This is a tale of cricketing adventure like no other. It’s one that saw the dramatic withdrawal of an iconic opening bowler on the eve of the tour and the welcome returns of semi-retired old favourites. The inflicting of toe-curling, tour-ending injuries players will wince at for years to come. And the pronouncement of incendiary public statements that would prompt the shock retirement of a long-serving pro.
But no, this is not an account charting the wreckage of another England team after an Ashes series Down Under. This, dear readers, is the hedonistically wild, frustratingly unpredictable and emotionally exhausting story of the Hendrick’s XI 2019 tour of Oxford.
Welcome back, everyone. We’ve missed you.
* * *
After a forgettable start, the 2019 season had slowly turned into something of a success for our merry band of ageing gin drinkers, anti-athletes and casual cricket fans. As the Hendrick’s XI headed north for yet another sojourn around the well-tended greens of Oxfordshire, the team were in high spirits. Three wins on the bounce had seen them gather something approaching momentum, with a number of players now ambitiously declaring that they had “played themselves into form” following a deceptively good run of results.
But fate often has other plans. The incisive accumulator of maidens, plunderer of wickets and co-leader of the bowling attack, Ed Robinson, would sadly be forced to withdraw from the touring party at the eleventh hour. It was a blow felt as keenly as England losing Jimmy Anderson on the opening morning at Edgbaston, although sadly there was no World Cup-winning, super over-bowling Barbadian waiting in the wings.
They were weakened further by the loss of the relentlessly positive and intermittently unavailable Ravi Patel, whose value as a steady source of wickets and non-stop source of side-splitting entertainment was taken off the table when his supplementary career as a wedding photographer called him away on urgent business. He was understandably dismayed at having to swap the soggy suburbs of England for the roasting-hot coastal paradise of Gibraltar, where he spent the weekend capturing the opulent wedding of some vastly wealthy European prince to his new concubine.*
*As confirmed in a particularly tawdry August edition of The Daily Mail.
Thankfully, two old Hendrick’s veterans were dug out of the equipment closet and dusted off for a fresh term of service. Mystery seamer Ajay Shah returned with a minimum of fuss and ceremony, slipping back into the team like a cinema patron awkwardly shuffling to their seat after a protracted toilet break. The fact that he had not played a game since 2016 had done little to affect his enduring apathy for the sport or borderline illegal delivery action.
Tom Metcalf came back from his own misadventures, having spent the past couple of years in the antipodes aggressively avoiding any sort of cricket while undertaking a Lord of the Rings nostalgia tour in Peter Jackson’s homeland. Nevertheless, his unique brand of anti-pace – the claimer of no fewer than 16 wickets over the years – was a welcome sight.
With an exciting new line-up of familiar old faces in place – much like Joe Denly and Peter Siddle reappearing in this year’s Ashes – the banner was unfurled, the bottles of Hendrick’s were secured, and, as always, Mrs. Hewlett’s peerlessly superb cakes were packed in the boot of the car for a riotous return to the spiritual homeland.
Friday: Far From the MCC CC
Thanks to July’s unprecedented pillaging of victories, confidence was high in the Hendrick’s camp. You could practically see it ricocheting around the tightly packed hatchbacks as they approached the familiar ground of Brasenose College, site of three unbearably close T20 defeats in as many years. This time, though, the mood had changed. Talk of a long-awaited Friday night triumph was rife, with players already planning moving, post-match victory speeches and rehearsing the spraying of Champagne over jubilant teammates.
But would they finally overcome the old foe?
First Innings: A Damp Start (Hendrick’s to bat)
As the coin was tossed and customary deck chairs unfurled, the last of the summer heatwave was ebbing away, to be imminently replaced by dark clouds, howling winds and sporadic downpours of tropical rain. Perfect batting conditions.
But the Hendrick’s XI would be unable to capitalise. In fact, it remains perhaps the worst start to a match in the club’s history. Indeed, probably in the history of most clubs, if we’re being only moderately assumptive. The explosive Qas Khattak had his fuse extinguished by the inclement weather, caught at mid-on from the third ball of the innings, before ever-reliable skipper Tim Saunders was clean bowled by the next. Oli May arrived to diligently see out a double-wicket maiden, leaving a delirious optimism that the bad times were now firmly behind them.
But no, this is not an account charting the wreckage of another England team after an Ashes series Down Under. This, dear readers, is the hedonistically wild, frustratingly unpredictable and emotionally exhausting story of the Hendrick’s XI 2019 tour of Oxford.
Welcome back, everyone. We’ve missed you.
* * *
After a forgettable start, the 2019 season had slowly turned into something of a success for our merry band of ageing gin drinkers, anti-athletes and casual cricket fans. As the Hendrick’s XI headed north for yet another sojourn around the well-tended greens of Oxfordshire, the team were in high spirits. Three wins on the bounce had seen them gather something approaching momentum, with a number of players now ambitiously declaring that they had “played themselves into form” following a deceptively good run of results.
But fate often has other plans. The incisive accumulator of maidens, plunderer of wickets and co-leader of the bowling attack, Ed Robinson, would sadly be forced to withdraw from the touring party at the eleventh hour. It was a blow felt as keenly as England losing Jimmy Anderson on the opening morning at Edgbaston, although sadly there was no World Cup-winning, super over-bowling Barbadian waiting in the wings.
They were weakened further by the loss of the relentlessly positive and intermittently unavailable Ravi Patel, whose value as a steady source of wickets and non-stop source of side-splitting entertainment was taken off the table when his supplementary career as a wedding photographer called him away on urgent business. He was understandably dismayed at having to swap the soggy suburbs of England for the roasting-hot coastal paradise of Gibraltar, where he spent the weekend capturing the opulent wedding of some vastly wealthy European prince to his new concubine.*
*As confirmed in a particularly tawdry August edition of The Daily Mail.
Thankfully, two old Hendrick’s veterans were dug out of the equipment closet and dusted off for a fresh term of service. Mystery seamer Ajay Shah returned with a minimum of fuss and ceremony, slipping back into the team like a cinema patron awkwardly shuffling to their seat after a protracted toilet break. The fact that he had not played a game since 2016 had done little to affect his enduring apathy for the sport or borderline illegal delivery action.
Tom Metcalf came back from his own misadventures, having spent the past couple of years in the antipodes aggressively avoiding any sort of cricket while undertaking a Lord of the Rings nostalgia tour in Peter Jackson’s homeland. Nevertheless, his unique brand of anti-pace – the claimer of no fewer than 16 wickets over the years – was a welcome sight.
With an exciting new line-up of familiar old faces in place – much like Joe Denly and Peter Siddle reappearing in this year’s Ashes – the banner was unfurled, the bottles of Hendrick’s were secured, and, as always, Mrs. Hewlett’s peerlessly superb cakes were packed in the boot of the car for a riotous return to the spiritual homeland.
Friday: Far From the MCC CC
Thanks to July’s unprecedented pillaging of victories, confidence was high in the Hendrick’s camp. You could practically see it ricocheting around the tightly packed hatchbacks as they approached the familiar ground of Brasenose College, site of three unbearably close T20 defeats in as many years. This time, though, the mood had changed. Talk of a long-awaited Friday night triumph was rife, with players already planning moving, post-match victory speeches and rehearsing the spraying of Champagne over jubilant teammates.
But would they finally overcome the old foe?
First Innings: A Damp Start (Hendrick’s to bat)
As the coin was tossed and customary deck chairs unfurled, the last of the summer heatwave was ebbing away, to be imminently replaced by dark clouds, howling winds and sporadic downpours of tropical rain. Perfect batting conditions.
But the Hendrick’s XI would be unable to capitalise. In fact, it remains perhaps the worst start to a match in the club’s history. Indeed, probably in the history of most clubs, if we’re being only moderately assumptive. The explosive Qas Khattak had his fuse extinguished by the inclement weather, caught at mid-on from the third ball of the innings, before ever-reliable skipper Tim Saunders was clean bowled by the next. Oli May arrived to diligently see out a double-wicket maiden, leaving a delirious optimism that the bad times were now firmly behind them.
Unfortunately, a fresh wave of bad times remained lying in wait as the second over saw Harry Hole, representing Hendrick’s in his home town for the first time, similarly cleaned up. In an echo of Man City’s shock upset by Norwich, the score was 2-3 and the gloomy conditions had quickly become a painfully obvious and clunky metaphor for the team’s uninspiring start.
Was it over-confidence? Possibly. Could the dreadful weather have been a deciding factor? Perhaps. The team certainly thought so, as the ever-growing procession of dismissed batsmen railed against the bad light, low bounce and blustery breeze, claiming increasing levels of bemusement as to how they could possibly have been removed so cheaply. It was telling that next man in, Adrian Crawford, raised hopes outrageously high with the hitting of a crisp boundary followed by some cautious defence, only to then be back in the hutch and forever inked in as the team’s third-highest scorer of the day with a tally of just four runs. Josh Peffers had spent about an hour in the build-up studiously practising the forward defensive in the nets, chanting religiously under his breath that this time he would play sensibly, accumulate unhurriedly and just “stick around for a bit”. |
Yet it was still little surprise that about 90 seconds after taking to the crease he was then dragging himself away from it, head in hands, having almost immediately caved into his long-honed golfing instincts and taken a mad slash at a straight one, and been duly bowled.
The lower order was then brutally blown away by the most unlikely of tormentors. Eventual Man of the Match Thornton Smith unassumingly shuffled up to the crease and delivered 3.3 overs of nigh-unplayable slow right-arm, reminiscent of Ireland’s Tim Murtagh slicing his way effortlessly through England’s Test side betwixt the World Cup and Ashes campaigns.
But despite Smith’s unlikely five-fer, Hendrick’s did eventually muster some form of resistance. Watching in horror from the other end as his comrades were callously carved apart, bagged up and posted back to the pavilion, like some sort of sickening conveyor belt of sporting sluicing, batting hero May stood firm and refused to add his wicket to the growing pile of sacrificial lambs.
The extent to which the team has, in the past couple of years, come to rely so singularly and regularly upon his runs only furthers the already unavoidable similarities with fellow ginger (and cricketer), Ben Stokes. After blocking and leaving for a short spell he then teed off with his usual aplomb, racking up eight boundaries on his way to an excellent 47 not out off just 41 deliveries.
Support was offered in the form of a typically stubborn and bullish outing from James Hewlett – a man who cherishes his wicket more dearly than Geoffrey Boycott on his most immovable of days – who made a battling 16, from about the same number of balls as May. With the help of a few extras they inched the score around the batting barometer, managing to pass from “humiliatingly pathetic” to “embarrassingly poor” and leave the side 87 all out.
Second Innings: A Brief Rebuttal (88 to win)
There’s an ancient cricketing proverb that goes, “Chastening session with bat inevitably followed by humbling in field”, and that old wisdom proved as good on this occasion as in the sacred days of yesteryear.
Left with a total lower than a World Championship limbo pole, the Hendrick’s XI were in need of sporting miracles to be magicked from the fingertips of the captain. Needless to say, the sight of perennially paceless pairing Metcalf and Wickham limbering up to bowl the opening overs did not inspire the rest of the team with any great confidence.
But hope was provided almost immediately when the rarest of occurrences – a Wickham delivery that in some loose sense actually resembled the bowling of a person who has at least seen a game of cricket before – arced in between bat and pad and clipped the top of leg stump. It was hard to tell who was more stunned: bowler, batsman or fielders.
With their tails up and that rare cricketing commodity, ‘momentum’ – much discussed but only loosely defined and scarcely touchable – seeming to be in their favour, they pushed on and looked to press their minute, temporary advantage. But FFTMCC were made of sterner stuff than their Hendrick’s counterparts, ruggedly ignoring the ceaseless splattering of rain and occasional gust to cement their position with a solid 45-run second-wicket partnership that took the sting out of the brief counter punch.
The lower order was then brutally blown away by the most unlikely of tormentors. Eventual Man of the Match Thornton Smith unassumingly shuffled up to the crease and delivered 3.3 overs of nigh-unplayable slow right-arm, reminiscent of Ireland’s Tim Murtagh slicing his way effortlessly through England’s Test side betwixt the World Cup and Ashes campaigns.
But despite Smith’s unlikely five-fer, Hendrick’s did eventually muster some form of resistance. Watching in horror from the other end as his comrades were callously carved apart, bagged up and posted back to the pavilion, like some sort of sickening conveyor belt of sporting sluicing, batting hero May stood firm and refused to add his wicket to the growing pile of sacrificial lambs.
The extent to which the team has, in the past couple of years, come to rely so singularly and regularly upon his runs only furthers the already unavoidable similarities with fellow ginger (and cricketer), Ben Stokes. After blocking and leaving for a short spell he then teed off with his usual aplomb, racking up eight boundaries on his way to an excellent 47 not out off just 41 deliveries.
Support was offered in the form of a typically stubborn and bullish outing from James Hewlett – a man who cherishes his wicket more dearly than Geoffrey Boycott on his most immovable of days – who made a battling 16, from about the same number of balls as May. With the help of a few extras they inched the score around the batting barometer, managing to pass from “humiliatingly pathetic” to “embarrassingly poor” and leave the side 87 all out.
Second Innings: A Brief Rebuttal (88 to win)
There’s an ancient cricketing proverb that goes, “Chastening session with bat inevitably followed by humbling in field”, and that old wisdom proved as good on this occasion as in the sacred days of yesteryear.
Left with a total lower than a World Championship limbo pole, the Hendrick’s XI were in need of sporting miracles to be magicked from the fingertips of the captain. Needless to say, the sight of perennially paceless pairing Metcalf and Wickham limbering up to bowl the opening overs did not inspire the rest of the team with any great confidence.
But hope was provided almost immediately when the rarest of occurrences – a Wickham delivery that in some loose sense actually resembled the bowling of a person who has at least seen a game of cricket before – arced in between bat and pad and clipped the top of leg stump. It was hard to tell who was more stunned: bowler, batsman or fielders.
With their tails up and that rare cricketing commodity, ‘momentum’ – much discussed but only loosely defined and scarcely touchable – seeming to be in their favour, they pushed on and looked to press their minute, temporary advantage. But FFTMCC were made of sterner stuff than their Hendrick’s counterparts, ruggedly ignoring the ceaseless splattering of rain and occasional gust to cement their position with a solid 45-run second-wicket partnership that took the sting out of the brief counter punch.
Despite Shah reminding the team what they’d been missing for the past few seasons with a vintage piece of military medium to have one of the openers caught, the game was as good as up. The touring party were at least treated to another scarce collector’s item before defeat was confirmed – namely a Wickham catch, taken off the bowling of Peffers, which had all the trademarks of the fielder’s classic catching technique.
Wide, petrified eyes. A lurching, uncertain jog from mid-off as the leather sphere seemed to hang suspended in the air. And finally a heart-in-the-mouth moment, shared by all present on the field, when the Dukes ball eventually descended from the murky skies and somehow remained lodged in his shaking grasp. Ultimately though these moments proved mere consolation prizes that ensured FFTMCC secured only a comfortable seven-wicket win, rather than something more emphatic and humbling. |
Friday’s Finale
Never ones to wallow in self-pity or rue missed opportunities, the Hendrick’s XI quickly headed across the road for the customary post-game pint with the opposition. As one led to two and beyond, the competitive nature of the part-time amateur cricketer stirred within them. Looking to rectify the wrongs of a sub-par performance, the team competed over an array of pub drinking games with a ferocious intent, rampant passion and rigid debating of other players’ techniques not exhibited in any degree during the actual cricket.
Fines were dished out, with a particularly vocal Metcalf quick to pounce on any minor infractions, while Hewlett, ever the stickler for the intricacies of rules, scoring and result in any contest, regularly butted in with appeals for across-the-board disqualifications. His strangled cry of “but that’s not a noun!” could be heard across the din of the pub during an especially tense game of word association.
When finally they drifted back to bed amid the intimidating biblical cloisters of St Steven’s House dormitories, the embers of sporting desire had been stoked. The beast had awoken. Hendrick’s were ready for day two.
Saturday: Harwell International
They breakfasted under the plentiful crucifixes and stern, watchful eyes of former deans and rectors, who stared down at them from oil paintings on the walls with a judgement that encompassed more than just a disparity in religious beliefs. Were these venerated ex-scholars and men of the cloth silently passing comment, from beyond the grave, about the shoddy quality of sporting ability shown in their tour’s opening fixture? Almost certainly.
Shortcomings had been exposed, with Gilbert, in typically astute and measured fashion, declaring that “at least 30 to 40 per cent more cricket will be required today”. Morning repasts of varying vigour, consistency and volume were taken by the random, bleary eyed assortment of team members (they were, at this point, merely the Hendrick’s VI). On the one end of the spectrum, Saunders, as always, relished the challenge of depositing as many types of breakfast into his mouth in as little time as possible, while at the other, a pale, fragile looking Metcalf tentatively buttered a charred slice of toast and daintily nibbled his way through about three-eights of it over the course of the next hour.
Gilbert shortly after revealed an encouraging and advisory message from his father sent via carrier pigeon that very morning, which simply read, “Watch the ball, move your head towards it, nothing fancy”. Which also happens to be the family motto emblazoned on the Gilbert coat of arms.
With Big Clive’s words of wisdom still ringing in their ears (although that might have been the usual Oxfordian deluge of church bells) they set forth for the customary Saturday morning punt through throngs of confused tourists on the Thames canals. Saunders piloted expertly as the impassioned refrain of Michael Bolton soundtracked his efforts, hair flying majestically in the breeze – much like the beloved ‘80s power balladeer himself. Back on land, the rest of the team had eventually emerged, in varying states of undress and lingering inebriation, converged in the car park and were deemed just about ready for action.
Never ones to wallow in self-pity or rue missed opportunities, the Hendrick’s XI quickly headed across the road for the customary post-game pint with the opposition. As one led to two and beyond, the competitive nature of the part-time amateur cricketer stirred within them. Looking to rectify the wrongs of a sub-par performance, the team competed over an array of pub drinking games with a ferocious intent, rampant passion and rigid debating of other players’ techniques not exhibited in any degree during the actual cricket.
Fines were dished out, with a particularly vocal Metcalf quick to pounce on any minor infractions, while Hewlett, ever the stickler for the intricacies of rules, scoring and result in any contest, regularly butted in with appeals for across-the-board disqualifications. His strangled cry of “but that’s not a noun!” could be heard across the din of the pub during an especially tense game of word association.
When finally they drifted back to bed amid the intimidating biblical cloisters of St Steven’s House dormitories, the embers of sporting desire had been stoked. The beast had awoken. Hendrick’s were ready for day two.
Saturday: Harwell International
They breakfasted under the plentiful crucifixes and stern, watchful eyes of former deans and rectors, who stared down at them from oil paintings on the walls with a judgement that encompassed more than just a disparity in religious beliefs. Were these venerated ex-scholars and men of the cloth silently passing comment, from beyond the grave, about the shoddy quality of sporting ability shown in their tour’s opening fixture? Almost certainly.
Shortcomings had been exposed, with Gilbert, in typically astute and measured fashion, declaring that “at least 30 to 40 per cent more cricket will be required today”. Morning repasts of varying vigour, consistency and volume were taken by the random, bleary eyed assortment of team members (they were, at this point, merely the Hendrick’s VI). On the one end of the spectrum, Saunders, as always, relished the challenge of depositing as many types of breakfast into his mouth in as little time as possible, while at the other, a pale, fragile looking Metcalf tentatively buttered a charred slice of toast and daintily nibbled his way through about three-eights of it over the course of the next hour.
Gilbert shortly after revealed an encouraging and advisory message from his father sent via carrier pigeon that very morning, which simply read, “Watch the ball, move your head towards it, nothing fancy”. Which also happens to be the family motto emblazoned on the Gilbert coat of arms.
With Big Clive’s words of wisdom still ringing in their ears (although that might have been the usual Oxfordian deluge of church bells) they set forth for the customary Saturday morning punt through throngs of confused tourists on the Thames canals. Saunders piloted expertly as the impassioned refrain of Michael Bolton soundtracked his efforts, hair flying majestically in the breeze – much like the beloved ‘80s power balladeer himself. Back on land, the rest of the team had eventually emerged, in varying states of undress and lingering inebriation, converged in the car park and were deemed just about ready for action.
First innings: International Intimidation (Harwell to bat)
This year the tour’s ever-changing second-day fixture took them to the impressively titled Harwell Campus for Science, Technology & Innovation – a vast hub boasting over £2 billion in research infrastructure, 710 acres of land, and, in the words of their website, “world-leading facilities and outstanding people.” Naturally the Hendrick’s XI felt right at home. The team crossed a vast, sprawling car park and full-sized croquet lawn adjacent to the cricket pitch to meet their opponents. Not wanting to be intimidated by their world-class venue or worryingly global team name (the word ‘International’ being richly associated with crops of well-drilled South African quicks and immovable Indian batsmen), Wickham, returning for a spin at the captaincy, deployed a Machiavellian series of mind games to convince the opposition to forgo the toss and let them bowl first. Under cloud cover and changeable conditions it proved a prescient decision, with Gilbert and Shah forming an economical opening partnership that yielded a couple of wickets and few runs. Khattak then twirled his way into the game, bowling with accuracy, pace and a hint of turn to take the side’s third wicket, with an increasingly nimble looking Saunders producing some unexpectedly sharp glove work behind the stumps to take his second catch of the day. |
Just as Hendrick’s looked poised to continue their charge and run through the middle order, a stubborn Harwell resistance was met. Scores of 50, 47 and 51 formed the basis of robust partnerships as the innings passed into an attritional second half and concerns over adhesive subcontinental batting were quickly confirmed.
But the fielding remained tirelessly energetic throughout, with bodies being thrown on the line with no thought for the owner’s safety. Particularly noteworthy was Tom Summers gallantly shepherding a well-struck ball out of harm’s way, watching it carefully until it was safely over the rope before falling on it to cushion the force of the apparently imminent explosion. Shah failed to see things in such a heroic light, throwing his hands up in dismay at the additional runs his bowling had invariably leaked.
Elsewhere, Wickham continued his inadvisable policy of ‘legs-first’ fielding, launching himself full-stretch into a sliding stop in the covers only for the ball to make ear-splitting contact with the side of his knee. The sickening crack that echoed down the road and could be heard in neighbouring villages, leaving him barely capable of movement mid-way through his own bowling spell. He remains hobbling gingerly on one leg to this day.
Peffers received a similarly jarring blow to the shin, leaving him with a comically large and deeply purple bruise, while Khattak had to leave the field for treatment to a cut finger sustained while hauling the ball in on the boundary edge. But the effort of these gutsy troopers would not be in vain. With Harwell in need of late runs, the wily Metcalf capitalised with a handy spell and valuable wicket, while the returning Gilbert added a final flourish by sending bails flying and stumps cartwheeling to leave the final score at 205-5.
Second Innings: Shattered Teeth and Broken Dreams (206 to win)
There are few men who can claim to have given more in the line of service for the Hendrick’s XI than Owez Madhani. Striding out confidently to open the batting alongside Hewlett, he looked every inch the idyllic club cricketer. Whites shimmering in the late afternoon sun, Hendrick’s chapeau proudly perched atop his smiling face. A gorgeous, imperiously timed drive to his third ball earned him a textbook boundary, and all seemed well.
But his fortunes quickly turned.
The next ball, just back of a good length, reared up unexpectedly, with the attempted pull shot from Madhani only serving to redirect the ball higher still, causing it to collide unforgivingly with his face. A stunned silence fell over the ground as bowler and fielders approached the bloodied batsman. “I’ve lost a tooth, haven’t I?” was his succinct and entirely accurately summary of the situation. With the dislodged two-thirds of his front tooth soon located on the wicket, he staggered off, retired hurt, and began a long journey between local surgeries and A&E in the company of Peffers and Shah.
Saunders replaced him at the crease and what followed was a vintage Hewlett-Saunders masterclass in careful accumulation, as they nudged and nurdled the ball into gaps as they have done together so many times before. By the time both had departed a reasonable platform had been laid, with the score at 69-2 and plenty of swashbuckling batsmen to follow.
But the fielding remained tirelessly energetic throughout, with bodies being thrown on the line with no thought for the owner’s safety. Particularly noteworthy was Tom Summers gallantly shepherding a well-struck ball out of harm’s way, watching it carefully until it was safely over the rope before falling on it to cushion the force of the apparently imminent explosion. Shah failed to see things in such a heroic light, throwing his hands up in dismay at the additional runs his bowling had invariably leaked.
Elsewhere, Wickham continued his inadvisable policy of ‘legs-first’ fielding, launching himself full-stretch into a sliding stop in the covers only for the ball to make ear-splitting contact with the side of his knee. The sickening crack that echoed down the road and could be heard in neighbouring villages, leaving him barely capable of movement mid-way through his own bowling spell. He remains hobbling gingerly on one leg to this day.
Peffers received a similarly jarring blow to the shin, leaving him with a comically large and deeply purple bruise, while Khattak had to leave the field for treatment to a cut finger sustained while hauling the ball in on the boundary edge. But the effort of these gutsy troopers would not be in vain. With Harwell in need of late runs, the wily Metcalf capitalised with a handy spell and valuable wicket, while the returning Gilbert added a final flourish by sending bails flying and stumps cartwheeling to leave the final score at 205-5.
Second Innings: Shattered Teeth and Broken Dreams (206 to win)
There are few men who can claim to have given more in the line of service for the Hendrick’s XI than Owez Madhani. Striding out confidently to open the batting alongside Hewlett, he looked every inch the idyllic club cricketer. Whites shimmering in the late afternoon sun, Hendrick’s chapeau proudly perched atop his smiling face. A gorgeous, imperiously timed drive to his third ball earned him a textbook boundary, and all seemed well.
But his fortunes quickly turned.
The next ball, just back of a good length, reared up unexpectedly, with the attempted pull shot from Madhani only serving to redirect the ball higher still, causing it to collide unforgivingly with his face. A stunned silence fell over the ground as bowler and fielders approached the bloodied batsman. “I’ve lost a tooth, haven’t I?” was his succinct and entirely accurately summary of the situation. With the dislodged two-thirds of his front tooth soon located on the wicket, he staggered off, retired hurt, and began a long journey between local surgeries and A&E in the company of Peffers and Shah.
Saunders replaced him at the crease and what followed was a vintage Hewlett-Saunders masterclass in careful accumulation, as they nudged and nurdled the ball into gaps as they have done together so many times before. By the time both had departed a reasonable platform had been laid, with the score at 69-2 and plenty of swashbuckling batsmen to follow.
Metcalf may have had designs on being one of them, but an early dismissal would see him storm back to the dressing room and violently launch items of kit at other unsuspecting items of kit in a Matt Prior-esque fit of apoplectic rage. He seethed steadily for the remainder of the innings, periodically doing supplementary damage to windows and croquet lawns that would invite a hefty bill upon the Hendrick’s treasury.
Fortunately the big-hitting duo of May and Khattak came together under the by now glorious summer sunshine. A steady assault on the bowling was gradually mounted. |
May continued his deeply entrenched habit of either launching the ball to the fence, leaving it completely or blocking resolutely and refusing to run, as they amassed 16 boundaries between them – each of which was greeted by an IPL-style drum salute from Summers watching from the boundary edge. His rhythmic tapping of a tiny fur-covered bongo adding a welcome layer of atmosphere for all involved, with the hypnotic beats drifting audibly across the pitch.
So keen was he to resume his drumming duties that when Khattak eventually retired and Summers called upon to bat, he ensured that he was dismissed inside the same over. He skipped happily back to the boundary edge and picked up where he left off, as Gilbert took up the mantle in the middle and scored efficiently at more than a run a ball. Clearly Big Clive's imparting of knowledge was still at the forefront of his mind.
By this stage Hendrick’s required less than 50 to win, but time was running out. A nail-biting finale was in the offing, with plenty of urgency needed to shift the score along at a reasonable rate. Peffers was spotted tearing his car back into the ground, having nobly ferried Madhani to Oxford’s John Ratcliffe Hospital, to take his place in the lower order line-up. He served diligently alongside closing-over specialist Gilbert before leaving Wickham to scamper frantically between the wickets.
So keen was he to resume his drumming duties that when Khattak eventually retired and Summers called upon to bat, he ensured that he was dismissed inside the same over. He skipped happily back to the boundary edge and picked up where he left off, as Gilbert took up the mantle in the middle and scored efficiently at more than a run a ball. Clearly Big Clive's imparting of knowledge was still at the forefront of his mind.
By this stage Hendrick’s required less than 50 to win, but time was running out. A nail-biting finale was in the offing, with plenty of urgency needed to shift the score along at a reasonable rate. Peffers was spotted tearing his car back into the ground, having nobly ferried Madhani to Oxford’s John Ratcliffe Hospital, to take his place in the lower order line-up. He served diligently alongside closing-over specialist Gilbert before leaving Wickham to scamper frantically between the wickets.
But Gilbert, ever a man with an eye for the theatrical and a love for taking centre stage, clearly had something special in mind. Recreating his staggering heroics from the last-over victory against Plastics CC earlier in the summer, he cooly inspected the field positions, gazed into the distance and then settled over his bat. As the ball travelled towards him, arms were freed and bat unleashed, with a towering six back over the bowler’s head confirming another dramatic win inside the final few balls.
They say lightning never strikes twice in the same place, but they hadn’t reckoned on James ‘Lightning Hands’ Gilbert and his unique ability to strike at will to create decisive, tour-defining cricketing drama wherever he travels. A Saturday Soirée That evening the mood was jubilant and the beers flowing, although Metcalf continued to draft and redraft versions of an emotional farewell speech to announce his post-tour retirement. A return visit to John Ratcliffe’s to check on the condition of their fallen comrade saw Madhani in reasonable spirits despite the missing tooth, swollen lip, multiple stitches, expensive dental work and awkward encounter with his parents that awaited him the next day. He will forever be etched into Hendrick’s folklore as a man who sacrificed his own mouth in the name of the club, the gin and his adoring teammates. |
Back at the curry house, Hewlett continued to invent mid-tour fines to catch out his old compadre Saunders, much like a fractured parliament hastily passing emergency legislature to prevent a no-deal Brexit. A ‘disrespecting the cake’ fine was perhaps his most ambitious, as he claimed that Saunders’ pre-game negligence in leaving his wife’s voluptuous dessert unattended had invited the unwanted attention of a small swarm of fruit flies.
With egos swinging wildly, a series of ill-tempered table football games sprang into life at the ironically titled Big Society – surely a permanent dig at former Oxfordian David Cameron for the shattered reality of his political ideals. The performance forfeits were orchestrated, as has become recent policy, in a dark, dingy side road, with Summers and Metcalf recreating England’s World Cup-winning moment using traffic cones, an imaginary ball and vociferous shouting and celebrating – much to the chagrin of residents of the sleepy street they had hared off into.
After decamping to fabled Jamaican eating house Hi-Lo, (or ‘Tim’s Favourite Place in the Whole Entire World’), another fiercely contested bout of word association was convened, before Oli May stormed off in a pensioner-esque fit of indignant outrage, complaining that the music was “far too loud” as he pressed fingers firmly into ears. “Who would possibly enjoy this?!” he could be heard yelling across the crowded bar as he charged towards the exit, as if the place were on fire.
By this point, Metcalf was deep in his cups and lamenting that his long-awaited return to the team had not had the kind of resounding, statistic-shattering impact that he had been plotting during his years in antipodean isolation. As the final members of the contingent shuffled unsteadily off to bed – or the floor of the car park, in Saunders’ case – Khattak, keen to avoid a fractious Kevin Pietersen saga, could be seen having frank words with the want-away player, reminding him in stern, fatherly tones about the importance of “team spirit, loyalty and the greater good”.
Sunday: Bodleian Library CC
Few players have embodied the exciting opportunities and new avenues for personal development offered by the Hendrick’s XI’s unique set-up more than Josh Peffers. Making his debut just a few short weeks ago as a last-minute replacement in a Tuesday night T20 because the ground was near his flat, sporting golf trousers and a Dominos delivery hat, he has since gone on to become the proud owner of more than £300-worth of brand new kit and equipment, play every game of the season, sign up for tour, take the role of designated driver (to matches and hospitals), and, as of the Sunday fixture against the Bodleian, captain the team.
Despite several of the Hendrick’s cohort having not made it to bed until shortly before sunrise, alarms having been slept through and cantankerous players roused involuntarily from their beds*, Peffers asserted his new authority on a physically and mentally flagging team and elected to take to the field.
*Summers had been found shortly after noon, snoring like a rusty chainsaw being ploughed through the bonnet of a car, before being awoken, mostly naked, to find a small troupe of teammates staring down at him, concern writ large upon their worried faces. A short burst of vitriolic expletives prefaced his eventual rise from the bed.
With egos swinging wildly, a series of ill-tempered table football games sprang into life at the ironically titled Big Society – surely a permanent dig at former Oxfordian David Cameron for the shattered reality of his political ideals. The performance forfeits were orchestrated, as has become recent policy, in a dark, dingy side road, with Summers and Metcalf recreating England’s World Cup-winning moment using traffic cones, an imaginary ball and vociferous shouting and celebrating – much to the chagrin of residents of the sleepy street they had hared off into.
After decamping to fabled Jamaican eating house Hi-Lo, (or ‘Tim’s Favourite Place in the Whole Entire World’), another fiercely contested bout of word association was convened, before Oli May stormed off in a pensioner-esque fit of indignant outrage, complaining that the music was “far too loud” as he pressed fingers firmly into ears. “Who would possibly enjoy this?!” he could be heard yelling across the crowded bar as he charged towards the exit, as if the place were on fire.
By this point, Metcalf was deep in his cups and lamenting that his long-awaited return to the team had not had the kind of resounding, statistic-shattering impact that he had been plotting during his years in antipodean isolation. As the final members of the contingent shuffled unsteadily off to bed – or the floor of the car park, in Saunders’ case – Khattak, keen to avoid a fractious Kevin Pietersen saga, could be seen having frank words with the want-away player, reminding him in stern, fatherly tones about the importance of “team spirit, loyalty and the greater good”.
Sunday: Bodleian Library CC
Few players have embodied the exciting opportunities and new avenues for personal development offered by the Hendrick’s XI’s unique set-up more than Josh Peffers. Making his debut just a few short weeks ago as a last-minute replacement in a Tuesday night T20 because the ground was near his flat, sporting golf trousers and a Dominos delivery hat, he has since gone on to become the proud owner of more than £300-worth of brand new kit and equipment, play every game of the season, sign up for tour, take the role of designated driver (to matches and hospitals), and, as of the Sunday fixture against the Bodleian, captain the team.
Despite several of the Hendrick’s cohort having not made it to bed until shortly before sunrise, alarms having been slept through and cantankerous players roused involuntarily from their beds*, Peffers asserted his new authority on a physically and mentally flagging team and elected to take to the field.
*Summers had been found shortly after noon, snoring like a rusty chainsaw being ploughed through the bonnet of a car, before being awoken, mostly naked, to find a small troupe of teammates staring down at him, concern writ large upon their worried faces. A short burst of vitriolic expletives prefaced his eventual rise from the bed.
First Innings: (Bodleian to bat)
Much like the England Test side, the Hendrick’s XI often play best with their backs to the wall, under pressure and heavily criticised by the national media. But when they’re on top the wheels come off and complacency inevitably sets in. Did their heroic run chase of the previous evening buoy them too high, carry their optimism too far? Time would soon tell. Opening the bowling, Gilbert exercised his usual measure of control. Wickham considerably less so, tossing up pies aplenty in an uneven spell. It took the intervention of canny all-time leading wicket taker Hewlett to make the long-awaited breakthrough with a plumb LBW decision, but the Bodleian pressed on manfully and runs remained in steady supply. The innings continued to be punctuated by sporadic spots of rain, with a disenfranchised Metcalf swiftly declaring that the field should be abandoned as soon as the first drops were felt. On a tough afternoon when energy levels were visibly dropping through the floor, into the basement, and then further still into some sort of sub-basement or drainage corridor, the team needed one man to stand up and lead the charge. Perhaps unsurprisingly, that man was Adrian Crawford – the only member of the team not to have indulged in the previous evening’s frivolities and early-morning escapades. |
Expert preparation had clearly been undertaken during the lengthy off-season on his technique to perfect a searing brand of express-pace bowling. Returning to a ground where he had, in the previous year, sent down an impressive and varied selection of off- and leg-side wides in one of the longer recorded overs on the Hendrick’s books, he was eager to make his mark on the tour.
He charged in and terrified the shocked batsmen, channeling the great West Indians quicks of decades past in a spell of pace and accuracy rarely seen in Hendrick’s colours. A brutal three-over spell produced just seven runs and bagged the rejuvenated bowler a couple of well-earned wickets. Metcalf was also induced to trundle in with ball in hand, bagging himself another wicket to add to his ever-growing pile of scalps, briefly prompting talk that he could reverse his controversial decision to retire. He would, however, remain impenetrably enigmatic.
Summers, too, was making a second appearance at a ground that shall forever remember his colourful presence. Taking a different tack to Crawford, he opted instead to outdo his valiant efforts of last year, eyeing up point and square leg as he served up his own unique brand of unplayable deliveries. An epic odyssey of a 15-ball over managed to pack in emotions of hope, despair, encouragement, torture and elation to ensure an entertaining, if somewhat costly end, to the innings.
Second Innings: To Catapult or Capitulate? (191 to win)
In epic defeats there often arise brave heroes. Valiant demi-gods who defy the odds and threaten, if only briefly, to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Who write their names onto the pantheon greatness as mighty warriors and noble champions caught on the wrong side of history.
This, I’m afraid, is not one of those defeats.
Much like England’s underwhelming, 2019 Ashes-drawing Test side, top-order fragility once again hobbled their efforts to mastermind a competent run chase. Captain Peffers decided to nobly lead from the front, placing himself in a vanguard that was quickly obliterated as he and fellow opener Hole – who had evidently been closely studying the work of a certain fellow Hendrick’s batsman in compiling an innings of two runs that came at a Hewlett-esque strike rate of 12.5 – went early.
He charged in and terrified the shocked batsmen, channeling the great West Indians quicks of decades past in a spell of pace and accuracy rarely seen in Hendrick’s colours. A brutal three-over spell produced just seven runs and bagged the rejuvenated bowler a couple of well-earned wickets. Metcalf was also induced to trundle in with ball in hand, bagging himself another wicket to add to his ever-growing pile of scalps, briefly prompting talk that he could reverse his controversial decision to retire. He would, however, remain impenetrably enigmatic.
Summers, too, was making a second appearance at a ground that shall forever remember his colourful presence. Taking a different tack to Crawford, he opted instead to outdo his valiant efforts of last year, eyeing up point and square leg as he served up his own unique brand of unplayable deliveries. An epic odyssey of a 15-ball over managed to pack in emotions of hope, despair, encouragement, torture and elation to ensure an entertaining, if somewhat costly end, to the innings.
Second Innings: To Catapult or Capitulate? (191 to win)
In epic defeats there often arise brave heroes. Valiant demi-gods who defy the odds and threaten, if only briefly, to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Who write their names onto the pantheon greatness as mighty warriors and noble champions caught on the wrong side of history.
This, I’m afraid, is not one of those defeats.
Much like England’s underwhelming, 2019 Ashes-drawing Test side, top-order fragility once again hobbled their efforts to mastermind a competent run chase. Captain Peffers decided to nobly lead from the front, placing himself in a vanguard that was quickly obliterated as he and fellow opener Hole – who had evidently been closely studying the work of a certain fellow Hendrick’s batsman in compiling an innings of two runs that came at a Hewlett-esque strike rate of 12.5 – went early.
Khattak briefly threatened to unleash his destructive form of the previous day with a couple of typically stylish boundaries before he too perished, and by the time that Shah – making a rare and presumably unwanted appearance near the dangerous heights of the batting line-up – was back in the pavilion, Hendrick’s were rocking once more at 19-5. The sight of May striding assuredly out to the middle filled hearts with soaring, desperate hope. But, much like England fans experiencing that familiar sinking feeling upon witnessing Ben Stokes bundled out early, or crab-like former Aussie skipper Steve Smith sent back too soon, it was hard not to consign the campaign to defeat when he fell for just four runs.
The hero of the middle order was found in Crawford, building upon his superlative outing with the ball, to stake a claim as a genuine all-rounder (or one of ‘the cricketers’, as this venerated contingent are known in the Hendrick’s ranks). Mixing patience with determination he dragged the team along like a valiant foot soldier hauling an eviscerated compatriot back to command base. Gilbert joined him for an almost tediously predictable knock of sensible, technically correct batting, efficient strike rate and occasional boundary hitting, top-scoring with a calm and composed 28. Later, a fired-up Hewlett would unleash a barrage of fury upon anyone who joined him at the crease, charging fanatically down the wicket when at the non-striker’s end before being forced to lambast his partner when they resolutely refused to suicidally run themselves out to indulge his zealous quest for quick singles. |
After being loudly sent back on at least a dozen occasions his resolve finally broke and an ungentlemanly on-field tantrum was directed at a stunned Gilbert. After hitting one final, glorious six, the latter eventually decided he’d had enough of his partner’s volatile, possibly alcohol-induced, outbursts and allowed himself to be clean bowled.
With the team visibly fraying at the edges, it appeared the end of the game – and the tour – was now in sight. Fatigue had firmly taken hold, as evidenced by Gilbert conspiring to fall dramatically down the two large steps that led down from the club house. He crashed slowly, with a certain comedic grace, tumbling like a circus acrobat from stage to floor, eventually landing in a crumpled heap on the grass. The commotion, augmented by Gilbert’s muted, anguished cries of pain, was so loud that even the dog briefly woke up to inspect what was going on. Unimpressed, he soon fell back asleep.
The Bodleian graciously allowed 12 batsmen to take to the field, so comprehensive was their demolition job, but the reinforcements did little to swing the match. Saunders had been roundly abused and forcefully sledged during his innings for the Bodleian, but his presence as an impromptu twelfth man at least gave the Hendrick’s XI one last throw of the dice. Unfortunately it would prove to be an inauspicious, arthritic throw of said dice, with the side failing to bat out their overs, being consigned to a humbling 75-run defeat and registering a highly unorthodox score of 115-11.
* * *
It was a vaguely absurd end to an especially surreal and off-beat edition of the Hendrick's XI Summer Tour. Too many batsmen. Not enough teeth. A stunning victory bookended by two of the most shambolic defeats in the club's history. It was vintage Hendrick's with a twist of something new – the promise of even more furious waves of delusional optimism and emotionally punishing defeats.
And rest assured, our Hendrick's heroes will ride again. With a historic 10th season now looming large at the start of what looks set to be a tumultuous decade when the entire world could quite literally implode, we have never been more in need of the services.
With the team visibly fraying at the edges, it appeared the end of the game – and the tour – was now in sight. Fatigue had firmly taken hold, as evidenced by Gilbert conspiring to fall dramatically down the two large steps that led down from the club house. He crashed slowly, with a certain comedic grace, tumbling like a circus acrobat from stage to floor, eventually landing in a crumpled heap on the grass. The commotion, augmented by Gilbert’s muted, anguished cries of pain, was so loud that even the dog briefly woke up to inspect what was going on. Unimpressed, he soon fell back asleep.
The Bodleian graciously allowed 12 batsmen to take to the field, so comprehensive was their demolition job, but the reinforcements did little to swing the match. Saunders had been roundly abused and forcefully sledged during his innings for the Bodleian, but his presence as an impromptu twelfth man at least gave the Hendrick’s XI one last throw of the dice. Unfortunately it would prove to be an inauspicious, arthritic throw of said dice, with the side failing to bat out their overs, being consigned to a humbling 75-run defeat and registering a highly unorthodox score of 115-11.
* * *
It was a vaguely absurd end to an especially surreal and off-beat edition of the Hendrick's XI Summer Tour. Too many batsmen. Not enough teeth. A stunning victory bookended by two of the most shambolic defeats in the club's history. It was vintage Hendrick's with a twist of something new – the promise of even more furious waves of delusional optimism and emotionally punishing defeats.
And rest assured, our Hendrick's heroes will ride again. With a historic 10th season now looming large at the start of what looks set to be a tumultuous decade when the entire world could quite literally implode, we have never been more in need of the services.
WHERE ARE THEY NOW...?
Despite spending much of the weekend announcing and re-announcing that Sunday would be his last ever game for the club, Tom Metcalf did not, ultimately, follow Ross Quest into self-imposed cricketing exile. He continues to ply his deliciously slow left-arm and is said to be on the verge of commissioning a series of tattoos to further his likeness to self-proclaimed ‘genius’ Kevin Pietersen. After 24 hours of intensive facial reconstruction, Owez Madhani is now the proud owner of a shiny new gold tooth, which he likes so much he is considering getting a complete set of replacement dentures. He is yet to feature again for the team, but rumours are he has already invested in a helmet, several replacement helmets, and extensive supplementary body protection. Tom Summers is still yet to wake up before midday. James Gilbert continues to train rigorously under the astute tutelage of the sagely Big Clive, while Tim Saunders was last seen punting off down the Thames and out towards the North Sea. Ross Quest remains missing, presumed passed out on the floor of a sordid east-Asian message parlour. We will pick up their saucy tales again next year. See you then. |
The Cast of Characters
Squinting uncomfortably at the camera, in no particular order.
Squinting uncomfortably at the camera, in no particular order.