I spent my summer evenings playing cricket in West London, which was a pretty fine way to spend the evenings of one's childhood.
I played my first game for Ealing Under 11s when I was 8, I think. It was against Turnham Green at their idyllic Chiswick House ground, and for my first innings I batted with the late Umer Rashid, who'd played his first game the week before. I edged one, scampered, and thought I had my first run ever, but Umer was run out at the striker's end. We lost the game.
For the next few years, I played many more games, all over that part of West London, with most games starting at 6pm on a weeknight, played over 20 overs per side. They were mainly competitive league games.
Mostly we played Brentham, Old Actonians, Wembley, Hanwell, Sudbury Court, Southall, sometimes Turnham Green, Wycombe House, Eastcote, Isleworth, Kew. Perhaps there were others, I don't recall.
Ealing CC is one of the best cricket clubs in Britain, and the home ground is a marvellous cricket venue. We had nets there on a Friday night, but the youth teams rarely got to play home games at the main pitch, but at Fox Reservoir, just up the road. a more perfunctory space surrounded by woods to lose the ball in.
Still, I remember all those venues, light fading, parents watching on or umpiring, with fondness.
I choose Sudbury Court, though it was not necessarily the most memorable, for three particular incidents.
Firstly, I once took 6 for 6 against Sudbury Court in my four overs, my best ever figures. Andy, a friend from school, was wicketkeeper and took four stumpings. I don't think I bowled especially well that day, it just went that way. It was in the Ealing Gazette and everything.
Secondly, (though I'm not actually 100% sure where these incidents sit chronologically) there was a time I was given the chance to open the batting, after some good hitting down the order, breaking a hegemony that had lasted for half a decade, didn't quite get going for my first few balls, and was told by the umprire/coach/parent of the boy who usually opened (a very nice man, don't get me wrong) to "hit out or get out" which was pretty dispiriting.
Sometimes, in my head and out loud, I've slightly bemoaned that I was never quite the favoured one in my junior cricketing life, which is true, and there were other players no better than me who got breaks I didn't get, but what is also more importantly true is that I was lucky to play an enormous amount of cricket, my favourite thing in the world at the time, with mostly nice kids and nice coaches, that, because I bowled well and sometimes batted well, I more often than not had the chance to influence the game. I treasure all (nearly all) of it, the batting, the bowling, the fielding, the travelling, the places, the sitting around.
And, thirdly, I treasure the fights. The on-pitch fucking fights! Woohoo! In my last year playing for Ealing, the Under 17 team was struggling for numbers, so we were merged with Brentham, who'd been our arch rivals for many years, but it was friendly enough within the team. But once, one of my newer team-mates got in a proper on-pitch dust up at Sudbury Court with an opponent, and if I'm remembering correctly, his granddad ran on to the pitch brandishing a stump.
The people's game.
I didn't play much for Ealing after that (I don't think there's a direct correlation). Most of my cricket by then was at school, where we had longer games, and I was more integral, and from there I chose the school's Old Boys team for my senior cricket, which I think was a mistake, all things considered, not least because I usually had to travel a couple of hours each way for the games in Surrey, whereas Ealing's in Ealing. And now I don't play cricket at all so I get my success, bitternesses and random acts of violence by other means.
... oh, and sorry, i said there wouldn't be poems, but i wrote this a year or two, and i think in its silliness it sums it up quite well:
Youth cricket in West London in the 1990s
At 7.32pm,
the second innings starts -
a play and miss, hard, nervous wrists,
a welcome late leg glance.
For now, the late May sun’s still holding
creeping murk at bay,
but treetop ghosts cast doubt upon
the twenty overs left to play.
Perhaps it was the glare,
perhaps the dirty torn sightscreen
that meant a straight one found a gate
there really shouldn’t have been.
The opener’s dad is sighing
to his sagging cigarette;
a wasted summer evening
too idyllic to regret.
The number three, the captain,
who’s a cocky Surrey Colt
winces at a crack like it’s
the San Andreas Fault.
He takes a little time to find his
timing, judge the pace,
then guides a cut just back of square
like WG Grace.
The runs come fast, there’s little
that the fielding side can do
until the captain strikes a lofted
drive so straight and true
it sails over the sightscreen,
is lost amongst the weeds.
The coach leaps up to grab
the opportunity he needs.
He joins the search, and mutters
to his team, under his breath,
“Just slow them down, boys;
it will be like Hades at the death”.
Each second of delay lengthens
the shadows on the ground -
eventually, the miscreant ball
(at least, a ball) is found.
The tactics work, the captain hoiks
a good length ball to long on.
The catch is held, the match is changed,
the coach has got it spot on.
The chase slows down, the wickets fall,
the rate climbs ever higher.
In light like this, the little seamer
morphs into Makhaya.
By now, the darkness closing,
it’s past 8.45.
Batters know the chance has passed
to keep the match alive.
They’re only playing for pride now
through squinting, searching eyes,
showing more bravado than
is requisite or wise.
Finally, the stumps are drawn
and tired handshakes shared,
pads removed & scoresheets checked,
coaches’ notes compared.
Chauffeurs, groundsmen, cheerleaders
all gather to decide
that umpires could have been less harsh
when calling leg-side wides.
Spikes removed and kits in boots,
they’ll save the shower for home.
A cavalcade of Ford Escorts
depart the wooded pleasuredome.
The traces of the play remain,
each patterned sight and sound -
the rematch is in three weeks
at the opposition’s ground.
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