There was a breathless hush on the Rec last night, to misquote the poet (and, later, war propagandist) Henry Newbolt. Nineteen overs gone, Tom Talks and Pope Leo at the crease, with eleven to make and the match to win. And all this after last week’s thrilling tie.
It may not have been a bumping pitch but there was certainly a blinding light. Our match against the amiable Knowle Village took place on one of the hottest evenings of the year. The outfield looked and felt more a pasture in the Sahel than an English lawn. The Skipper put us in the field, among the Umbrella Thorns and the Locust Beans, while griffon vultures circled overhead. The dessication of the turf had created all sorts of humps and divots, too, making it a challenging surface for fielding.
Team Talks opened the bowling. Talks fils (Tom; 0 for 12) charging up the hill and downwind, while Talks père (Head of Trout, 1 for 16) got a bit of assistance, coming down the hill. Knowle’s umpire at square leg observed that Tom seemed to get faster with every ball, and his line and length were unimpeachable. His economy of 3 runs an over talks, ahem, for itself. It was Head of Trout, however, who got the wicket, tempting their number five for the big slog and just diddling him with the flight and the wobble in his inimitable way. Our first-change bowling pair featured the President (1 for 30) and Sepia (0 for 30, but by god his flight foxed them). Knowle Village had settled in by now, and the runs were starting to flow when, in the tenth over, the President struck – another clean bowled. He struck again in the thirteen over, eliciting the mistimed drive and affording the Skipper a perfect catch. A wicket of the Mikes. There was a good run-out too: the Knowle batsman choosing to chance the arm of the wrong Talks; Tom pinged it in and G whipped off the bails. A wicket created by our two most athletic players.
We needed 126. We’ve made more on that ground in the past, and on stickier outfields. It would prove to be all about the run-rate. Al (12) and the Bard (23) opened – Al scoring at 6 an over before hitting a powerful cut that, unluckily, came within reach of Knowle’s best hands. At this point, our innings slowed in the face of bowling that was not showy but was, however, accurate. The Bard, Benno (2) and the Skipper (25) made runs but at something less than 5 an over. This meant that when the Bard lost his wicket impatiently flailing,and the Skipper retired on 25, the Pope and Tom Talks were left with not exactly a mountain to climb but certainly a decent Welsh hill.
With five overs to go we needed 54 runs. Ulp. Enter the Pope. Enter Tom Tom talks. Over 16: 16 runs, with three fours – it helped that the first ball of the over scored six, with two for a no-ball plus the boundary. Over 17: seven runs – with another four for the Pope. Over 18: 13 runs, seven of them ran – in the heat! – including three off the last ball of the over, while the ball skipped its way towards the border with Chad. Over 19: seven runs – with another spanking four from the Pope, who then retired. But only seven… only seven…
Before I return to that final over, with eleven to make and the match to win, special mention must be made of the faithful Shep. He didn’t have much glory in the field. In fact, he later confessed, he didn’t even touch the ball. (To be clear: this was because it never came to him.) When Leo retired, he came in to bat with the heaviest of tasks on his shoulders: to score a lot of runs very quickly with no time whatsoever to get his eye in. In the end, he faced just four deliveries and – as he himself ruefully pointed out in the pub – once again he didn’t even touch the ball (although his running of byes, it has to be said, was deserving of the highest praise). Was this a club record? Could a special trophy be made? Perhaps, Sepia and Head of Talks, quipped, it could be a plinth topped by an invisible ball.
So now we come to that twentieth and last over. It deserves a ball-by-ball commentary. One run to Tom Talks. (Well hit, Tom!) One bye. (Well run, Shep!) Two more byes. (Well run again!) Two runs to Tom Talks. (Could this really happen?) Two more runs to Tom Talks. (Maybe it could…) We were now on 124, with one ball to come, needing two to tie and three to win. What the Racqueteers watching wanted, of course, was a four. Or a six. Either would do. Even from the boundary you could see Tom Talks tensing up, ready for the effort. He took in his breath and took up his guard. Would it be the big slog to midwicket or the lofted drive over the bowler’s head? The bowler came in and – oh no – down came a flat, awkward sort of ball, a little short and a little outside off stump, and all Tom could do with it was a sort of improvised wristy cut-punch sort of thing, angled towards the covers – and would that be enough to run more than one? Would it? Shep ran, Tom ran, and the Racqueteers watched them running – watched them cross, watched them turn – and in the excitement no one seemed to notice that bone-dry outfield doing its superlative work: the ball ran away for four, somewhere over towards Mauritania.
We had won. Play up! Play up! And play the game.
Vitaï Lampada by Henry Newbolt (1892)
There’s a breathless hush in the Close to-night―
Ten to make and the match to win –
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it’s not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season’s fame,
But his captain’s hand on his shoulder smote
‘Play up! play up! and play the game!’
The sand of the desert is sodden red,―
Red with the wreck of a square that broke; ―
The Gatling’s jammed and the Colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England’s far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks:
‘Play up! play up! and play the game!’
This is the word that year by year,
While in her place the school is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind―
‘Play up! play up! and play the game!’
The Racqueteers Cricket Club 