It's a special time of year for cricket fans, as this Thursday at the Gabba in Brisbane sees the start of the 2006/7 winter Ashes series. If you've just read that sentence and have no idea what I'm talking about (other than it mentions a day of the week and an Australian city), then you obviously know little to nothing about cricket, and that needs rectifying immediately.* I can't have DUaB readers out there uneducated to the pleasures of the great game, especially as your author has an (extremely tenuous) link to the upcoming Ashes series (yes Mum, I'm finally telling my Flintoff story).
My love of cricket started as a small lad growing up amid the hard-edged terraces of Northern England (we drove past them sometimes, that is). It's been estimated that half of all England's weekend cricket games take place in Lancashire and Yorkshire - young boys growing up there play cricket in summer and football in winter (in theory). So with a few friends I joined a local club side, BAe Preston. In keeping with the cloth-cap image, each team was sponsored by a nearby business - British Aerospace were then a major employer in the town (no longer). Other teams in our league had names like Dutton Forshaw (a garage), BTR (British Tyre and Rubber), Vernon Carus (a bandage factory), and Whittingham (Whittingham Mental Hospital) - I clearly remember matches at their pitch, which was within the grounds of what was a Victorian asylum, with odd-looking men in pyjamas walking around the boundary (true story).
Our side was split into under-15's and under-17's, and when I joined the youngest age group was run by two old salts called Dennis and Frank. They both worked for nothing, as far as I knew, and had a classic 'Good Coach/Bad Coach' vibe going, Frank being the cheerfully upbeat one, and Dennis being the git. Actually, he wasn't that bad, but he bumped me from the bowling attack once for a game against BTR and I've never forgiven him - my replacement John got a hat-trick in his second over, and that was that for my burgeoning career. Admittedly, I had never taken a wicket, but I was the reliable containing bowler, able to lock down one end while the other bowler got the wickets. At least, that was what I used to tell myself. I did also hit our captain on the head with a beamer in practice, splitting his ear open. Maybe that contributed, who can say?
So our parents drove us around on a bi-weekly basis to various wind-swept parts of West Lancashire, half of which were called off because of rain. We couldn't leave in case conditions improved, so everyone sat in the leaky dressing rooms and pissed around - it wasn't all bad. I was also decidedly average with the bat - in fact I really hated it, I was a tail-ender all the way. I used to volunteer to bat first in the nets at our practices because the good bowlers were always late and I only had to face my mates Alex and Phil, who were both spinners. I was OK at fielding though, and did make one catch in my career, against the farm kids of Longridge. We used to practice with a creaky wooden slip cradle, that fired balls out at neck height, or sometimes Dennis would thump the ball at us and expect us to catch it - how hard or high it went depended on what kind of a week he'd had. Alex once ran timidly over to catch one only for it to hit him square in the knackers. Oh, how we laughed.
Anyway, in matches I used to get pretty nervous and take wild swipes at the ball, and as a result was dismissed without scoring nine times in one season. I was going for the even ten when I managed to get 5 not out against Vernons - the rest of the team cheered me from the boundary (which still brings a smile to my face). The very next game, the one in Longridge where I got my catch, we bowled them out for 26. Our captain decided that I could open, and I scored 11 not out - my highest ever score, in my final game. I hit the winning runs (a four through my legs) much to everybody's surprise - not least my own. My fellow opener John got 16, and in researching this article, I found that he still plays for BAe to this day. But despite our victory, our team was so terrible we finished bottom of the 'Croft Roplasto Palace Shield' with only that single win. However, in a 'you couldn't make it up' twist, our year was about to change.
After each season there was a special one-day competition for the Tony Poxon Trophy (a local cricketer who had died suddenly), played in the cowfields of Longridge - which had become our lucky ground, in that we had never won anywhere else. It was a 7-aside tournament, and alas I was 8th on the team sheet, so I was confined to the bench (Frank couldn't go, so Dennis picked the team). It was a knock-out system, so we were expected to lose our first game and be home before lunchtime. By 9pm we still hadn't returned, so our anxious parents were wondering what was going on (this was before mobile phones had made it to Lancashire. They probably still haven't made it to Longridge). Well, in a Hollywood-esque twist, we had managed to get to the final, against the heavy favourites South Shore - a mix of players from various Blackpool-area clubs. Playing for them was a gangly youth called Andrew Flintoff, who was a lethally fast bowler. But even with him, we continued our stunning run, and beat them to lift the trophy. I got a medal (which I still have), and we got in the paper - for the photo, which was taken in semi-darkness after the game, I nipped onto the front row, so it looked like I'd taken part.
That was as good as it got, really. On the strength of that, we improved the next year, but were still pretty poor. My brother joined the club, so our parents had to make twice the car trips, Flintoff joined Dutton Forshaw for a brief spell, we enjoyed the hotpot supper at BAe's awards dinner (where our sole trophy was paraded). Frank managed to wangle it for a few of us to attend a 'Cricketing Centre of Excellence' held by Lancashire County Cricket Club at a leisure centre on the other side of Preston (that's why parents learn to drive, of course). I went with Phil as our bowlers, but sadly for me everyone had to bat in the practice nets as well. So I got padded up, and the very best young fast bowlers in Lancashire took turns to fire down at me. I think even Phil bowled quickly (and he was a spinner). The top junior there was, of course, Andrew Flintoff, who got me out with every ball he bowled at me. Most of them I couldn't even see, I just stepped forward and held the bat out before the stumps clattered behind me.
So my fledgling cricket career ended there. I enjoyed the games and practices, and the Centre of Excellence was a good experience, but I was never good enough to progress. Phil went on a couple of levels but broke his wrist playing rugby and couldn't continue. Andrew Flintoff went on through the levels, to the Lancashire Academy Side. Then he was called up to the full county team, and a couple of years later he was picked for England. Two years ago he was the 'Man of the Series' as England beat Australia to claim the coveted Ashes, and last month he was named England captain. This Thursday he'll lead England out against the Aussies at Brisbane as we try and retain the trophy. I'll be cheering him on, with no hard feelings...
* Cricket, from Wikipedia
Andrew Flintoff's biography
