening spell from Robinson and Gilbert, there was plenty of space for others to pick up the slack and outshine their headline-grabbing teammates. And they did not disappoint, even if it was perhaps not the way in which they would have envisioned.
The twin, often intertwined honours of ‘Most Wides’ and ‘Longest Over’ are Hendrick’s records rarely untroubled since a dismayed Ross Quest was forced to bowl first-change by Wickham back in the maiden tour of 2014. But troubled they would be once more. Crawford, Summers and Madhani would all fiercely compete to cement their place in Hendrick’s history in their maiden year at the club. What followed may have looked like a few half-cut drunks clutching a cricket ball for the first time, but was in fact a masterful demonstration of the control of line and length, each managing to consistently outdo the other. Not content with merely surpassing the number of balls bowled, Summers also had his eye on the rarely coveted (and freshly introduced) ‘Furthest Wide’ award, banging in a vicious half-tracker that had to be athletically fielded by Crawford, some 20 yards wide of the wicket at point.
Sublime, scintillating cricket played at it’s very finest. A doff of the cap to each of them.
The twin, often intertwined honours of ‘Most Wides’ and ‘Longest Over’ are Hendrick’s records rarely untroubled since a dismayed Ross Quest was forced to bowl first-change by Wickham back in the maiden tour of 2014. But troubled they would be once more. Crawford, Summers and Madhani would all fiercely compete to cement their place in Hendrick’s history in their maiden year at the club. What followed may have looked like a few half-cut drunks clutching a cricket ball for the first time, but was in fact a masterful demonstration of the control of line and length, each managing to consistently outdo the other. Not content with merely surpassing the number of balls bowled, Summers also had his eye on the rarely coveted (and freshly introduced) ‘Furthest Wide’ award, banging in a vicious half-tracker that had to be athletically fielded by Crawford, some 20 yards wide of the wicket at point.
Sublime, scintillating cricket played at it’s very finest. A doff of the cap to each of them.
Nevertheless, it was at this point that alpha male Hewlett finally charged into the fray, dispersing the young bucks with the distinctive twirling of his extensive, possibly sentient limbs, which at times often seem to operate independently of the rest of his body.
Having lined up the batsmen with a deceptively gentle and innocuous opening over, he slunk back to his fielding position, only to return shortly after, his game plan now fully realised in his complex, beautiful mind – a fascinating brain more richly blessed with stats, algorithms and scenario-running programs than the most sophisticated of Formula 1 racing computers. It was a devastating display of bowling, and one which would see him burst clear of both May and Metcalf at the top of the hallowed leaderboard. |
After the first wicket went down, there was a hum of energy and appreciation. When the second fell the very next ball, anticipation and expectation were pushed to boiling point. The hat trick ball. The field came in. Ludicrously ambitious fielding placements were decided upon, with players drafted in to play at hitherto unused (and in some cases unknown) positions. Silly point, short leg and short extra-cover, along with two slips, a leg slip and even a fly slip, were all hastily deployed in an attempt to wreak havoc with the new batsman’s resolve. It was agonising, then, when Hewlett almost slipped one past the defences, only for the ball to squirm away past the claustrophobically close in-field.
A somewhat dejected field dispersed. But they needn’t have worried. Taking the disappointment of missing out on a famous hat trick in his stride, the very next ball saw Hewlett serve up another sumptuous peach of a delivery. It drifted lazily into the batsman’s arc, only for it to be creamed straight to Gilbert, who held the chance and prompted rapturous celebrations and an elated full-team mobbing of Hewlett. An iconic way for an iconic player to seal an iconic achievement.
It was an iconic moment, just in case that wasn’t clear.
Unfortunately, Hewlett’s heroics brought a certain David Shackleton to the crease. Mystifyingly demoted down the order to number nine, he lay in wait like a voracious ambush predator biding its time before dismembering its prey. May perhaps picked an inopportune time to bring himself on to bowl and attempt to match Hewlett’s wicket-taking smash-and-grab. Shackleton quickly made up for lost time, slamming the remaining overs for more than a few boundaries, troubling some of the rural wildlife taking up residence in the lush, untamed bushes bordering the field. Thanks to his late contributions, and more than a little help from the heavily bloated extras column, a stiff total of 140 was posted.
Second Innings: An Improbable Chase (141 to win)
With a steep rate of more than seven an over required for victory, a sharp start was required. The start was anything but, typified by the failure of anyone to even locate Hewlett’s beloved scorebook (in his absence on umpire duty in the middle) for the entirety of the first over. You could almost hear his veins popping and feel his fury rippling from square leg. “I just assumed Oli was so furious about missing out on the wickets that he’d launched it in the bin,” remarked Wickham when pressed into scoring service. When finally it was located and the previous over hastily pencilled in, the sharp start had materialised – with a couple of rapid dismissals. Turning around, Wickham was surprised to see one of their openers, Madhani, already sitting back alongside him, having been dismissed second ball, while Khattak’s tough tour continued when he nicked behind for one from six deliveries, leaving the Hendrick’s XI rocking at 15-2.
Fresh from their titanic duel with ball in hand, where they’d pushed the limits of sportsmanly decency to finish with 13 wides across three overs between them, Crawford and Summers came together at the crease with the job of rebuilding the innings. Contributing solid knocks of 15 and 18 respectively, they dragged the score along and even threw in a few boundaries for good measure, but once both had departed the side were still struggling at 44-4. With May’s scorching hot streak coming to an end and Saunders failing to replicate the easy run-grabbing grace of the previous game, Hendrick’s quickly slipped deeper into trouble at 52-6.
A somewhat dejected field dispersed. But they needn’t have worried. Taking the disappointment of missing out on a famous hat trick in his stride, the very next ball saw Hewlett serve up another sumptuous peach of a delivery. It drifted lazily into the batsman’s arc, only for it to be creamed straight to Gilbert, who held the chance and prompted rapturous celebrations and an elated full-team mobbing of Hewlett. An iconic way for an iconic player to seal an iconic achievement.
It was an iconic moment, just in case that wasn’t clear.
Unfortunately, Hewlett’s heroics brought a certain David Shackleton to the crease. Mystifyingly demoted down the order to number nine, he lay in wait like a voracious ambush predator biding its time before dismembering its prey. May perhaps picked an inopportune time to bring himself on to bowl and attempt to match Hewlett’s wicket-taking smash-and-grab. Shackleton quickly made up for lost time, slamming the remaining overs for more than a few boundaries, troubling some of the rural wildlife taking up residence in the lush, untamed bushes bordering the field. Thanks to his late contributions, and more than a little help from the heavily bloated extras column, a stiff total of 140 was posted.
Second Innings: An Improbable Chase (141 to win)
With a steep rate of more than seven an over required for victory, a sharp start was required. The start was anything but, typified by the failure of anyone to even locate Hewlett’s beloved scorebook (in his absence on umpire duty in the middle) for the entirety of the first over. You could almost hear his veins popping and feel his fury rippling from square leg. “I just assumed Oli was so furious about missing out on the wickets that he’d launched it in the bin,” remarked Wickham when pressed into scoring service. When finally it was located and the previous over hastily pencilled in, the sharp start had materialised – with a couple of rapid dismissals. Turning around, Wickham was surprised to see one of their openers, Madhani, already sitting back alongside him, having been dismissed second ball, while Khattak’s tough tour continued when he nicked behind for one from six deliveries, leaving the Hendrick’s XI rocking at 15-2.
Fresh from their titanic duel with ball in hand, where they’d pushed the limits of sportsmanly decency to finish with 13 wides across three overs between them, Crawford and Summers came together at the crease with the job of rebuilding the innings. Contributing solid knocks of 15 and 18 respectively, they dragged the score along and even threw in a few boundaries for good measure, but once both had departed the side were still struggling at 44-4. With May’s scorching hot streak coming to an end and Saunders failing to replicate the easy run-grabbing grace of the previous game, Hendrick’s quickly slipped deeper into trouble at 52-6.
At this point it seemed that perhaps it just wasn’t their tour, that a deserved victory on the road would fail to come to fruition. Heads were dropping and eyes were fixed on an early return to London. Robinson in particular seemed unconvinced that a famous win could be achieved, as he began loading up the car with his kit and leaving the engine running to ensure a prompt getaway back to the capital. It was only when he was informed he was next to bat did he hasten to dig the cricket gear back out and head to the crease. But his introduction would prove to be just the tonic the team needed, catapulting a much-needed succession of balls into the neighbouring fields.
All the while, as wickets had tumbled at the opposite end and hope had faded, Thomson had batted on. Although his opening 12 balls had yielded a conservative one run, he had gradually found his fluency and become the rock around which an unlikely chase was being constructed. Calm and unflappable, he proved the perfect foil for Robinson’s expansive hitting. He even found the boundary on more than one occasion – events which left him looking just as shell-shocked as his astounded teammates. |
When finally Robinson breezed to 30, forced into temporary retirement, and Hewlett was contentiously given out leg-before shortly after, it brought lower-order maestro Gilbert to the crease.
Following the energy-sapping, morale-battering near-miss against Far From the MCC two days before, he was keen to right some wrongs, and played like a man determined to do so, thus prolonging Robinson’s return home further still. Diligent running and smart calls with the immovable Thomson saw the total creep up. Once more, it came down to the final over. Would recent history repeat itself, or could Gilbert tear up the form book? With the remainder of the team cheering frantically and rapidly updating the scoreboard, in stark contrast to the early innings lethargy, the two batsman kept cooler than a cucumber in a crisp, refreshing, ice-cold Hendrick's & Tonic to see the side home on the very last ball. Celebrations were delirious, handshakes were heartfelt, and Robinson was already behind the wheel leaning on the horn to subtly indicate he was keen to get going.
And finally…
The post-game press conference was brief, as Saunders quickly attempted to arrange a final 10-over fixture to make the most of the retreating late-summer sun and May distributed the Man of the Match gin to James Shaw’s underage teenage son. Hewlett was the only member of the hierarchy available for comment, and would speak only in wailing, mournful tones of his precious scorebook which had been so negligently treated earlier in the day. “Bunch of cretins,” he was heard to remark of the guilty parties, before hurrying off to check his immaculate tome of results had not been too badly scarred by the stand-in scorers.
Following the energy-sapping, morale-battering near-miss against Far From the MCC two days before, he was keen to right some wrongs, and played like a man determined to do so, thus prolonging Robinson’s return home further still. Diligent running and smart calls with the immovable Thomson saw the total creep up. Once more, it came down to the final over. Would recent history repeat itself, or could Gilbert tear up the form book? With the remainder of the team cheering frantically and rapidly updating the scoreboard, in stark contrast to the early innings lethargy, the two batsman kept cooler than a cucumber in a crisp, refreshing, ice-cold Hendrick's & Tonic to see the side home on the very last ball. Celebrations were delirious, handshakes were heartfelt, and Robinson was already behind the wheel leaning on the horn to subtly indicate he was keen to get going.
And finally…
The post-game press conference was brief, as Saunders quickly attempted to arrange a final 10-over fixture to make the most of the retreating late-summer sun and May distributed the Man of the Match gin to James Shaw’s underage teenage son. Hewlett was the only member of the hierarchy available for comment, and would speak only in wailing, mournful tones of his precious scorebook which had been so negligently treated earlier in the day. “Bunch of cretins,” he was heard to remark of the guilty parties, before hurrying off to check his immaculate tome of results had not been too badly scarred by the stand-in scorers.
After the reduced Hendrick’s contingent had taken to the field for a breath-taking, short-form blast, the dreaded rain – promised for so much of the day that had somehow failed to materialise at any stage – now returned with a vengeance. As the precipitation picked up the crew were forced into the relative dryness of the pavilion, with Oli May seated the other side of the french windows, settled into a plastic armchair, scoring diligently and smilingly contentedly.
Possibly the most enduring, quintessential image came when it was time for Summers to pad up for one final fling at the crease. The pints and fags of previous games now swapped for a sturdy raincoat worn over ever-dampening cricket whites, he squelched solemnly out as the rain streamed down relentlessly, bat in hand, having been refused the option of an umbrella in the other. |
Although official records will forget the result (which may, possibly, have been a defeat) it symbolised a powerful, irrational and entertainingly pointless commitment to the team, the tour and the sport.
As Hewlett, Saunders and Wickham piled once more into the back of May’s faithful Fox, a delighted yelp – possibly an attempt at the new Hendrick’s ‘Celebration’ noise – issued from Saunders. He had found the remnants of the by now legendary black forest gateau. With the cream starting to turn following three days under the sweaty seat of a cramped car, it’s potency had only increased. He and Wickham set about its surprisingly edible remains. The others politely – and wisely – declined.
A delicious end to another delightful tour.
As Hewlett, Saunders and Wickham piled once more into the back of May’s faithful Fox, a delighted yelp – possibly an attempt at the new Hendrick’s ‘Celebration’ noise – issued from Saunders. He had found the remnants of the by now legendary black forest gateau. With the cream starting to turn following three days under the sweaty seat of a cramped car, it’s potency had only increased. He and Wickham set about its surprisingly edible remains. The others politely – and wisely – declined.
A delicious end to another delightful tour.