Looking about himself at a bedroom stripped of what few personal possessions it had previously housed, Ross Quest feels a pang of uncertainty. Bare shelves and empty photo frames (which, in fairness, had never been populated) stare back at him in silent judgement as the Hendrick’s legend guiltily contemplates his monumental decision one final time. As if to physically manifest the potentially life-altering choice before him, atop the expansive desk under the window sit two lone items – his passport and a slightly battle-scarred cricket ball.
The decision? Another season with his beloved cricket team, or a globe-trotting adventure of scandalous sauciness that would see him romance his way across South East Asia before ending up in Australia to try his luck at securing a place in the big-money Big Bash league. On the one hand, more amateur sporting glory; on the other, syphilis-riddled, booze-soaked escapades in the tropics. It was like Sophie’s Choice, but even more heart-wrenching.
Taking another huge swig from a by now almost empty one-litre bottle of gin, he forces himself to pick his future and shape his destiny. He reaches clumsily – the generous imbibing of alcohol had done its job well – for his battered passport before staggering inelegantly to retrieve a tightly packed suitcase, stuffed to bursting with a mini bar’s-worth of heinously expensive liquor, several dozen £200 Gant t-shirts and a six month-supply of ‘El Torro Grande’ male prophylactics.
After upending a nearby table and shattering an expensive lamp, he turns mournfully to glance around the room one final time, slamming the door with an unintended and unnecessarily large amount of force as he stumbles over the threshold. Unseen, behind the now firmly shut door, the forgotten cricket ball rolls across the desk – perhaps due to the thunderous smashing of the door, or perhaps because it knows it’s purpose will now never be realised – and falls, with an almost grave solemnity, to the floor.
* * *
The cold, grey winter months provided a fitting backdrop as a fraught Hendrick’s brain trust sifted over the wreckage of the disastrous 2017 campaign. Just as 2016 had ended with scenes of unrivalled celebration and open-top bus tours, so too had last year’s miserable run of underachievement prompted a hastily arranged confab in one of London’s dingier ale-serving establishments. And, as the snow drifted down relentlessly upon the capital, the management were left to ruminate over the recent departures of a swathe of Hendrick’s regulars.
The self-imposed exile of founding member Ross Quest had prompted something of exodus, with expansively framed charlatan Will Pitt relocating to the US, having apparently been inspired by the excitingly volatile socio-political merry-go-round of Trumpland. Long-time pal and fellow former ‘Charlie Hendricks and The Siberian Tiger’ actor Tom Metcalf had similarly taken flight, following Quest’s lead in the search for overseas experience in the antipodes by upping roots and resettling in New Zealand, while fielding specialist Simon Minchinton’s decision to remove himself from the roster came as an unexpected hammer blow. And Ajay Shah remains absent without leave. If found please return, care of the Hendrick’s XI.
Last year’s challenging campaign had at least yielded a prolific opening bowling partnership of Ed Robinson and James Gilbert – two bowlers both capable of tight, pacey bowling – a rare find for the Hendrick’s XI. Which made Gilbert’s absence for the season’s opening game all the more problematic. In keeping with the recently established tradition of featuring a three-man James contingent, a third James needed to be hastily sourced from the cricketing Rolodex. Calls were frantically placed and an ad in the local paper was also taken out to widen the search for their elusive but specifically titled new compadre.
In the end it was dashing former Asos model James Martin (not to be confused with the portly TV chef of the same name) who answered the call, casually rocking up with a mischievous smile, his own selection of cricket kit and a left-arm like a cannon. All valuable assets in a fresh recruit.
First Innings: Plastics XI to bat
A potent combination of fearsome pace and considerable height, Martin steamed in and struck fear into the opening batsmen. The wicket was a smashed, sandy, almost unplayable mess – more heavily trampled upon than England’s penalty spot during their fractious World Cup clash with Colombia. He reaped rewards as balls on the wildly unpredictable surface reared up viciously and threatened to bruise both limbs and pride. A devastating opening spell that saw him finish with immaculate figures of 2-9, with a couple of maidens thrown in for good measure, ensured he continued the custom of new ringers effortlessly raising the Hendrick’s benchmark.
Robinson’s contributions were similarly superb, a sharp start being rewarded with a couple of wickets as he benefited from the opposite effect of the heavily shelled pitch as balls kept almost unplayably low. Together they ripped through the top order and left the Plastics rocking on 55-5, an impressive achievement considering Hendrick’s were only fielding 10 men for much of the opening exchanges.
In spite of the club’s frenetic pre-game recruitment, the team had still kicked off their opening fixture a man shy. The shy man was Qas Khattak, whose emphatic commitment to celebrating England’s 2-0 quarter-final victory over Sweden the night before had seen him continue well into the following morning and early afternoon, arriving for duty direct from an impressive all-night stint. A heady aroma of euphoria clung to the sweat-soaked clothing of a man clearly believing that football was soon to be returning home.
He finally took to the field amid a glorious refrain of “It’s Coming Home”, triumphantly high-fiving his way around a joyous circuit of teammates, only to then drop the simplest of catches almost immediately upon his eventual introduction to the game, having been asked to assume an admittedly optimistic fielding position for a man in his state of sleep-deprived fragility.
After he’d apologised to new teammate Martin for the calamitous and almost certainly exhaustion-induced blunder, some tidy debut overs from Shahi Ghani followed alongside some typically polarising contributions from 2017 debutant Ravi Patel, a man who gets stuck into the action the same way he maintains his beard – thick and firmly.
Revving up for an always-anticipated introduction to the attack, he had spent the previous few weeks and the start of the game still fondling reminiscing over his dismissal of England ODI captain Eoin Morgan during a charity game the previous year. Spearing in darted deliveries like a diminutive Asian Phil ‘The Power’ Taylor, he was soon rewarded with a well-claimed wicket. But the action for him would not stop there.
Things went from the sublime to the ridiculous as James Hewlett pulled out a stunning sliding stop in the outfield, hurling his ungainly frame to the floor with even more conviction than simulation-loving football superstar Neymar attempting to buy a penalty from multiple World Cup refs. Moments later, the opportunity presented itself for Patel to stake his own claim for ground-fielding brilliance, only to deploy a long-barrier more leaky than a beached oil tanker. To his credit, he would dramatically attempt to make amends later in the innings, falling upon a loose ball like a heroic sergeant throwing himself upon an errant grenade, selflessly shielding a troupe of grateful comrades from the fatal detonation.
This spirit of heroism continued to ripple throughout the team as the innings wore on, with each of the side keen to claim their own slice of glory. James Rollett was the next man to step up and take on the mantle, a lurking hint of optimism not sensed in the Hendrick’s camp for a long time beginning to build unmistakably.
He strode out confidently to mark his run-up, keen to eradicate a feeling of ‘what might have been’ following past bowling displays that never truly captured the easy grace of his elegant right-arm medium. Critics were immediately silenced with a sumptuous display of line and length as he eased through the gears, improving with every ball until one slipped through the batsman’s defences and earned a delicious clean-bowled wicket. And yet the best was still to come.
Prowling dangerously around the infield, like a voracious shark dressed in immaculate cricket whites, he espied an opportunity for greatness when the batsmen set off for a sharp single. Eyes glinting with single-minded determination, he sprang unforgivingly. The run looked assured until the lethal right arm of Rollett intervened like the Hand of God thundering down to omnipotently alter the course of human history.
With only one stump to aim at – an almost impossible shot worthy of being chronicled alongside the exploits of mythical bowman Robin Hood – he took aim and fired. Such was the audacity of the attempt that few believed its success even when the finger of the square leg umpire was slowly raised, the stump came cartwheeling out of the ground and Rollett wheeled away in dizzying delight.
Ever the amateur purists, the Hendrick’s XI were firm in their gentlemanly belief that the game should not become too one sided. Accordingly, the bowling attack was hastily reshuffled to drag out a few more overs and notch some additional runs to the scoreboard. What transpired was something of a psychological siege from the squad’s lesser-seen bowlers.
Oli May fired a ceaseless barrage down the legside, calmly incurring wide after wide in pursuit of his long-game plan, eventually ensnaring his man when he finally deployed a rarely utilised straight delivery that baffled the batsman and clattered into the stumps. Adrian Crawford then took the ball for his inaugural bow, mixing up an elaborately marked run-up to play havoc with the batsmen’s resolve, as he bowled considerably quicker from a one-step approach than he did when he came ferociously flying in from a terrifying charge of twenty paces.
Despite such tactical innovation, the final wicket miraculously remained intact. It was at this point that Saunders turned to Henry ‘Terror of the Tailend’ Wickham to mop things up. Requiring just two (legal) deliveries to get the job done, he benevolently besieged the last men standing until sheer boredom set in and the crucial mistake was made. Crawford pounced athletically to take a composed catch from a leading edge, further underlining his understated brilliance in the field, having covered more ground in one innings than some stalwarts had in more than seven seasons with the club.
Second Innings: Hendrick’s XI to bat
Having restricted the Plastics to a modest 107 (a reasonable chunk of which came courtesy of some generously wayward bowling), the target looked highly chaseable if deceivingly tricky owing to the pockmarked wicket, with all its treacherous trenches and craters. A new-look opening partnership featured cultured slogger May alongside statesmanlike blocker Hewlett, who would become the third and final James of the afternoon to assume the majestic mantle of greatness.
The early loss of May was chastening blow, his usual fiery gingerness restricted by some tight bowling. When Saunders and Crawford followed soon after, the warning signs were becoming harder to ignore. Even the destructive Khattak was unable to tee off with his usual explosion of red-ball fireworks, although he dug deep with an admirable stay at the crease for a man coming down from the exquisite high of the previous night – battling on to make the side’s third-highest score of the afternoon, 14.
But as the scourge known as the Mid-Order Collapse set in and confidence began to ebb, Hewlett remained unflappable. He pressed forward with manful determination, cautiously but decisively, like a battle-weary commander edging his platoon across a hazardous No Man’s Land circa 1918. Falling back on his much-trusted array of shots – which exclusively involved him attempting to run the ball down to third man for a cautious single – an explosion of fury issued from him every time he foolishly strayed from his purist pursuit by accidentally edging himself a boundary.
Regrettably, support remained in short supply.
Patel, having been unnerved by the battery of pacey bowlers unexpectedly sent in mid-innings, quickly set about orchestrating a hasty departure – straining with all his might to make entirely unnecessary contact with his first delivery, before gratefully retreating to the safety of the boundary edge. His work complete for another day, he promptly set about the buffet of quiches and Mrs. Hewlett’s lovingly prepared raspberry Pavlova.
So it was that with the ship rocking and the game finely balanced – the Hendrick’s XI having inched to 69-7 – another James was called in to man the helm. Martin continued his good work from earlier with a couple of vital boundaries, scrapping hard with his namesake to drag the score along to 87 before the steely, unshatterable resolve of Hewlett was finally pushed too far. Just when it looked like victory might finally be in sight, it seemed to have been cruelly snatched away. He left the field with a career-best 36 and a strike rate that wouldn’t have been out of place in a relatively attritional test match.
What little hope that still lingered was almost obliterated moments later when Martin too succumbed. It was like reliving Jordan Henderson’s penalty miss against Colombia all over again. So sure was captain Saunders that defeat had just been inflicted that he had already begun a dignified stride over to the opposition skipper to congratulate him on a hard-fought victory. It was only when he saw Shahi clanking out in fully padded and helmeted glory that he sheepishly checked his advance.
With 21 runs still required for victory and no men left in reserve, it seemed an almost impossible task. A mammoth (relatively speaking) final wicket partnership was required, and the Plastics were riding on a wave of confidence – buoyant and optimistic that the final wicket would soon be theirs. But they didn’t count on Rollett.
Still sky-high from his heroics in the field, he played with a peerless brilliance given the embattled circumstances. Composure emanated from him as he found the boundary on three occasions, while the excitability of the pitchside Hendrick’s contingent watching avidly boiled over when a match-winning catch was shelled in the infield. Elated cries of “DROP!” were met with fierce scorn from the opposition captain, who remonstrated with them forcibly both during and the after the game.
Meanwhile, Shahi played a superb supporting role, exercising the forward defensive with an assurance not seen since Atherton’s legendary innings against Allan Donald during that inspiring 1994 test. He would go on to finish with 0 from 13 balls – without doubt the finest score of zero ever registered by a Hendrick’s player. And there have been many.
Seriously. We once had seven in a single game.
When finally the winning runs were hit, the sense of relief and rapture were palpable. In the absence of beer, the remaining dregs of orange squash were launched skyward, showering the Hendrick’s XI in the sticky nectar of success, while Pavlova was thrown about joyously like a thick, creamy sprinkling of triumphant confetti in scenes reminiscent of pub-based World Cup delirium.
And, just like England recovering from the ego-crippling defeat to Iceland at Euro ’16, so too did this cathartic victory begin to erase some of the pain of the Hendrick’s 2017 season. When asked for his thoughts after the game, a still stunned Saunders was a picture of Southgate-esque dignified composure, refusing to get carried away with his address to the press.
“People have questioned our decision to pick team members based purely on their name, but I think we all saw today the value of having a very specific number of Jameses in the squad. The holy trinity was unstoppable.
“Yeah, I mean, of course we were all disappointed by Qas’s shamefully late arrival. Naturally we’ll be levying the heaviest fine possible and taking 20% of his match fee. Which is quite considerable. And we’ll also be revoking all Pavlova privileges for the remainder of the season. Which arguably is a much harsher punishment.
“Oh, and, obviously yes… It’s Coming Home”.
When star batsman Hewlett was approached for his view of the match, he merely launched into a heavily slurred rendition of the France ‘98 Fat Les classic “Vindaloo”, before staggering away as Mrs. Hewlett continued to lovingly pick chunks of Pavlova out of his hair.
The decision? Another season with his beloved cricket team, or a globe-trotting adventure of scandalous sauciness that would see him romance his way across South East Asia before ending up in Australia to try his luck at securing a place in the big-money Big Bash league. On the one hand, more amateur sporting glory; on the other, syphilis-riddled, booze-soaked escapades in the tropics. It was like Sophie’s Choice, but even more heart-wrenching.
Taking another huge swig from a by now almost empty one-litre bottle of gin, he forces himself to pick his future and shape his destiny. He reaches clumsily – the generous imbibing of alcohol had done its job well – for his battered passport before staggering inelegantly to retrieve a tightly packed suitcase, stuffed to bursting with a mini bar’s-worth of heinously expensive liquor, several dozen £200 Gant t-shirts and a six month-supply of ‘El Torro Grande’ male prophylactics.
After upending a nearby table and shattering an expensive lamp, he turns mournfully to glance around the room one final time, slamming the door with an unintended and unnecessarily large amount of force as he stumbles over the threshold. Unseen, behind the now firmly shut door, the forgotten cricket ball rolls across the desk – perhaps due to the thunderous smashing of the door, or perhaps because it knows it’s purpose will now never be realised – and falls, with an almost grave solemnity, to the floor.
* * *
The cold, grey winter months provided a fitting backdrop as a fraught Hendrick’s brain trust sifted over the wreckage of the disastrous 2017 campaign. Just as 2016 had ended with scenes of unrivalled celebration and open-top bus tours, so too had last year’s miserable run of underachievement prompted a hastily arranged confab in one of London’s dingier ale-serving establishments. And, as the snow drifted down relentlessly upon the capital, the management were left to ruminate over the recent departures of a swathe of Hendrick’s regulars.
The self-imposed exile of founding member Ross Quest had prompted something of exodus, with expansively framed charlatan Will Pitt relocating to the US, having apparently been inspired by the excitingly volatile socio-political merry-go-round of Trumpland. Long-time pal and fellow former ‘Charlie Hendricks and The Siberian Tiger’ actor Tom Metcalf had similarly taken flight, following Quest’s lead in the search for overseas experience in the antipodes by upping roots and resettling in New Zealand, while fielding specialist Simon Minchinton’s decision to remove himself from the roster came as an unexpected hammer blow. And Ajay Shah remains absent without leave. If found please return, care of the Hendrick’s XI.
Last year’s challenging campaign had at least yielded a prolific opening bowling partnership of Ed Robinson and James Gilbert – two bowlers both capable of tight, pacey bowling – a rare find for the Hendrick’s XI. Which made Gilbert’s absence for the season’s opening game all the more problematic. In keeping with the recently established tradition of featuring a three-man James contingent, a third James needed to be hastily sourced from the cricketing Rolodex. Calls were frantically placed and an ad in the local paper was also taken out to widen the search for their elusive but specifically titled new compadre.
In the end it was dashing former Asos model James Martin (not to be confused with the portly TV chef of the same name) who answered the call, casually rocking up with a mischievous smile, his own selection of cricket kit and a left-arm like a cannon. All valuable assets in a fresh recruit.
First Innings: Plastics XI to bat
A potent combination of fearsome pace and considerable height, Martin steamed in and struck fear into the opening batsmen. The wicket was a smashed, sandy, almost unplayable mess – more heavily trampled upon than England’s penalty spot during their fractious World Cup clash with Colombia. He reaped rewards as balls on the wildly unpredictable surface reared up viciously and threatened to bruise both limbs and pride. A devastating opening spell that saw him finish with immaculate figures of 2-9, with a couple of maidens thrown in for good measure, ensured he continued the custom of new ringers effortlessly raising the Hendrick’s benchmark.
Robinson’s contributions were similarly superb, a sharp start being rewarded with a couple of wickets as he benefited from the opposite effect of the heavily shelled pitch as balls kept almost unplayably low. Together they ripped through the top order and left the Plastics rocking on 55-5, an impressive achievement considering Hendrick’s were only fielding 10 men for much of the opening exchanges.
In spite of the club’s frenetic pre-game recruitment, the team had still kicked off their opening fixture a man shy. The shy man was Qas Khattak, whose emphatic commitment to celebrating England’s 2-0 quarter-final victory over Sweden the night before had seen him continue well into the following morning and early afternoon, arriving for duty direct from an impressive all-night stint. A heady aroma of euphoria clung to the sweat-soaked clothing of a man clearly believing that football was soon to be returning home.
He finally took to the field amid a glorious refrain of “It’s Coming Home”, triumphantly high-fiving his way around a joyous circuit of teammates, only to then drop the simplest of catches almost immediately upon his eventual introduction to the game, having been asked to assume an admittedly optimistic fielding position for a man in his state of sleep-deprived fragility.
After he’d apologised to new teammate Martin for the calamitous and almost certainly exhaustion-induced blunder, some tidy debut overs from Shahi Ghani followed alongside some typically polarising contributions from 2017 debutant Ravi Patel, a man who gets stuck into the action the same way he maintains his beard – thick and firmly.
Revving up for an always-anticipated introduction to the attack, he had spent the previous few weeks and the start of the game still fondling reminiscing over his dismissal of England ODI captain Eoin Morgan during a charity game the previous year. Spearing in darted deliveries like a diminutive Asian Phil ‘The Power’ Taylor, he was soon rewarded with a well-claimed wicket. But the action for him would not stop there.
Things went from the sublime to the ridiculous as James Hewlett pulled out a stunning sliding stop in the outfield, hurling his ungainly frame to the floor with even more conviction than simulation-loving football superstar Neymar attempting to buy a penalty from multiple World Cup refs. Moments later, the opportunity presented itself for Patel to stake his own claim for ground-fielding brilliance, only to deploy a long-barrier more leaky than a beached oil tanker. To his credit, he would dramatically attempt to make amends later in the innings, falling upon a loose ball like a heroic sergeant throwing himself upon an errant grenade, selflessly shielding a troupe of grateful comrades from the fatal detonation.
This spirit of heroism continued to ripple throughout the team as the innings wore on, with each of the side keen to claim their own slice of glory. James Rollett was the next man to step up and take on the mantle, a lurking hint of optimism not sensed in the Hendrick’s camp for a long time beginning to build unmistakably.
He strode out confidently to mark his run-up, keen to eradicate a feeling of ‘what might have been’ following past bowling displays that never truly captured the easy grace of his elegant right-arm medium. Critics were immediately silenced with a sumptuous display of line and length as he eased through the gears, improving with every ball until one slipped through the batsman’s defences and earned a delicious clean-bowled wicket. And yet the best was still to come.
Prowling dangerously around the infield, like a voracious shark dressed in immaculate cricket whites, he espied an opportunity for greatness when the batsmen set off for a sharp single. Eyes glinting with single-minded determination, he sprang unforgivingly. The run looked assured until the lethal right arm of Rollett intervened like the Hand of God thundering down to omnipotently alter the course of human history.
With only one stump to aim at – an almost impossible shot worthy of being chronicled alongside the exploits of mythical bowman Robin Hood – he took aim and fired. Such was the audacity of the attempt that few believed its success even when the finger of the square leg umpire was slowly raised, the stump came cartwheeling out of the ground and Rollett wheeled away in dizzying delight.
Ever the amateur purists, the Hendrick’s XI were firm in their gentlemanly belief that the game should not become too one sided. Accordingly, the bowling attack was hastily reshuffled to drag out a few more overs and notch some additional runs to the scoreboard. What transpired was something of a psychological siege from the squad’s lesser-seen bowlers.
Oli May fired a ceaseless barrage down the legside, calmly incurring wide after wide in pursuit of his long-game plan, eventually ensnaring his man when he finally deployed a rarely utilised straight delivery that baffled the batsman and clattered into the stumps. Adrian Crawford then took the ball for his inaugural bow, mixing up an elaborately marked run-up to play havoc with the batsmen’s resolve, as he bowled considerably quicker from a one-step approach than he did when he came ferociously flying in from a terrifying charge of twenty paces.
Despite such tactical innovation, the final wicket miraculously remained intact. It was at this point that Saunders turned to Henry ‘Terror of the Tailend’ Wickham to mop things up. Requiring just two (legal) deliveries to get the job done, he benevolently besieged the last men standing until sheer boredom set in and the crucial mistake was made. Crawford pounced athletically to take a composed catch from a leading edge, further underlining his understated brilliance in the field, having covered more ground in one innings than some stalwarts had in more than seven seasons with the club.
Second Innings: Hendrick’s XI to bat
Having restricted the Plastics to a modest 107 (a reasonable chunk of which came courtesy of some generously wayward bowling), the target looked highly chaseable if deceivingly tricky owing to the pockmarked wicket, with all its treacherous trenches and craters. A new-look opening partnership featured cultured slogger May alongside statesmanlike blocker Hewlett, who would become the third and final James of the afternoon to assume the majestic mantle of greatness.
The early loss of May was chastening blow, his usual fiery gingerness restricted by some tight bowling. When Saunders and Crawford followed soon after, the warning signs were becoming harder to ignore. Even the destructive Khattak was unable to tee off with his usual explosion of red-ball fireworks, although he dug deep with an admirable stay at the crease for a man coming down from the exquisite high of the previous night – battling on to make the side’s third-highest score of the afternoon, 14.
But as the scourge known as the Mid-Order Collapse set in and confidence began to ebb, Hewlett remained unflappable. He pressed forward with manful determination, cautiously but decisively, like a battle-weary commander edging his platoon across a hazardous No Man’s Land circa 1918. Falling back on his much-trusted array of shots – which exclusively involved him attempting to run the ball down to third man for a cautious single – an explosion of fury issued from him every time he foolishly strayed from his purist pursuit by accidentally edging himself a boundary.
Regrettably, support remained in short supply.
Patel, having been unnerved by the battery of pacey bowlers unexpectedly sent in mid-innings, quickly set about orchestrating a hasty departure – straining with all his might to make entirely unnecessary contact with his first delivery, before gratefully retreating to the safety of the boundary edge. His work complete for another day, he promptly set about the buffet of quiches and Mrs. Hewlett’s lovingly prepared raspberry Pavlova.
So it was that with the ship rocking and the game finely balanced – the Hendrick’s XI having inched to 69-7 – another James was called in to man the helm. Martin continued his good work from earlier with a couple of vital boundaries, scrapping hard with his namesake to drag the score along to 87 before the steely, unshatterable resolve of Hewlett was finally pushed too far. Just when it looked like victory might finally be in sight, it seemed to have been cruelly snatched away. He left the field with a career-best 36 and a strike rate that wouldn’t have been out of place in a relatively attritional test match.
What little hope that still lingered was almost obliterated moments later when Martin too succumbed. It was like reliving Jordan Henderson’s penalty miss against Colombia all over again. So sure was captain Saunders that defeat had just been inflicted that he had already begun a dignified stride over to the opposition skipper to congratulate him on a hard-fought victory. It was only when he saw Shahi clanking out in fully padded and helmeted glory that he sheepishly checked his advance.
With 21 runs still required for victory and no men left in reserve, it seemed an almost impossible task. A mammoth (relatively speaking) final wicket partnership was required, and the Plastics were riding on a wave of confidence – buoyant and optimistic that the final wicket would soon be theirs. But they didn’t count on Rollett.
Still sky-high from his heroics in the field, he played with a peerless brilliance given the embattled circumstances. Composure emanated from him as he found the boundary on three occasions, while the excitability of the pitchside Hendrick’s contingent watching avidly boiled over when a match-winning catch was shelled in the infield. Elated cries of “DROP!” were met with fierce scorn from the opposition captain, who remonstrated with them forcibly both during and the after the game.
Meanwhile, Shahi played a superb supporting role, exercising the forward defensive with an assurance not seen since Atherton’s legendary innings against Allan Donald during that inspiring 1994 test. He would go on to finish with 0 from 13 balls – without doubt the finest score of zero ever registered by a Hendrick’s player. And there have been many.
Seriously. We once had seven in a single game.
When finally the winning runs were hit, the sense of relief and rapture were palpable. In the absence of beer, the remaining dregs of orange squash were launched skyward, showering the Hendrick’s XI in the sticky nectar of success, while Pavlova was thrown about joyously like a thick, creamy sprinkling of triumphant confetti in scenes reminiscent of pub-based World Cup delirium.
And, just like England recovering from the ego-crippling defeat to Iceland at Euro ’16, so too did this cathartic victory begin to erase some of the pain of the Hendrick’s 2017 season. When asked for his thoughts after the game, a still stunned Saunders was a picture of Southgate-esque dignified composure, refusing to get carried away with his address to the press.
“People have questioned our decision to pick team members based purely on their name, but I think we all saw today the value of having a very specific number of Jameses in the squad. The holy trinity was unstoppable.
“Yeah, I mean, of course we were all disappointed by Qas’s shamefully late arrival. Naturally we’ll be levying the heaviest fine possible and taking 20% of his match fee. Which is quite considerable. And we’ll also be revoking all Pavlova privileges for the remainder of the season. Which arguably is a much harsher punishment.
“Oh, and, obviously yes… It’s Coming Home”.
When star batsman Hewlett was approached for his view of the match, he merely launched into a heavily slurred rendition of the France ‘98 Fat Les classic “Vindaloo”, before staggering away as Mrs. Hewlett continued to lovingly pick chunks of Pavlova out of his hair.