It came as little surprise that, following several weeks of glorious late spring sunshine, the heavens opened once more just hours before the Hendrick’s XI prepared to kick off the 2019 season against one of the civil service’s apparently never-ending arsenal of amateur cricket teams, Superstars XI.
Persistent refreshing of the BBC Weather webpage in the days leading up to this hotly anticipated clash had seen forecasts slip from superbly sunny to ominously overcast and, finally, to a depressing downpour. As laptops were snapped shut and offices abandoned at 5pm sharp on Tuesday 4 June, the situation looked bleaker even than Theresa May’s impending departure from No.10, only with none of the hilariously awkward interviews or comical dance moves to raise a smile.
Purposeful journeys to tube stations across the capital were undertaken, under cover of macs, brollies and unfolded newspapers; the proud British tradition of stiff-upper-lipness had rarely been more resolutely on display. So it was to the surprise of all 22 players when, emerging from Wimbledon South, they found themselves blinking into cheerful shafts of light cutting through the heavens. The Cricketing Gods were smiling, the stage was set, and, miraculously, the season had begun.
* * *
Sadly, the dizzying optimism engendered by the unexpectedly glorious weather would prove short lived.
To say that Hendrick’s were rusty would be an understatement of gross negligence. They crunched into life like a recommissioned Soviet-era submarine forced back into active service having been left to decompose in the depths of the Baltic Sea for several decades. Much like Chernobyl, it was tale of unerring incompetence and inevitable catastrophe. Here’s how it played out…
First Innings: A Rusty Return (Hendrick’s XI to bat)
Following highly promising pre-season form in the side’s unofficial training base at the Battersea Park nets, Owez Madhani was promoted to open alongside regular accumulator Tim Saunders. Such was the excitement at his new posting that he promptly ran out Saunders and conspired to have himself caught immediately afterwards – all inside a fantastically dramatic first over. By the time the usually destructive and newly bearded Qas Khattak had chipped away his wicket, leaving them 5-3, the scoreline bore more resemblance to a fairly high-tempo football match, and talismanic all-rounder Ed Robinson had only just arrived at the ground. His howls of hyena-like laughter at being informed of the score could be heard echoing across the neighbouring recreational sports fields.
New recruit Josh Peffers briefly threatened to cement his place as top scorer when he crisply struck the team’s first boundary of the season, but perhaps unsurprisingly for a man wearing golfing trousers and a Dominos Pizza delivery hat, his presence at the crease would not prove to be the divine intervention the Hendrick’s XI required. For many, the number seven is enshrined as eternally lucky. Not so for our Hendrick’s contingent, as Peffers became the second of three players to end as joint third-highest scorer with this modest return in the runs column.
Ravi Patel had done his best to evade conscription for the season opener, attempting to manoeuvre his way out of the game just hours before kick-off with a fabulously original excuse, as he complained a poor performance in an accountancy exam had left him so emotionally fatigued that he would be unable to take to the field. Thankfully, his malaise lifted along with the weather and an appearance was made; unfortunately, despite nailing a series of achingly beautiful cover drives, he would eventually be caught in the covers by a sublime, one-handed catch that would not have been out of place in this year’s other major cricket competition (rather pompously billed as the ‘World Cup’).
Having crumbled to a somewhat humbling 39-7 and, more distressingly, looking in danger of being home in time for the start of ITV’s Love Island, strong and stable leadership was desperately needed to steer the team clear of unmitigated disaster. With the recently departed Prime Minister’s fateful words ringing in his ears, captain Hewlett strode to the crease looking every inch the imperious statesman, determined to lead from the front. An unusually, unnervingly fluent innings followed, in which he appeared to effortlessly nudge the singles, turn ones into twos and even find the boundary on several occasions.
He teamed up first with the customarily big-hitting bravado of Robinson, who stormed to – and briefly retired at – 25. This explosive partnership was followed by the markedly smaller hitting stodginess of Henry Wickham, who, having heard rumours of a new ‘Lowest Strike Rate’ award, dropped anchor and scored at a rate slower even than the pace of his bowling. Robinson could be clearly heard launching a verbal assault from the boundary edge, summarised by the beautifully succinct direction, “Just f**king hit it!”
When finally Robinson (29 not out) returned to the crease alongside Hewlett (32 not out), they dragged the score into triple figures to rescue a modicum of pride and post something approaching a defensible position, much like a beleaguered army platoon digging trenches in the depths of enemy territory while hopelessly surrounded from every conceivable angle.
Second Innings: A Buffet of Bowlers (Superstars XI to bat)
The defence of their underwhelming haul began as promisingly as could be expected. Robinson opened up with bowling as hostile as his words of advice to teammates, serving up his usual level of aggression and accuracy to finish with excellent figures of 1-12. But in the absence of usual opening partner James Gilbert – remanded to the sick bay after inexplicably picking up an ankle injury late on Sunday evening, presumably sustained during a particularly ambitious session of acrobatic love-making – Hendrick’s looked worryingly short of bowling options.
Patel appeared determined to stake a claim on the Madhani-Crawford ‘Most Wides’ prize of 2018, sending down five in his opening over, while Hewlett’s own bowling was milked like a gullible government department paying eye-watering consultancy fees to Deloitte.
The ship was steadied by the comically slow bowling of Wickham (0-11), as the batsmen elected to play a series of disdainful forward defensives, apparently unwilling to stoop so low as to endorse such a blatant ruse with genuine run-scoring shots. However, scoreboard pressure started to tell and an unwise charge for a quick single ended with an excellent run out from the cat-like Khattak, leaving the game still balanced with the Superstars at 36-2, and the free-scoring Vijay having retired at 25.
With his tail up following that classy piece of fielding, Khattak (0-17) made a rare foray into the bowling attack. Was he perhaps put off in previous games by Robinson’s biting, in-game critiques of his form and figures? Only he will know. Nevertheless, buoyed by the confidence of a run-out and magnificent new mane of facial hair, the swarthy spinner bowled tidily in tandem with James Rollett (0-19) and a rejuvenated Patel (0-18), who had clearly begun putting the devastating trauma of the day’s earlier exam into perspective.
Meanwhile, as bowler’s continued to find their early-season range and Saunders slowly unveiled a new catalogue of exciting sledges he’d spent the winter hard at work on, Harry Hole, making his first Hendrick’s appearance for almost three years, showed an infectious exuberance in the field so desperately lacking in the intervening years.
The standout moment among an impressive highlights reel undoubtedly came when, having seen a sharp cover drive hammered brutally towards him, he fearlessly faced down the oncoming leather bullet and spread himself wide – crotch first – in a valiant attempt to put his own genitals in the way of a certain boundary. It will come as a relief to himself, his teammates, and any future grandchildren reading this (as they presumably will be) in years to come that paramedics did not have to be called to extricate a cricket ball from irreparably damaged and grotesquely mutilated package.
Despite this improved bowling and brave, testicle-first fielding, the writing was on the wall and a combination of low total, undercooked squad and questionable athleticism would eventually prove insurmountable, as Superstars strolled home with eight wickets to spare. But much like a certain right-of-centre political party reeling from voter backlash in the European Parliamentary elections, Hendrick’s took significant heart from the fact that this was by no means their biggest defeat in history.
* * *
In a generous display of unity towards both teams, James Hewlett – long-serving Hendrick’s acolyte and frequent flier with the Superstars – had chosen to skipper this game for the Hendrick’s XI while proudly wearing the pristine whites of the opposition. A magnanimous leader intent on uniting all cricketing peoples under his benevolent banner. When pressed for comment after the game, he remained genially predisposed to praising both the victors and the vanquished.
“I was proud of our relentless underdog determination, but also pleased with how Superstars knocked off the runs with a minimum of fuss. It was a comfortable win for them, but I immensely enjoyed the defeat. Rest assured, the stiff upper lip has never been stiffer, and our determination to stack the odds against ourselves by orchestrating needlessly challenging situations has never been stronger.” As always, Hendrick’s shall return. To quote footballing dance maestro Peter Crouch, “Back stronger”.
Persistent refreshing of the BBC Weather webpage in the days leading up to this hotly anticipated clash had seen forecasts slip from superbly sunny to ominously overcast and, finally, to a depressing downpour. As laptops were snapped shut and offices abandoned at 5pm sharp on Tuesday 4 June, the situation looked bleaker even than Theresa May’s impending departure from No.10, only with none of the hilariously awkward interviews or comical dance moves to raise a smile.
Purposeful journeys to tube stations across the capital were undertaken, under cover of macs, brollies and unfolded newspapers; the proud British tradition of stiff-upper-lipness had rarely been more resolutely on display. So it was to the surprise of all 22 players when, emerging from Wimbledon South, they found themselves blinking into cheerful shafts of light cutting through the heavens. The Cricketing Gods were smiling, the stage was set, and, miraculously, the season had begun.
* * *
Sadly, the dizzying optimism engendered by the unexpectedly glorious weather would prove short lived.
To say that Hendrick’s were rusty would be an understatement of gross negligence. They crunched into life like a recommissioned Soviet-era submarine forced back into active service having been left to decompose in the depths of the Baltic Sea for several decades. Much like Chernobyl, it was tale of unerring incompetence and inevitable catastrophe. Here’s how it played out…
First Innings: A Rusty Return (Hendrick’s XI to bat)
Following highly promising pre-season form in the side’s unofficial training base at the Battersea Park nets, Owez Madhani was promoted to open alongside regular accumulator Tim Saunders. Such was the excitement at his new posting that he promptly ran out Saunders and conspired to have himself caught immediately afterwards – all inside a fantastically dramatic first over. By the time the usually destructive and newly bearded Qas Khattak had chipped away his wicket, leaving them 5-3, the scoreline bore more resemblance to a fairly high-tempo football match, and talismanic all-rounder Ed Robinson had only just arrived at the ground. His howls of hyena-like laughter at being informed of the score could be heard echoing across the neighbouring recreational sports fields.
New recruit Josh Peffers briefly threatened to cement his place as top scorer when he crisply struck the team’s first boundary of the season, but perhaps unsurprisingly for a man wearing golfing trousers and a Dominos Pizza delivery hat, his presence at the crease would not prove to be the divine intervention the Hendrick’s XI required. For many, the number seven is enshrined as eternally lucky. Not so for our Hendrick’s contingent, as Peffers became the second of three players to end as joint third-highest scorer with this modest return in the runs column.
Ravi Patel had done his best to evade conscription for the season opener, attempting to manoeuvre his way out of the game just hours before kick-off with a fabulously original excuse, as he complained a poor performance in an accountancy exam had left him so emotionally fatigued that he would be unable to take to the field. Thankfully, his malaise lifted along with the weather and an appearance was made; unfortunately, despite nailing a series of achingly beautiful cover drives, he would eventually be caught in the covers by a sublime, one-handed catch that would not have been out of place in this year’s other major cricket competition (rather pompously billed as the ‘World Cup’).
Having crumbled to a somewhat humbling 39-7 and, more distressingly, looking in danger of being home in time for the start of ITV’s Love Island, strong and stable leadership was desperately needed to steer the team clear of unmitigated disaster. With the recently departed Prime Minister’s fateful words ringing in his ears, captain Hewlett strode to the crease looking every inch the imperious statesman, determined to lead from the front. An unusually, unnervingly fluent innings followed, in which he appeared to effortlessly nudge the singles, turn ones into twos and even find the boundary on several occasions.
He teamed up first with the customarily big-hitting bravado of Robinson, who stormed to – and briefly retired at – 25. This explosive partnership was followed by the markedly smaller hitting stodginess of Henry Wickham, who, having heard rumours of a new ‘Lowest Strike Rate’ award, dropped anchor and scored at a rate slower even than the pace of his bowling. Robinson could be clearly heard launching a verbal assault from the boundary edge, summarised by the beautifully succinct direction, “Just f**king hit it!”
When finally Robinson (29 not out) returned to the crease alongside Hewlett (32 not out), they dragged the score into triple figures to rescue a modicum of pride and post something approaching a defensible position, much like a beleaguered army platoon digging trenches in the depths of enemy territory while hopelessly surrounded from every conceivable angle.
Second Innings: A Buffet of Bowlers (Superstars XI to bat)
The defence of their underwhelming haul began as promisingly as could be expected. Robinson opened up with bowling as hostile as his words of advice to teammates, serving up his usual level of aggression and accuracy to finish with excellent figures of 1-12. But in the absence of usual opening partner James Gilbert – remanded to the sick bay after inexplicably picking up an ankle injury late on Sunday evening, presumably sustained during a particularly ambitious session of acrobatic love-making – Hendrick’s looked worryingly short of bowling options.
Patel appeared determined to stake a claim on the Madhani-Crawford ‘Most Wides’ prize of 2018, sending down five in his opening over, while Hewlett’s own bowling was milked like a gullible government department paying eye-watering consultancy fees to Deloitte.
The ship was steadied by the comically slow bowling of Wickham (0-11), as the batsmen elected to play a series of disdainful forward defensives, apparently unwilling to stoop so low as to endorse such a blatant ruse with genuine run-scoring shots. However, scoreboard pressure started to tell and an unwise charge for a quick single ended with an excellent run out from the cat-like Khattak, leaving the game still balanced with the Superstars at 36-2, and the free-scoring Vijay having retired at 25.
With his tail up following that classy piece of fielding, Khattak (0-17) made a rare foray into the bowling attack. Was he perhaps put off in previous games by Robinson’s biting, in-game critiques of his form and figures? Only he will know. Nevertheless, buoyed by the confidence of a run-out and magnificent new mane of facial hair, the swarthy spinner bowled tidily in tandem with James Rollett (0-19) and a rejuvenated Patel (0-18), who had clearly begun putting the devastating trauma of the day’s earlier exam into perspective.
Meanwhile, as bowler’s continued to find their early-season range and Saunders slowly unveiled a new catalogue of exciting sledges he’d spent the winter hard at work on, Harry Hole, making his first Hendrick’s appearance for almost three years, showed an infectious exuberance in the field so desperately lacking in the intervening years.
The standout moment among an impressive highlights reel undoubtedly came when, having seen a sharp cover drive hammered brutally towards him, he fearlessly faced down the oncoming leather bullet and spread himself wide – crotch first – in a valiant attempt to put his own genitals in the way of a certain boundary. It will come as a relief to himself, his teammates, and any future grandchildren reading this (as they presumably will be) in years to come that paramedics did not have to be called to extricate a cricket ball from irreparably damaged and grotesquely mutilated package.
Despite this improved bowling and brave, testicle-first fielding, the writing was on the wall and a combination of low total, undercooked squad and questionable athleticism would eventually prove insurmountable, as Superstars strolled home with eight wickets to spare. But much like a certain right-of-centre political party reeling from voter backlash in the European Parliamentary elections, Hendrick’s took significant heart from the fact that this was by no means their biggest defeat in history.
* * *
In a generous display of unity towards both teams, James Hewlett – long-serving Hendrick’s acolyte and frequent flier with the Superstars – had chosen to skipper this game for the Hendrick’s XI while proudly wearing the pristine whites of the opposition. A magnanimous leader intent on uniting all cricketing peoples under his benevolent banner. When pressed for comment after the game, he remained genially predisposed to praising both the victors and the vanquished.
“I was proud of our relentless underdog determination, but also pleased with how Superstars knocked off the runs with a minimum of fuss. It was a comfortable win for them, but I immensely enjoyed the defeat. Rest assured, the stiff upper lip has never been stiffer, and our determination to stack the odds against ourselves by orchestrating needlessly challenging situations has never been stronger.” As always, Hendrick’s shall return. To quote footballing dance maestro Peter Crouch, “Back stronger”.