Last Ball Thriller

Talk about close shaves, this one takes the epidermis along for a ride. The scene: Fortress Jowett. The foe: Worcester. The victory: Delicious.

I suppose the cat is out of the bag, but we managed a win by 1 wicket with a total of 0 balls remaining. Even Thwaiter's scoring database shuddered at the proximity between the worms in those final overs.

To set the scene though: Worcester, several time Cuppers champions and a team full of talent, has never defeated Balliol in my time here. Last year's game was rained off the and previous two times we played was after they had made an appearance in the Cuppers finals (something Balliol has not done since... 2005?). We will still face them in the League in the last week of term, where I'm sure they will be up for a rematch.

There was lots of talk heading into the game about 'this being the real final' and what have you. This was one quarter of that, but four times of that? No, that one needs a little more thought.

Plenty of Tics players in the Worcester line-up, and the so called 'potential Blues players' which the Cuppers committee love including in their roulette-style seeding system. But a champion team versus a team of champions = there can be only one winner. That winner is clearly Coach Gordon Bombay from The Mighty Duck Trilogy


oh, and us on Monday, dontcha know?

The fact that we managed to beat a team which had such mercenary bandits as 'The Real Bowles', some seven foot-tall gunslinger known as 'Large' and two nomadic ninjas by the elusive names of 'Player 10' and 'Player 11', speaks volumes about our levels of concentration at this elite level of competition.

It was a class act by the opening pair, scuttling along at a fair clip, before one of the best LBW shouts you would ever want to see. Following on from the maverick decision during the previous match against Queens [see previous post] --- in which Clarkey and co went up in a half-hearted appeal and then we all died down when we realised the ball was missing another set of stumps, only to see the umpire fire the batsman off. As he left the field he turned to the umpire and said, in the tone of a brother who has had his elder brother nick his turn on the Sega Mega Drive (mine was a happy childhood) "They didn't even appeal properly." Classic.

Anyway, Trav wraps R Bowles (not the 'Real Bowles', oh no, his entrance into this rich tapestry will come at a later date) square on the pads, in line with the stumps, sure, but one in which I had little time for the appeal. The bloke is a tall man, ball hitting just below the knee-roll on the up. I'm no aerodynamical cavalier, but I thought that was an optimistic appeal at best. I joined in to be part of the crowd. Once we died down, Trav, sensing blood, let out a second, more urgent appeal, continued with the question, politely phrased "What IS that missing?" Apparently that swung it for the umpire and the Rudi Koertzen slow finger came out to say g'day. Bemused and beguiled, R Bowles returned to the pavillion. Trav struck again in his next over dismissing the number 3, but then Worcester had a cool pair of heads at the crease, who put on 99 between them.

A good catch by The Head and a runout from S(olomon,) J(oe) Thwaite from third man removed both established batsmen.

Some lusty strokeplay from the Worcester middle order saw the Foe in Pink reach that 200 mark, which is a good par on any D/L method. However, we all thought that Balliol had done well to restrict the scoring in the latter overs, and as you can see by the Manhattan Murder Mystery Graph

there wasn't an MEK Hussey-esque explosion towards the end.

So 201 to win... always going to be a big ask, and it called for a good all-round effort. The top five all got to double figures - indeed the first five wickets made 184 and the last five made 17, but, as we know now from the previous post, Wino's prophetic 'taking it to the last over' does make strange things happen.

Wino and the Head proceeded with caution and headed to drinks at no wicket for 68. 133 required from the last 20, but with bags o' wickets up the cuff. Jim departed first ball after drinks, and despite a quick fire 14, Gav couldn't overcome the stark reality of 'The Real Bowles', and chipped him a catch. Captain Kohnny, who seems to become Val Kilmer: Iceman, when batting, knocked a barrage of sweeps for four, and put on 50 with Wino, who kept playing the back foot cover drive which caught the selector's eye and secured his transfer from the Welsh hinterland to this side of the Cotswolds. Such was the onslaught of Gav, Wino and Kohnny that the required run rate dropped from 7 to a tick over 5.

Thwaiters arrived, keen to straight-drive his way into Wisden, and belted three boundaries. Then was the first of four, count them FOUR, run-outs. That classic gambit of 'Wait, Yes, Wait... oh ah yes?' Wino departs for a well earned 79. Entire a partnership of Trans-Tasman unity. Thwaiters and I kept the runs ticking over before he was bowled and Vidhu copped an LBW decision in the same over. 12 to win, 2 overs to play, and Arjun and I at the crease. I had already whipped the punt pole out for a mow over the croquet green, and the time had come for another trip down the river.

Arjun hit a ball out to deep cover and we ran a quick one, I turned and was heading back for the second, huffing and puffing like a trooper. I think my huffing swallowed my shout for 2, indeed it was deafening in my mind, but I managed to find myself down the other end almost shaking hands with Arjun, or rather, something far less cordial, when the stumps at the keeper's end were broken.

Arjun was run out in that same over (bowled by the man-mountain known simply as 'Large'), bringing us into the final over needing 6 to win with 2 wickets in hand. Take it to the last over... kept repeating over and over in my mind, after I had calmed down on the sideline.

First ball - swing and a miss. There must have been some collaborative confusion in the mid-wicket conference at the end of the over. Running for everying may or may not mean running for everthing. With the keeper back a bye was 'on', but the stumps were hit and Matty P in his skin-tight white shirt, departed.

6 to win from 5, with Clarkey our last man in, on strike. Bunt, run, a comfortable single.

5 from 4. Bunt from Trav and another run, comfortably home.

4 from 3. Would you believe - the field is set so deep that they plunder another run!

3 from 2. Tragedy! A dot and almost a wicket. A hit into the covers, set off for a run and turn back. Clarky turns like the QE II, but he jolly well got the after burners on and scampered back.

I was rather disconsolate up in the pavillion. I decided to come down to the boundary thinking that we should get ready to shake their hands.

3 from 1... certainly doable: Trav on strike and his 20 against Queen's included some big shots. Before the bowler ran in there was a reminder about the rules: a tie meant a bowl out! Oh this was getting too much. The bowler runs in, and would you believe it Trav swings, swings well, and gets, oh no, just a single. But wait! A no-ball for height! Clarkey keeps his cool and doesn't go for the glory-suicide second to go for the win.

1 ball left, 1 run to win, number 11 on strike. This is script material. I feel that I could not possible tell the tale in words. Here are pictures taken by Shiv:


Ball is bowled, swing and a miss... surely it is the bye with the keeper standing back...

In comes the throw, Trav is really struggling here, remember the keeper hit once before...

Blimey! Trav isn't even in the frame, the ball is right there! AHHH!!!!!


A miss! A MISS!!!

And, to complete the series, the look of despair from the keeper. Teaches him to stand up, I suppose.

Blimey... I can't handle any more now. I'm off for a beer.

There's still Keble's game to go up... stay tuned.

The clippers to the razor: from an all over shredding to a close shave

Third week saw a colourful juxtaposition of games played at in both home an away venues.

The first 'real' match of cuppers, as opposed to those played out entirely within the mind of Vidhu, those which comprise lightning running between the wickets and the perpetual pleasure of firing Gav out for an LBW --- yes the first real match of our Cuppers run, if you don't count the forfeiture by Corpus Christi. One would have thought that you would bank on playing in the first round of a knockout tournament. Their absence did raise questions of leather jackets, but with Arjun, the Tiger Catching Imperator needing to rest a foot which hadn't seen action since New Zealand won a rugby world cup, the break was welcome.

Thence down to Queens', on the suspiciously low waterplain (that may or may not be a word in actual currency), where the changing room was as cavernous as Ali Baba's cave. Alex Shabbala joined us for his first game of the season, but he had precious little to do, as did 8 of us in the field. There was the usual scratching around start, with Clarky defying being hit by an number of sticks of rhubarb in the corridor of uncertainty. If one could have had Clarky wearing a pinny then the Boycott trifecta would be complete. Probably best to let that one go through to the keeper.

To cut a long story short, Queen's went from 2 for 24 to 32 all out. A classic schoolboy effort there. Number 11 streaked a catch through the slip cordon for a boundary to boot. Why we didn't have 9 slips [see previous post] for ultimate intimidation, I'll never know. Queen's only had 10 men, so it was a race to see who could grab Michelle before the other. Clarky ended up with 4 wickets and Arjun with 5 (for 10 runs or so, which will take some beating).

Owain fell victim to a 'full toss', but Trav, with helmet and not the under 12s netball visor of yesteryear, hit a quick fire 20 to allow us to wrap the match up before half-time. There was some trickery abounding with the teas, with biscuits being kept out of site until the opposition trudged off, leaving us with the remnants. Still, it made a change from the invariable mystery of Balliol's finest tuna surprise.

We were then through to the quarter finals of cuppers, the match report for which will follow shortly.

Thence to another nail-biter: Merton/Mansfield, emerging for their weekly stint away from the library and Sherlockian examination of the Norrington Table, joined us at Fort Jowett for a match with nothing lost between the teams. Last year we went down by one wicket off the penultimate ball, a tough pill to swallow to be sure, and other games in present memory have been tightly contested. No more suspense though, here are SJ 'Statto' Thwaiters' box and dice set of the match, starting with out innings



You might well ask whether such a bowler who sports a name 'Danny Ray', really did ride on in on a 6 foot-glassy tube, with surfboard and Billabong boardies in tow. Fortunately he did not - instead he proved to be batting's answer to the movie 'The World According to Garp'. Knowlesy, of last wicket stand fame during the wedding match (see

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Resurrection

oh, wait, there is no report there - but there is one on Skipper Xavier's blog.)

Anyway, Knowlesy once described 'The World According to Garp' akin to watching a one hundred metres dash wherein the racers hear the gun, stand still for 10 seconds, and then fall backwards. Neither entertainment nor cricketainment. But anyway, Danny Ray did not have wrap around sunglasses and a set of ripped shorts.

After a few quick wickets, Captain Kohnny 'The Iceman' and Thwaiters (eager* to add to his 'data entry' points on the Prince Alberta Awards Scheme) settled the ship. A 95 run stand ensued at better than a run a ball, featuring some sweeping that would put a janitor to shame. I pulled a Keith Miller and declared that I didn't need to make runs today, allowing Arjun and Mr Body to put on an exhillirating 45 off a little more than 5 overs. Vidhu had a call of the day when he proclaimed that a straight six for Alex 'Elle the' Body thundered into the sightscreen: "That will break their spirits." But as it would unfold, these Mertonians are made of stronger stuff than mere Tesco value 3-year-and-a-day whisky, and the run chase proved a single-malt spectacle.



One could label the below picture 'The Dance of the Worms', and market it to the Museum of Modern Art in Paris as the next big thing. They've got 5 spaces which have opened up I hear... too soon?


With four wickets down just after the tea break, Merton needed 100 off the last 16 - overs that is, not Danny Morrison/Pommie Mbangwa IPL madness. Clarky and Gav picked up a couple through the gate, and Statto Junior Thwaite held a tough'un at cover to give the Highlander a wicket. Elle The bowled a ripping ball bouncing over the shoulder down leg side, which the batsman chased, looking for a nibble. His eyes were bigger than his belly though, and the ball glanced off his gloves, into my gloves, in a seemingly perfectly directed advertisement on wearing protective gear.

It was going to be a tough ask to contain the batsmen. Young White, copped plenty of "student/tutor/have your homework in on time sunshine" banter from me, but proved impervious to mental or physical disintegration to power along past fifty. He was ably supported by Goodman, whom, for some reason, we called Roelof van der Merwe. Perhaps that name was conjured in the pub afterwards as Gav and I swapped banter about quick southern-hemispherical wickets vs traditional English puddings.


Here a flash, there a miss, everywhere a heave-ho. Soon it was 22 runs required for victory, from the remaining 4 overs, with 4 wickets in hand, White on 60-odd and Roelof about half that. A tight over for 4 runs, followed by another tight over for 4 runs. 14 required from the last 2. Then, from nowhere, White tries to end it in a couple of blows. A big booming swish outside the line and a miss through to the keeper off Arjun. Another swish, this time getting some of it, but by no means the lion's share of it - no doubt attracted by the Siren's Song of the close tennis-court boundary. Gav steps and inch off the boundary (that inch makes all the difference, or so says The Head) takes the ball, and gently teeters forward to ensure a clean catch. Hello hello? 15 required from 9 deliveries and a new man in - albeit at the non-striker's end. This is where the game passes the standard 10-year-old Glenmorangie test and heads into the round dozen, Cragganmore style.

Arjun lets one ball drop short, and Roelof hammers it through the off-side for four. Next ball, same result - another four through cover point. He burgles a single off the last ball of the over to nab the strike, and it is looking dire: 4 runs to win off one over, 5 wickets in hand and gritty South African off spinner (or whatever) on strike.

Theretofore, Wino keeps yelling out 'take it to the last over', which at the time I thought was code for 'at least if we don't win, we'll get to the last over and receive some sort of consolation prize, like a crew date with Somerville's female rugby team.' But it was not until the last over came around that I realised what he was on about: crazy things happen in the final over. People start to get a bit o' fight-or-flight about them - maverick singles are run, loose shots played, and there is a sudden upgrade from the 12-year-old to the Dalwhinnie 15.

4 to win from 6. Gav, the surgeon, to throw some sand on the floor, roll up the sleeves amidst the clamour of cannon and cutless and try to save a life. Length ball outside off stump: pushed off the front foot in front of cover and a single scampered. I see no one backing up at the bowler's end, and although the Surgeon has hands the size of the Western Cape, Wino's call of 'take it to the last over' cuts both ways... four overthrows would make molehills out of men. I yell 'Hold' with more urgency than a referee at the Crucible, but with less than a referee at the Cauldron - high volume shrills do little to keep the nerve.

3 runs off 5 balls, with the new man on strike. One blow to finish it, and apparently Sesh was used to hitting balls out of the coaster-sized OUCCCCCC ground. He could do it with his eyes closed, so we'd heard. Perhaps it was his trying to replicate this feat which caused the ball to hit the middle of middle. Clatter, cheers, huddle, pep talk - the inners are soaking up with sweat and the heart is sounding like popcorn ah... popping? Bang.

3 runs from 4 balls with none other than Danny Ray walking out to bat. Perhaps he might have been better served in this attire.


I decided to come up to the stumps - no need to have the opposition run through a cheeky bye to end the match (this is such an awesome build up to the Worcester match report that I required a cup of tea from the kitchen to calm back down).

So... 3 from 4. Fullish outside off - dot. A bit swing a miss and it thunders straight into the gloves. Roelof is backing up a good three or four yards, and he wisely jumps back in his crease. 3 from 3. Dot! Another ball, slightly shorter this time, and only just missing the outside of off stump. Danny Ray plays a calendar month too late on that and it again finds its way into my 'high visibility' gloves (words from the manufacturer, not from me... that was one of the selling points.)

3 runs from 2 balls. DOT! BANG! There is another swing as this ball is right on a length. I wasn't in much of a chance for a caught behind - the reflexes were in good nick but old D.R. played at it well after it had been swallowed up in the gauntlets. Roelof was backing up a good 5 yards now, and I thought of a shy at the other stumps, but again... cool heads.

1 ball to go... 3 runs to win. There is at least a six-pack of conferences: Roelof and Danny Ray (surely the message was 'Well, guv'nor, you've had three sighters... perhaps you would be so kind as to lay some bat on this one?'); Wino and Kohnny (so much experience - fielding placings, sending people out to stop the boundary, but also having enough in close to prevent a quick 2); Thwaiters and Thwaiters (working out the exact moment for a pun to fall on something other than grave silence); and Gav and I (Gav announces to me that he will bowl the ball short and aim for a dot. I told him that would be a gambling man's move as Danny Ray could get bat, arm, helmet or guitar on it and it would race away... Same as before, was my counsel, and he won't hit you in a month of Sundays.)

Last ball of the match. CRASH - Middle of middle stump! Roelof kicks the turf in disgust, Danny Ray slowly takes off his cowboy hat, and Gav, Dr Cricket, goes blimin' mental. A win by 2 runs... and after the loss to Merton/Mansfield in the semi-final of cuppers last year, off the second last ball. It proved to be a match fitting Ardbeg Lord of the Isles 25 years.

Right! Time for another cup of tea after that. Too many of these close-calls and write ups gets the heart a'racin'.

Here's something from Beyond the Cricketing World.

In other news - a builder came around the other day to try to fix a few items in the house. I was typing away at the computer for periods, and then read a few papers upstairs. He kept coming around, looking at me and saying 'So, is this what you do for work?' I got the feeling that he thought precious little of mathematics as a career move. Later on during the day I saw he was battling trying to bring a long plank around the corner through the kitchen. I offered to give him a hand, for which he was momentarily grateful, before returning to his classic banter, "I guess you don't get much of this in your line of work?" To which I responded, "Well, it's a standard first year problem that we all [I guess I meant the Band of Brothers of mathematicians] get given."

He went back to the roofing. What a character.

*So it appears that normally one writes 'eagre' for 'keen'. Apparently 'eager' means

A tidal wave of unusual height, caused by the rushing of the tide up a narrowing estuary.

Fact.