The season ended where it had begun: upon the vast expanse of reclaimed wilderness that is Hackney Marshes, an amateur sporting arena “internationally known as the spiritual home of Sunday league football” – according to a rather boastful statement on the council’s website. Presumably Boris Johnson had played a part in its sloganistic marketing during its creation under his tenure as Mayor of London.
Keen to make their final mark upon a tumultuous sporting year, the Hendrick’s XI had secured one of its innumerable pitches for their long-anticipated intra-squad franchise match. Numerous calls to other boroughs had yielded only flat refusals; 2020 having apparently been such a profitable year for local councils that coffers were overflowing with bounteous match fees, and the team’s money was consequently of no use to them.
Sunday 20 September saw a glorious ‘Indian Summer’ descend upon the land, temporarily easing the pain of another English season lost to inconsiderate levels of precipitation and a looming public health crisis, as BoJo’s rotund sphere of political influence continued to shape the fortunes of the Hendrick’s XI. A whole 18 players were signed up with lucrative contracts, following an intensive and profligate bout of haggling over players and prices between the eponymous captains of the two franchise sides: Hewlett Harriers and Saunders Spitfires.
But first, a not-so-quick look back.
* * *
Chapter 1: Tennis Ball Cricket
Viewers had been afforded a glimpse of what a ferociously contested, all-Hendrick’s encounter might look like during the team’s abortive tour of Oxford. After thunderstorms of a biblical nature had lashed the British Isles for two days previously, the pitch for Friday’s game had apparently been left unplayable, despite the balmy afternoon weather.
An earlier-than-anticipated start in the local watering hole threatened to render the evening a total write-off, with beers and a blizzard of beige, battered food whirling its way to the table under the careful stewardship of the weary but obliging shift manager. Never one to sit still, literally and metaphorically, their valiant leader Tim Saunders located a tennis ball, corralled the troops and pressed them into service.
A generous consignment of eastern European lagers was secured, the numerous crates doubling as both social lubrication and a makeshift set of stumps, cornershop plastic bags still fluttering in the breeze. What followed was one of the most aggressive, ill-tempered games of tennis-ball cricket seen beyond the confines of school playgrounds.
The introduction of classic rules, such as the ‘one hand, one bounce’ catching protocol; batting in pairs with runs deducted for wickets; and a minimum two-overs-per-bowler, served to make a fractious clash even more feisty. As a sporting spectacle the whole affair was deeply undignified. The assembly of unathletic men in their 30s panted and sweated their way round a small area of grass in the local park, with items of clothing wantonly shed as they struggled to deal with the muggy overhead conditions, as if they were playing a Test Match in Kandy or Colombo.
During an erratic but highly entertaining display, a particular highlight saw the ball launched into the undergrowth, only for a disgruntled voice to rise from within, one of their number having been midway through relieving himself and now nonplussed by having to do some fielding. Later, Oli May looked to have steered his side home, sailing past the required total, only to then be dismissed twice and see runs chalked off to leave them agonisingly short of victory. Delirious, ungentlemanly celebrations followed.
By the end they had drawn a small but rapt audience, a series of unimpressed stares from local parents, and a forlorn child kicking a football dejectedly against a nearby tree, having been unceremoniously robbed of the only bit of playable grass. It amounted to a somewhat mixed reception from the community of south Oxford.
Seeking to further ingratiate themselves with the local populace, they spent the evening atop the roof of the city’s lavish new shopping and hospitality emporium, Westgate, surrounded by sexually frustrated 20-somethings enjoying a brief respite from lockdown – the location for the evening’s entertainment having been left to cultural connoisseur James Gilbert. The lavish procurement of craft beers, cocktails and fried chicken was widely declared to be a delicious success, with even Ravi Patel and Owez Madhani managing to join up with the touring party sometime before midnight, capping an eventfully uneventful opening day.
Chapter 2: The Tour Proper (featuring some cricket)
Ever the intrepid adventurers, Saunders and his not-so-able deputies James Hewlett and Henry Wickham had chosen to arrive in Oxford for the annual tour by boat, delicately paddling themselves down the Thames from Gloucestershire in an archaic wooden vessel that Saunders had won from a weathered old naval commander during a game of dice in one of the county’s shadier taverns. After three days of braving the elements and drinking ginger-infused rum as if they were privateers on the high seas (if M&S service stations had existed in the Golden Age of Pirates), the trio eventually made landfall on the familiar shores of the city.
Keen to make their final mark upon a tumultuous sporting year, the Hendrick’s XI had secured one of its innumerable pitches for their long-anticipated intra-squad franchise match. Numerous calls to other boroughs had yielded only flat refusals; 2020 having apparently been such a profitable year for local councils that coffers were overflowing with bounteous match fees, and the team’s money was consequently of no use to them.
Sunday 20 September saw a glorious ‘Indian Summer’ descend upon the land, temporarily easing the pain of another English season lost to inconsiderate levels of precipitation and a looming public health crisis, as BoJo’s rotund sphere of political influence continued to shape the fortunes of the Hendrick’s XI. A whole 18 players were signed up with lucrative contracts, following an intensive and profligate bout of haggling over players and prices between the eponymous captains of the two franchise sides: Hewlett Harriers and Saunders Spitfires.
But first, a not-so-quick look back.
* * *
Chapter 1: Tennis Ball Cricket
Viewers had been afforded a glimpse of what a ferociously contested, all-Hendrick’s encounter might look like during the team’s abortive tour of Oxford. After thunderstorms of a biblical nature had lashed the British Isles for two days previously, the pitch for Friday’s game had apparently been left unplayable, despite the balmy afternoon weather.
An earlier-than-anticipated start in the local watering hole threatened to render the evening a total write-off, with beers and a blizzard of beige, battered food whirling its way to the table under the careful stewardship of the weary but obliging shift manager. Never one to sit still, literally and metaphorically, their valiant leader Tim Saunders located a tennis ball, corralled the troops and pressed them into service.
A generous consignment of eastern European lagers was secured, the numerous crates doubling as both social lubrication and a makeshift set of stumps, cornershop plastic bags still fluttering in the breeze. What followed was one of the most aggressive, ill-tempered games of tennis-ball cricket seen beyond the confines of school playgrounds.
The introduction of classic rules, such as the ‘one hand, one bounce’ catching protocol; batting in pairs with runs deducted for wickets; and a minimum two-overs-per-bowler, served to make a fractious clash even more feisty. As a sporting spectacle the whole affair was deeply undignified. The assembly of unathletic men in their 30s panted and sweated their way round a small area of grass in the local park, with items of clothing wantonly shed as they struggled to deal with the muggy overhead conditions, as if they were playing a Test Match in Kandy or Colombo.
During an erratic but highly entertaining display, a particular highlight saw the ball launched into the undergrowth, only for a disgruntled voice to rise from within, one of their number having been midway through relieving himself and now nonplussed by having to do some fielding. Later, Oli May looked to have steered his side home, sailing past the required total, only to then be dismissed twice and see runs chalked off to leave them agonisingly short of victory. Delirious, ungentlemanly celebrations followed.
By the end they had drawn a small but rapt audience, a series of unimpressed stares from local parents, and a forlorn child kicking a football dejectedly against a nearby tree, having been unceremoniously robbed of the only bit of playable grass. It amounted to a somewhat mixed reception from the community of south Oxford.
Seeking to further ingratiate themselves with the local populace, they spent the evening atop the roof of the city’s lavish new shopping and hospitality emporium, Westgate, surrounded by sexually frustrated 20-somethings enjoying a brief respite from lockdown – the location for the evening’s entertainment having been left to cultural connoisseur James Gilbert. The lavish procurement of craft beers, cocktails and fried chicken was widely declared to be a delicious success, with even Ravi Patel and Owez Madhani managing to join up with the touring party sometime before midnight, capping an eventfully uneventful opening day.
Chapter 2: The Tour Proper (featuring some cricket)
Ever the intrepid adventurers, Saunders and his not-so-able deputies James Hewlett and Henry Wickham had chosen to arrive in Oxford for the annual tour by boat, delicately paddling themselves down the Thames from Gloucestershire in an archaic wooden vessel that Saunders had won from a weathered old naval commander during a game of dice in one of the county’s shadier taverns. After three days of braving the elements and drinking ginger-infused rum as if they were privateers on the high seas (if M&S service stations had existed in the Golden Age of Pirates), the trio eventually made landfall on the familiar shores of the city.
Their epic quest ended auspiciously when, taking a swim in the river on the outskirts of Oxford, Hewlett emerged from the water triumphantly, wielding a cricket bat in his hand as if he had just plucked Excalibur from the mythic lake where it is believed to still reside, awaiting King Arthur’s true heir. The bat, still in a far more respectable condition than most of the team’s kit despite its residence in the Thames, was quickly adopted as the new Hendrick’s totem and mascot.
When cricket did eventually happen on the Saturday of tour, it was with a sizeable Hendrick’s contingent in tow. Having spent much of the past decade awkwardly scratching around for recruits to turn out anything even approaching a full compliment, they now found themselves with an embarrassment of riches in all departments. |
With a full 16 players available for tour they were able to take an American Football-based approach to player rotation – fielding specialist batting and bowling teams that allowed the likes of May, Qas Khattak and Ross Quest to forgo their fielding duties, with the latter happily proclaiming, “I couldn’t be more pleased to do nothing”, as he indulged in a generous mid-game pork pie. Meanwhile, May was spotted behind a nearby hedge, midway through a phone call to one of his many ‘Bumble Babes’, engaged in what one observer would later describe as “a sickening barrage of filth”.
The match was played out under the watchful gaze of Metcalf Sr, the esteemed groundsman of host venue Brightwell-cum-Sotwell Cricket Club, and esteemed progenitor of Hendrick’s regular Tom, who took up the heavy mantle of captaincy at his home ground.
Batting first, Hendrick’s initially made decent work of posting a total. Khattak and Quest went toe-to-toe in an entertaining partnership of 120 that saw both players retire at 50 within a few balls of each other, only to be recalled later when the middle and lower order made a disgraceful hash of things. They would eventually finish the innings having faced exactly the same number of balls (50) and scored the same number of fours (11) and sixes (1), with Quest narrowly taking the plaudits by finishing on 62 not out while Khattak made only a humiliating 59.
There was little else to cheer as the team slipped from 139-1 to 180-8, with the next highest score being Metcalf’s resolute 13 not out as he played a true captain’s innings to stick with Quest and Khattak during their late assault on the bowling. As he watched wickets tumble from the non-strikers end, he stood stony faced, with the dignified bearing of a commanding officer fully aware that he was in the process of going down with his treasure-laden but irreparably leaky ship.
The match was played out under the watchful gaze of Metcalf Sr, the esteemed groundsman of host venue Brightwell-cum-Sotwell Cricket Club, and esteemed progenitor of Hendrick’s regular Tom, who took up the heavy mantle of captaincy at his home ground.
Batting first, Hendrick’s initially made decent work of posting a total. Khattak and Quest went toe-to-toe in an entertaining partnership of 120 that saw both players retire at 50 within a few balls of each other, only to be recalled later when the middle and lower order made a disgraceful hash of things. They would eventually finish the innings having faced exactly the same number of balls (50) and scored the same number of fours (11) and sixes (1), with Quest narrowly taking the plaudits by finishing on 62 not out while Khattak made only a humiliating 59.
There was little else to cheer as the team slipped from 139-1 to 180-8, with the next highest score being Metcalf’s resolute 13 not out as he played a true captain’s innings to stick with Quest and Khattak during their late assault on the bowling. As he watched wickets tumble from the non-strikers end, he stood stony faced, with the dignified bearing of a commanding officer fully aware that he was in the process of going down with his treasure-laden but irreparably leaky ship.
Fresh legged (and armed and faced) having been relieved of batting duties, dynamic duo James Gilbert and Ed Robinson then tore into a vicious opening spell. Wickets were found swiftly while runs looked to be in short supply, raising heady hopes of a Hendrick’s victory. Both Robinson wickets came courtesy of superb catches from Madhani, who continued to establish himself as the side’s unlikely face of fielding competence.
Having knicked out the openers cheaply, first-change maestros Wickham and Ajay Shah were left to bowl at a robust middle order. Anything short or full (which proved to be a generous portion of the balls delivered) was punished mercilessly, as ball after ball was lost over the midwicket boundary and into the gardens of neighbouring country estates. Metcalf Sr would report some weeks later that half a dozen match balls were recovered by an irate local complaining of irreparable damage to her award-winning rose bushes. |
It was Josh Peffers who eventually made the decisive breakthrough, bowling his right-arm ‘variables’ that proved far too variable for their opposition tormentor, who took a sizeable heave only for Robinson to storm in off the boundary and take a blinding catch on the dive. His own description of it during a mid-game interview as having “been up in the air for about 20 seconds while I ran in more than 30 yards to claim one of the finest catches in living memory” being only a slight exaggeration.
Needless to say, the team were pleased to see the back of a batsman who had brazenly failed to retire at 50 – much to the chagrin of captain Metcalf, who rightly blamed Saunders’ slapdash handling of the pre-game negotiations. However, further inspiration would prove elusive and Hendrick’s could only meander to a moderately respectable defeat, which ranked below ‘highly respectable’ and above ‘barely competent’ and ‘disappointingly inept’ on the extensive scale of Hendrick’s defeats.
Needless to say, the team were pleased to see the back of a batsman who had brazenly failed to retire at 50 – much to the chagrin of captain Metcalf, who rightly blamed Saunders’ slapdash handling of the pre-game negotiations. However, further inspiration would prove elusive and Hendrick’s could only meander to a moderately respectable defeat, which ranked below ‘highly respectable’ and above ‘barely competent’ and ‘disappointingly inept’ on the extensive scale of Hendrick’s defeats.
They would celebrate this relative success at a local curry house, where the ebullient owner delightedly welcomed them as conquering heroes and regaled them with tales of travelling cricket teams to have graced his humble establishment in years past. After a series of promotional photographs were taken for the proprietor’s social media, they returned to the scene of the previous night’s indiscretions.
The continuation of festivities allowed for a final highlight as Saunders, ever the diligent wingman, put his skills at the disposal of comrade May to stoke the embers of romance with a lucky young lady by the (presumably fake) name of Jasmine. It would prove to be the decisive triumph in an otherwise disappointing day for the Hendrick’s XI, as May continued to underline his value as a genuine player both on and off the field. |
Chapter 3: The Tour Proper (featuring less cricket)
Sunday’s match almost didn’t happen, then started happening, but ultimately barely happened at all. Arriving at the sodden ground with moisture still making its presence felt in the Little Berkhamstead air, a late start was eventually agreed, before a shortened match of 30 overs supplanted the original agreement, which was then overridden by an elongation amendment taking it to 35 apiece. With everyone thoroughly confused and a little damp, the teams took to the field in what would eventually become a 20-over match, negating all the previous flimflamming about match lengths.
The early signs were ominous, with the Hendrick’s XI quickly realising they were hopelessly mismatched. Robinson and Gilbert, the team’s usually unflappable enforcers, were duly flapped, whisked and spanked by an opener seemingly on a personal vendetta to smear their irreproachable bowling averages and economy rates. Despite Gilbert picking up a wicket very much against the run of play, the wheels were already wobbling by the time Shah and Wickham shuffled into the fray, and well and truly off by the time they had completed an underwhelming spell.
Moments of light relief on a gloomy day were provided when Patel took a wildly improbable but entirely regulation catch off the bowling of Wickham, saying it better than anyone when he proclaimed, dumfounded, “What actually just happened?!”, as he looked down with pure bemusement at the ball nestled in his hand. The roles were reversed a few overs later, as the unlikely lads combined again for another equally amusing dismissal that was celebrated with all the ferocity of a one-wicket victory in a tense Fifth Ashes Test.
The cherry on top of this watery, poorly whisked icing was the usually ‘fielding-ambivalent’ Shah producing a spectacular direct-hit run out to remove Peffers, who was batting for the opposition and clearly fancying his chances against an underwhelming bowling attack. May then contributed his usual probing consistency, giving proceedings a veneer of professionalism as he picked up a couple of late wickets – possibly inspired by Patel’s vocal, mid-over encouragement of “Do it for Jasmine!” – to avoid the innings turning into a complete humbling.
Mercifully they were then saved by the weather, which forced an early end to Berkhamstead’s onslaught at an imposing 173-6, partly fuelled by a diligent knock from Tom Nowlan, who had duly saved his best cricket of tour to bolster an already stiff opposition. A short break to allow the rain a chance to let up was then agreed, only for the rain to rudely refuse the generous invitation.
Much to the groundsman’s dismay, the teams pressed ahead regardless, with Hendrick’s sending out an unorthodox new opening pair of Harry Hole and Martin Bolt – or ‘Bolt & Hole’, to use the name of both their popular vaudeville double-act and trendy craft beer micropub. But the thrilling chase would last just one over before they were unceremoniously hauled off and the game wisely abandoned, sparing the tourists’ blushes in what looked set to be a breathtakingly one-sided defeat.
Hole had at least contributed a season’s best of two not out, while Bolt was confidently declaring himself to have been “well set” and “on for a big score” despite not having gotten off the mark. Sadly, we shall never know how imperious a knock it might have been.
With the rain continuing to intensify and wash away all semblance of what was once the pitch, as it cascaded down the sloping outfield and into the adjacent meadow, it was a scene befitting the mood of 2020 at large. Under an angry sky they raced back to their flotilla of vehicles (Gilbert’s rear bumper now noticeably dented by one of the opposition’s many towering sixes), which were being slowly submerged on the boundary edge.
Over pints of lemonade, orange juice, tap water and occasional shandy at the local, the team reflected that the game’s real winner was a wily Metcalf who, having already declined to play for either side had then carved himself out a niche as specialist scorer beneath the cover the pavilion. A couple of hours later they arrived back in various parts of London, the storms having passed and a sickeningly cheery sun beaming down rays of unrelenting mockery.
But it would be the Hendrick’s XI who claimed the final word. To be continued.
Sunday’s match almost didn’t happen, then started happening, but ultimately barely happened at all. Arriving at the sodden ground with moisture still making its presence felt in the Little Berkhamstead air, a late start was eventually agreed, before a shortened match of 30 overs supplanted the original agreement, which was then overridden by an elongation amendment taking it to 35 apiece. With everyone thoroughly confused and a little damp, the teams took to the field in what would eventually become a 20-over match, negating all the previous flimflamming about match lengths.
The early signs were ominous, with the Hendrick’s XI quickly realising they were hopelessly mismatched. Robinson and Gilbert, the team’s usually unflappable enforcers, were duly flapped, whisked and spanked by an opener seemingly on a personal vendetta to smear their irreproachable bowling averages and economy rates. Despite Gilbert picking up a wicket very much against the run of play, the wheels were already wobbling by the time Shah and Wickham shuffled into the fray, and well and truly off by the time they had completed an underwhelming spell.
Moments of light relief on a gloomy day were provided when Patel took a wildly improbable but entirely regulation catch off the bowling of Wickham, saying it better than anyone when he proclaimed, dumfounded, “What actually just happened?!”, as he looked down with pure bemusement at the ball nestled in his hand. The roles were reversed a few overs later, as the unlikely lads combined again for another equally amusing dismissal that was celebrated with all the ferocity of a one-wicket victory in a tense Fifth Ashes Test.
The cherry on top of this watery, poorly whisked icing was the usually ‘fielding-ambivalent’ Shah producing a spectacular direct-hit run out to remove Peffers, who was batting for the opposition and clearly fancying his chances against an underwhelming bowling attack. May then contributed his usual probing consistency, giving proceedings a veneer of professionalism as he picked up a couple of late wickets – possibly inspired by Patel’s vocal, mid-over encouragement of “Do it for Jasmine!” – to avoid the innings turning into a complete humbling.
Mercifully they were then saved by the weather, which forced an early end to Berkhamstead’s onslaught at an imposing 173-6, partly fuelled by a diligent knock from Tom Nowlan, who had duly saved his best cricket of tour to bolster an already stiff opposition. A short break to allow the rain a chance to let up was then agreed, only for the rain to rudely refuse the generous invitation.
Much to the groundsman’s dismay, the teams pressed ahead regardless, with Hendrick’s sending out an unorthodox new opening pair of Harry Hole and Martin Bolt – or ‘Bolt & Hole’, to use the name of both their popular vaudeville double-act and trendy craft beer micropub. But the thrilling chase would last just one over before they were unceremoniously hauled off and the game wisely abandoned, sparing the tourists’ blushes in what looked set to be a breathtakingly one-sided defeat.
Hole had at least contributed a season’s best of two not out, while Bolt was confidently declaring himself to have been “well set” and “on for a big score” despite not having gotten off the mark. Sadly, we shall never know how imperious a knock it might have been.
With the rain continuing to intensify and wash away all semblance of what was once the pitch, as it cascaded down the sloping outfield and into the adjacent meadow, it was a scene befitting the mood of 2020 at large. Under an angry sky they raced back to their flotilla of vehicles (Gilbert’s rear bumper now noticeably dented by one of the opposition’s many towering sixes), which were being slowly submerged on the boundary edge.
Over pints of lemonade, orange juice, tap water and occasional shandy at the local, the team reflected that the game’s real winner was a wily Metcalf who, having already declined to play for either side had then carved himself out a niche as specialist scorer beneath the cover the pavilion. A couple of hours later they arrived back in various parts of London, the storms having passed and a sickeningly cheery sun beaming down rays of unrelenting mockery.
But it would be the Hendrick’s XI who claimed the final word. To be continued.
Bit damp: Tour comes to a soggy and early end beneath the Little Berhamstead pavilion.
The Hendrick's Gentlemen (L-R): Qas Khattak, Tom Nowlan, Harry Hole, Ed Robinson, Ross Quest, Martin Bolt, Ajay Shah, Tom Metcalf, Oli May, James Hewlett, Owez Madhani, James Gilbert, Ravi Patel, Henry Wickham, Josh Peffers, Tim Saunders, and The Bloke From The Opposition Who Took Us To Cleaners