Heretical, I know, when you consider my family background - my father played for Essex before the war, and for Suffolk after it. My earliest memories of cricket are of sunlit days, playing with my toys behind one of the stands at the Felixstowe ground, or at Saxstead Green in the shadow of the windmill. Later, attending a boys' school, I had the chance to play, but proved useless - a single run was my biggest score. My sister, rather better at sports than I was, was the only child in the youngest group able to bowl overarm. When the First Eleven played, on Saturday afternoons, we all had to watch. In my case, it meant that I could roll up in my rug and surreptitiously read - until one day I was hit on the head by a boundary I hadn't seen coming, and my shameful secret was exposed to all. Going to a girls' school, at the age of thirteen, meant I was able to exchange the boredom of cricket for the horrors of hockey and netball. Honestly, I don't know which was worse.
Cricket came back into my life with my two sons. My dad's sporting ability - he played cricket, golf, football and squash to a very high level - had passed me by entirely, but surfaced in Hugh and Patrick. We bought a cheap set of bat, ball and stumps and I began playing with them in the garden. My neighbour, knowing nothing of my unusual childhood, thought it was strange that I knew the right terminology and the rules, until I told him why! It soon became apparent that both boys were good, though not exceptional. Dad was impressed with Hugh's bowling, and gave him some coaching and much confidence. We joined Devizes Cricket Club, and began the summer routine shared by parents across the land: training sessions one evening a week after school, matches every Sunday. One of the nicest things about playing in Wiltshire is the lovely locations of many of the grounds. Erlestoke in a walled garden nestled beneath the hills: All Cannings at the foot of the downs: Bishop's Cannings down a little country lane: Devizes itself with lovely views, and a ringside seat when the police helicopter took off. Both boys were enthusiastic players with potential: both, surprisingly, bowled left-handed but batted with the right.
Alas, to my Dad's disappointment, their cricketing careers fizzled out. For two consecutive seasons, Hugh didn't play: appendicitis one year, a broken collar bone (diving for a catch!) the next. Then he had back problems and was unable to bowl as fast or as accurately as he once had. Patrick was a good bowler with a rather eccentric action (if not reminded, he tended to throw), but unfortunately the club changed to a more competitive league and the team was rather cliquey: he went for match after match without either batting or bowling, which would sap the enthusiasm of the keenest player, and eventually he gave up altogether. I was sad for them, for I always thought that with better coaching and regular match practice they would both have done well in adult teams, but selfishly didn't miss those long, tedious hours with the Sunday paper, hoping vainly that Patrick would at last be given the chance to shine, or that Hugh wouldn't slog it straight to slip.
And now it's the Ashes again, and it brings back bitter-sweet memories - because exactly four years ago my mother died very suddenly, leaving my dad alone for the first time in his life. In the agonising days between her death and her funeral, the final Test provided a very welcome distraction for my poor father, who did not know what to do with himself. For hours I sat and watched it with him, and in the process learned far more about the finer points, technical and tactical, of what he called 'the beautiful game' than I ever had before. And when, eighteen months later, he gave up the miserable struggle to live without her, I wrote this poem for him in tribute to a true English gentleman, and it was read by my nephew Matt at his funeral:
Cricket came back into my life with my two sons. My dad's sporting ability - he played cricket, golf, football and squash to a very high level - had passed me by entirely, but surfaced in Hugh and Patrick. We bought a cheap set of bat, ball and stumps and I began playing with them in the garden. My neighbour, knowing nothing of my unusual childhood, thought it was strange that I knew the right terminology and the rules, until I told him why! It soon became apparent that both boys were good, though not exceptional. Dad was impressed with Hugh's bowling, and gave him some coaching and much confidence. We joined Devizes Cricket Club, and began the summer routine shared by parents across the land: training sessions one evening a week after school, matches every Sunday. One of the nicest things about playing in Wiltshire is the lovely locations of many of the grounds. Erlestoke in a walled garden nestled beneath the hills: All Cannings at the foot of the downs: Bishop's Cannings down a little country lane: Devizes itself with lovely views, and a ringside seat when the police helicopter took off. Both boys were enthusiastic players with potential: both, surprisingly, bowled left-handed but batted with the right.
Alas, to my Dad's disappointment, their cricketing careers fizzled out. For two consecutive seasons, Hugh didn't play: appendicitis one year, a broken collar bone (diving for a catch!) the next. Then he had back problems and was unable to bowl as fast or as accurately as he once had. Patrick was a good bowler with a rather eccentric action (if not reminded, he tended to throw), but unfortunately the club changed to a more competitive league and the team was rather cliquey: he went for match after match without either batting or bowling, which would sap the enthusiasm of the keenest player, and eventually he gave up altogether. I was sad for them, for I always thought that with better coaching and regular match practice they would both have done well in adult teams, but selfishly didn't miss those long, tedious hours with the Sunday paper, hoping vainly that Patrick would at last be given the chance to shine, or that Hugh wouldn't slog it straight to slip.
And now it's the Ashes again, and it brings back bitter-sweet memories - because exactly four years ago my mother died very suddenly, leaving my dad alone for the first time in his life. In the agonising days between her death and her funeral, the final Test provided a very welcome distraction for my poor father, who did not know what to do with himself. For hours I sat and watched it with him, and in the process learned far more about the finer points, technical and tactical, of what he called 'the beautiful game' than I ever had before. And when, eighteen months later, he gave up the miserable struggle to live without her, I wrote this poem for him in tribute to a true English gentleman, and it was read by my nephew Matt at his funeral:
A GOOD INNINGS
The shadows are long and the day's play has ended,
The last ball bowled to his crease.
But though he is out we remember the glory,
And rejoice that he now has found peace.
He's said his goodbyes and gone home to his wife,
But the pavilion still rings to his name,
How, winning or losing, he always played fair,
And without him it won't be the same.
It's a beautiful game, he said once to us,
And though it was cricket he meant,
His life was the same and he never gave up
Whatever the bowler had sent.
So he's had a good innings, one of the best,
Filled his time with success great and small,
And as we look back at his long happy life,
We salute him with bat and with ball.
The shadows are long and the day's play has ended,
The last ball bowled to his crease.
But though he is out we remember the glory,
And rejoice that he now has found peace.
He's said his goodbyes and gone home to his wife,
But the pavilion still rings to his name,
How, winning or losing, he always played fair,
And without him it won't be the same.
It's a beautiful game, he said once to us,
And though it was cricket he meant,
His life was the same and he never gave up
Whatever the bowler had sent.
So he's had a good innings, one of the best,
Filled his time with success great and small,
And as we look back at his long happy life,
We salute him with bat and with ball.
If England win this weekend, I'm sure that somewhere, he will be smiling.
I think he is.
I think he is.
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