Well, that's it. Mid-September is here and the season's cricket has ended. So what was all that about? Let's have a season's review!
First of all, we actually played rather well and only lost one game. This was a magnificent effort considering no games at all were won last season. We finished second in our division and secured an automatic promotion place (Check out League Tables and Division 3 with this link).
And so to the traditional end-of-season awards. I hope the Penn Cricket Club Committee will see fit to make these proposed trophies a reality.
Best Shorts: Steve Tranter
Best Thermal Undergarments in a Supporting Role: Chris Rudge
Biggest Wuss: David Potts for the Cricket Ball In The Face Incident
Most Entertaining Player From Another Club: Shouty
Most Terrified Player From Another Club: Nervy
I have to say thanks to everyone that has given positive feedback about this blog. There was only one person who provided unfriendly criticism along the lines of "The blog is self-indulgent poorly written rubbish and haven't you got anything else to do you lazy git", but she had just finished scrubbing my cricket whites clean.
I've enjoyed writing the blog. It's been a funny old record of events. From a Post Office induced back injury, through the Deselection Blues, a smack in the face from a cricket ball, an RAF Fly Past, THE TOTALLY BRILLIANT MR. SHOUTY, a name change to D. Perks, right up to a tribute from Ol' Blue Eyes himself. All very strange, but made bearable by sharing the season with great team mates who've enjoyed the banter just as much as the cricket.
As for me, the bones and joints are a bit creaky lately, and the days after games are becoming more painful to bear. Will I play next season?
You betcha.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
The rain in England falls mainly on the cricket ground
Rain.
It gives life to the dry ground. It stirs poets from their dreamy repose. It is prized where there is none. It's despised where there is too much. And it really buggers up the cricket season.
If ever there was a greater example of the old adage concerning swings and roundabouts than an English summer, I've never seen one. A monumentally gorgeous June and July have been trumped by an awful August. This weekend was the third in a row where we've had sustained rainfall, and the second in a row where no game of cricket has been possible.
This week though, both teams actually got to the ground and it was interesting to watch the unflannelled knots of players staring alternately at the sky and various parts of the ground. It had rained all morning and shown no signs of letting up. The skies were thick, grey and leaden. The wicket was soaked. The outfield a near mudbath. Players walked out to inspect the wicket under umbrellas and others just sat in their cars looking out between swipes of the windscreen wipers.
In the pavilion, tales of past matches were passed around and tolerated with good humour, and everything just had that end-of-season feel to it.
I glanced out from the pavilion and was certain I saw passing waterfowl eyeing up the wicket. It was at this point I caught the eye of an opposition player who was covered from head to foot in waterproofs and I had to smile at his optimism as it seemed to sum up so well the Dunkirk spirit that sustains this island.
"What d'yer reckon?" I said staring through the monsoon.
"Think this one might be a bit of an 'on and off-er' " came the cheerful reply. Priceless.
I was still smiling a few minutes later as we all left for home.
It gives life to the dry ground. It stirs poets from their dreamy repose. It is prized where there is none. It's despised where there is too much. And it really buggers up the cricket season.
If ever there was a greater example of the old adage concerning swings and roundabouts than an English summer, I've never seen one. A monumentally gorgeous June and July have been trumped by an awful August. This weekend was the third in a row where we've had sustained rainfall, and the second in a row where no game of cricket has been possible.
This week though, both teams actually got to the ground and it was interesting to watch the unflannelled knots of players staring alternately at the sky and various parts of the ground. It had rained all morning and shown no signs of letting up. The skies were thick, grey and leaden. The wicket was soaked. The outfield a near mudbath. Players walked out to inspect the wicket under umbrellas and others just sat in their cars looking out between swipes of the windscreen wipers.
In the pavilion, tales of past matches were passed around and tolerated with good humour, and everything just had that end-of-season feel to it.
I glanced out from the pavilion and was certain I saw passing waterfowl eyeing up the wicket. It was at this point I caught the eye of an opposition player who was covered from head to foot in waterproofs and I had to smile at his optimism as it seemed to sum up so well the Dunkirk spirit that sustains this island.
"What d'yer reckon?" I said staring through the monsoon.
"Think this one might be a bit of an 'on and off-er' " came the cheerful reply. Priceless.
I was still smiling a few minutes later as we all left for home.
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