Caught Crompton Bowled Shaw
Bissenden Cup Winners 1995
As Onion Head bypassed the leg side field with a firm on drive towards the tennis courts, the travelling Whaley support invaded the New Mills outfield with an emotional outpouring of uncontrollable joy coupled with frightening intimidation. Colin Spicer had lost the ability to speak, but on reflection the late Dave Longden probably chose the wrong moment to launch into a rugby tackle on one of the Birch Vale fielders. Thankfully John Bradshaw was too petrified to retaliate.
Ironically, for such a glorious summer, the 1995 cricket season was kick-started by an abandoned game on the opening day against the same opponents. An early run of victories boosted confidence and with most players contributing with either bat or ball, the good ship Whaley Bridge never left the top four for the rest of the campaign.
After receiving a bye, the Bissenden Second Round draw paired us with the mighty Hayfield on their own patch. It was around this time that Messrs Shaw and Crompton were both invited on Hayfield’s tour of the Oxford Universities. It was also our first encounter with the Bard of Birch Vale.
Not only was Chris Reid a William Shakespeare lookalike, he was also the rarest of rare breeds, a cultured Australian and a cricketing purist. Little did we know, as Crompy threw up outside the Yoxall rendezvous that our paths would later cross in such dramatic fashion.
Hayfield beat Brasenose College with Crompton scoring 70 and Shaw taking 5-21. Shakespeare wanted to talk cricket, but we were too busy bickering over a mysterious wet patch that had appeared on our hotel room floor the previous morning. Obviously Crompton was guilty, but he was equally convinced of his innocence.
I knew I wouldn’t be invited again after Billy Higginbotham caught me relieving myself whist umpiring at Square Leg. Crompton was never sober and our tour mood was captured perfectly by the local loon swallow diving into a wheelie bin whilst quoting Greek poetry.
Hayfield were obviously seduced by complacency as Crompton’s century helped Whaley achieve a formidable Bissenden score of 240-8. Hayfield needed a solid start, but Davies and Chinniah were soon snared by the aggressive, foul mouthing Shaw on a one way ticket to oblivion. Not quite a cunning plan, but I can’t ever recall an easier victory against such overwhelming favourites.
By now the former whipping boys were growing in confidence and rapidly emerging as genuine title contenders. Availabilities improved almost overnight and thanks mainly to the manic encouragement of “Tink” Taylor, the Wednesday evening practice was serious and virtually compulsory.
Tink was a firm believer in fighting talk and on more than one occasion he quite literally took the fight to the opposition. Damien Weatherhead was taught a valuable, if trifle harsh lesson in cricket etiquette, whilst Stockport will always rue the day they brought a football to Horwich Park.
In all fairness, Tink’s ferocious influence was positively transparent, especially on the never-say-die attitude of those players normally on the periphery of first Team action.
Incredibly Birch Vale were beaten after Nick Latham and Phil Leadbetter had rescued Whaley from 29-8; Mike Madden was a major catalyst in the defeat of Tintwistle; My best ever bowling performance was saved for the legendary tied match in the top of the table clash against Compstall.
Our only weakness was a bowling attack that relied more on accuracy than penetration. Subsequently, our lack of maximum bowling points left us tantalizingly close to the eventual champions.
Sadly, the final piece in the jigsaw was also a keen drummer in a local band. David Booth was a talented opening bowler, but after irritating Tink by expressing a desire to be nearer to the Manchester music scene, he promptly packed his bags and moved to Furness Vale. Presumably his ability to read music was more qualified than his ability to read maps.
Given the benefit of hindsight the League Champions flag was only a few Boothy appearances away from flying over the Whaley pavilion. However, second place was no disgrace and as Whaley were drawn to play on Tink’s favourite cabbage patch we approached the Semi Final at Stockport with unrelenting confidence.
Despite Charlie Holden’s holiday absence and Steve Woolley’s first over dismissal, it was still a routine stroll for Whaley, with all the bowlers performing admirably and Crompy and Tink standing firm against the slingers and sledgers from Nangreave Road. An eight wicket victory spoke volumes for our confidence as we awaited the outcome of the other Semi final.
The only major concern was the identity of our eleventh man as due to holiday commitments, a number of fringe players had played in the important games. Ten players were certain starters, but the choice between Jon Prior, Jason Tatton and Mike Madden was too close to call.
It certainly didn’t help matters when a Hazel Grove wedding the following week provided Whaley with a virtual walkover. Jason could hardly cement his place with only 60 runs to chase, whilst Jon was helping himself to a Second X1 century against the old men and little boys that featured for the Grove. Eventually Jon was selected, but after featuring in the Semi final, Jason was desperately unlucky.
Birch Vale had won the trophy for the previous three seasons and arrived at New Mills splendidly attired in club blazers and matching slacks. I had spent the previous night with a certain girl from a certain village and arrived at New Mills unshaven and splendidly attired with my “Uwe’s Grandad bombed Old Trafford” tee shirt.
The Whaley team for the final was Steve Woolley, Darren Crompton, Tink Taylor, Charlie Holden, Phil “Absolutely” Crick, Nick Latham, Phil Leadbetter, Tim Arnfield, Jon Prior, David Booth, and Neil Shaw.
Birch were immensely unpopular, but in all honesty, I never knew why. They were simply too good for most of their opponents and I could name plenty of other individuals, at least two of whom played for Whaley Bridge, who would walk into an obnoxious Derbyshire and Cheshire League X1.
I can’t remember who won the toss, but after four overs I was bowling from the pavilion end, knowing that Ledder had declared himself unfit to bowl, after damaging his shoulder during an epic innings the previous day against Compstall. In other words there was nowhere to hide.
Shakespeare was opening with Billy Hyde and after the Oxford experience he was well aware that I had no intention of speaking to him until after the game. This was serious cricket with a huge expectant crowd and Ian Bowers on the PA announcing the bowling change.
Birch made a slow start but Shakespeare soon spotted a gap and stroked me through extra cover for a boundary in front of the bowling green. He repeated the shot, but this time to a slower delivery and the ball floated to Crompy at wide mid on. The moment took an eternity before Crompy swooped and caught the ball inches from the turf.
Shakespeare stood his ground so I offered him a compass. Lloyd Hayes confirmed that the catch was clean and the Bard of Birch was on his way to the pavilion. Caught Crompton bowled Shaw and shove your vegemite sandwich where the sun doesn’t shine.
Boothy soon trapped the dangerous Rick Johnson and with Tim, Steve and Charlie all bowling aggressively, Birch were always on the back foot. A late surge witnessed a final score of 160, but everyone knew that Whaley were now the favourites.
The concentration was intense as Steve and Crompy constructed a slow, but solid start before Steve was eventually trapped LBW with Whaley on 60-1. Tink and Charlie both supported Crompy, but Birch were bowling tight and giving nothing away. The tension was almost unbearable, but as Whaley inched closer, the frustration was beginning to show in a couple of uncharacteristic fielding errors. A few more boundaries and Whaley were on the home straight.
With six wickers and less than twenty runs remaining, Tim Johnson threw the ball to the occasional slow bowler Steven Burns. It was an inspired decision as Crompy immediately smashed the ball down Square leg’s throat. Ledder was stumped first ball and Rigger soon perished at the other end. Cue bedlam amongst the Birch fielders and utter panic in the Whaley dressing room.
Arnie and Onion Head restored order, but every single and scrambled leg bye was greeted with pure emotion. We all dream of being the hero, but Boothy was white as a sheet and I couldn’t get off the toilet. God help us if we lost another wicket.
Cometh the hour, cometh the onion and with Roy Cartledge adjudicating Crompy as the deserved Man of the Match, every player from Birch entered our changing room to offer their congratulations. A touch of class from worthy opponents and certainly a gesture that we would never have offered.
The celebrations went on through the night with virtually the whole Birch team appearing in the Sheps. Shakespeare sung Waltzing Matilda and an old codger from New Mills gave me a slap for singing George Formby. It was a memorable occasion with Tink leading the infectious Boy Scout classic, “We are the boys…bobbing up and down like this..”
Happy Days!
Tonight Mathew I’m going to be the Whaley Bridge Second Team Captain.
From the sublime to the ridiculous in ten minutes, May 28th 2011 will forever be remembered as the day when the gods of village farce descended upon the Jodrell Arms car park.
At 12:45 it slowly transpired that there were only nine players amongst the assembled throng. Not for the first time, Anthony Rowntree had found an alternative source of Saturday afternoon entertainment, whilst rumours were surfacing that Trumpton Fire Brigade had deprived us of the dubious cricketing talent of Nick Howe. Meanwhile Gibbo was picking the wrong moment to inform his team mates that the deadline for payment of subs was imminent. The punchline to this remarkable joke was that anybody who hadn’t paid their subs by 31st May would not be considered for future games.
T R Wild was allocated the difficult task of tracking down the elusive John fiddler and soon found himself trading small talk with a mysterious eccentric old lady who had been receiving two phone calls per week for Fid ever since she had changed her mobile phone at Christmas. Bizarrely, despite receiving so many strange phone calls, she appeared to be a huge admirer of Mr Fidler and wished to pass on her regards.
Cars were stopped and innocent bystanders refused to be press ganged into a game of cricket. Stewart Weston was mentioned, but it would have been more appropriate if Simon Weston had donned his whites. The good ship Whaley Bridge was sinking rapidly in a minefield of indifference to the Derbyshire and Cheshire Cricket League.
At this point I wasn’t even captain, but as the clock was ticking I tentatively suggested that my car should aim for Derbyshire’s answer to Jurassic Park.
We arrived at Hollingworth with the umpire placing the bails and at least two players from the opposition exaggerating the action of checking their watches. All very transparent, but little did they realise that the man in the blue fiesta doesn’t take orders from anybody.
The umpire followed me into the changing room and was greeted with an outrageous lie concerning the volume of traffic at Hayfield Carnival. I don’t even know if Hayfield celebrates a Carnival, but it was the first thing I could think of. Thankfully, he was a trifle gullible and within minutes we were comparing experiences of recent games involving unexpected delays. I can’t speak for him, but there wasn’t an ounce of truth in any of my experiences.
Eventually my delaying tactics were rumbled and I was summoned to the obligatory toss of the coin. Rather worryingly, there was still no sign of Gibbo and TR Wild, or the two mystery guests.
The umpire was delightfully pompous as he explained the rules of tossing a coin. Apparently, one of us would toss the coin and the other would either shout “Heads” or “Tails”. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but equally after passing me a 2p coin he probably wasn’t aware that the temporary captain of Whaley Bridge was also the Patron Saint of Stupidity.
For the first time in my life I launched into a run-up to toss the coin. Totally childish, but absolutely brilliant, as the coin rebounded off the clouds and drifted with the breeze. Eventually it bounced and rolled down the slope towards the sightscreen with the umpire and opposition skipper in hot pursuit.
The call was correct, but remarkably their captain deliberated for thirty seconds before making the obvious decision of inviting Whaley Bridge to take first knock. Thankfully it also prevented the embarrassing scenario of Whaley fielding first without a ball or wicket keeping gloves.
As I returned to the changing room I felt like the Garrison Commander at Rorke’s Drift with Colin Wild singing Men of Harlech and Matt Morten manning the barricades with Sam Slack. I had used every stalling tactic in the book, but the game was about to commence.
Still no sign of back-up from Whaley and with the Umpire requesting assistance at square leg, my options were limited. Eventually I presented our batting order to the opposition scorer.
1/ Matt Morten
2/ Sam Slack
3/ Neil Shaw
4/Colin Wild at Square Leg
My fears were finally eased by the pleasing sound of car engines in low gears and car exhausts hanging on by the skin of their teeth. Not quite the 7th Cavalry, but I don’t ever recall being so pleased to see Gibbo in my life. It was around this time that I was nominated captain.
I was so excited I immediately forgot the rules and shouted “No Ball” from Square leg. The patience of the Hollingworth captain was beginning to wane as I tried to meander my way out of the embarrassment.
Eventually the afternoon began to resemble a game of cricket, but there was still one more surprise in the shape of our tenth and eleventh players. Strictly speaking we were still two players short, but Lydia Slack was due to return from a shopping expedition in Macclesfield at around 2:45pm and the original intention was for the injured Peter Crowley to field at slip, but not bat. John Crowley suggested that he should play rather than Peter and given all the previous stress, nobody was going to argue otherwise.
The opposition were obviously confident of victory, but their bowling attack was nothing spectacular. The Whaley batting resembled Wendy Richards rather than Viv Richards, but on more than one occasion, the home team were beginning to get rattled. Matt Morten bludgeoned a quick thirty, but the highlight of the innings was the eighth wicket partnership between Lydia and the highly promising Callum Mcllveen, both of whom played some delightful cricket strokes and thus guaranteed a more than respectable final score, given the circumstances, of 133.
Our chances of victory rested largely on the accuracy of our opening bowlers, Colin and Gibbo. Sadly, a few loose deliveries diluted the impact of an attacking field, but refreshingly Callum bowled well and the ground fielding was excellent. Eight bowlers were used and it would have been nine if Slacky had not bowled a rank long hop at their opening batsmen with the resulting smash preventing me from holding a pen, never mind a cricket ball. Lydia wasn’t keen on bowling and T R Wild wasn’t keen on John Crowley bowling. A Six wicket defeat doesn’t really tell the full story, but then again I’ve experienced bigger humiliations in far stronger teams.