Our friend Pauline, having read yesterday’s post about Wimbledon tennis wondered whether I could repeat the performance with today’s men’s World Cricket Cup final between England and New Zealand. The title is a quotation from one of the commentators of a game which served up the most amazing finish.
I will try to explain the support in general, using this specific match as a vehicle. In the two images above we see the browner stretch of 22 yards between two sets of wickets which the batsmen must protect from the bowlers. In the second picture the batsman has hit the ball into the field. It is the task of fielders to catch or to stop the ball, while the batsmen run between the wickets to score runs. The two men in red shirts are the umpires whose task is to adjudicate on the play and interpret the rules. English players are in blue, while the New Zealanders are wearing black. Most people will understand that the cricket ball is red. In this version of the game it is white.
Around the perimeter is the boundary, which the ball in this image is about to reach, thereby scoring four runs. When the ball is hit over the ropes without bouncing the reward is six runs.
Behind the stumps stands the wicket keeper whose task is to stop the ball after it has passed the stumps. He may also catch the batsman out, or, if he is out of his ground – having crossed the white line in front of him – to stump him by breaking the wicket with the ball.
In this sequence the bowler has sent the ball past both batsman and wicket and the keeper has demonstrated great agility in catching it.
For a bowler the most satisfying dismissal of a batsman is to hit the stumps, or bowl him.
Another method is for the ball to strike the batsman’s pads on its way to certainly hitting the stumps. There are complicated rules about this.
Here are some batsmen in action. With balls often coming at them at 90 m.p.h. they all now wear protective masks,
and often need to take evasive action,
sometimes losing their footing.
Here we have some bowlers in action, their expressions betraying their feelings. The last image in this set demonstrates that some part of the bowler’s front foot must be behind the white line when he delivers the ball.
Fielding has become more important in recent years. Running, diving, catching, throwing to the wicket keeper, are all parts of the art. The last four images show a fielder taking a catch on the boundary. Because his feet touched the ropes the catch was disallowed and the shot counted for six runs.
One unpopular method of being dismissed is the run out. When running between the wickets a batsman must cross the white line. Here, a desperate dash was employed.
Here the batsman failed to ground his bat and was given out;
and this was the run out that, with the last of the extra six balls bowled to decide the otherwise tied match, decided the game, much in the manner of football’s penalty shoot out.
The spectators representing all corners of the globe were transfixed.
This evening Jackie produced a dinner of her own ratatouille, piri-piri chicken, and Lyonnaise potatoes, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank Doom Bar.
Although it had rained all night the day was a bit brighter and the drizzle lighter. Setting off for Wimbledon again, in Martin Way I met the reformed pipe smoker (see 29th. June post) walking his two Alsatians. Scaffolding was going up and a hedge being trimmed in Mostyn Road.
Walking along Wilton Crescent I remembered the excitement engendered by Angela Davies, the first girl who set my teenage pulses racing. We had met at the school dance, the only occasion on which we were officially allowed contact with the pupils of the Ursuline Convent. I had spent a very uncomfortable few days attempting to learn the waltz, at which Angela considered I still wasn’t much good. Nevertheless she didn’t seem to mind the last one, and we were to share a delightful nine months in 1959. Today, on my return up this road my paths crossed with a robin scampering into one of the established gardens in this beautiful preservation area.
Near Dundonald recreation ground a driving instructor was speaking into his mobile phone as his tutee executed a perfect reverse around the corner I was crossing.
As often when rounding Elys Corner, I thought of Richard Milward.
Throughout my childhood the bus conductors (London buses in those days were staffed by two people) had cried: ‘Elys Corner’ when reaching the original building. It is to Richard Milward’s history of Wimbledon that I owe the information that the founder of the department store that bears his name had offered inducements to the conductors to advertise his emporium in such a manner. Among the stories featured in that book is the one of Jack (posted on 13th. May).
Knowing they would have a display of Richard’s book, I popped into Fielder’s, stockists of excellent art materials and bookshop near the bottom of Wimbledon Hill. The display corner had been given over to tennis for the moment, but the manager of the book section happily created the pictured group for me.
A most inspirational teacher, Mr. Milward dedicated his life to teaching history at Wimbledon College. He was one of those pupils who never really left the school, returning after university to take up his life’s work. Learning about the Tudors and Stuarts we would eagerly await ‘Sid’ striding into the classroom with a rolled up chart under his arm. This would be hung on the wall to illustrate the day’s lesson. These were beautifully produced maps and diagrams which brought the subject alive. He had made each and every one. He was, like me, a cricket fanatic. I still have the history of cricket he inspired me to write and illustrate as a homework exercise. His nickname, ‘Sid’, was taken from a lesser known bandleader who once performed at Wimbledon Theatre. The title of this piece is taken from a one-time advertising slogan for recruitment into his profession. It was so true.
Quite different was ‘Moses’, whose remit was European History, so named because he was an ancient priest. His teaching aid was a small dog-eared, equally antique, exercise book from which, seated in his pulpit, never taking his eyes off the page, he would churn out notes he must have made much earlier, as if he were reciting an oft-repeated sermon. For some reason, Moses always picked on me. Until one miraculous Monday morning, he didn’t actually know my name. He had decided to climb down from his perch and wander round the classroom. Passing my desk and glancing at my exercise book, reading the name, he asked: ‘Knight? Are you the famous bowler?’. ‘That’ll be my brother Chris’, I replied. ‘But didn’t you get eight wickets on Saturday?’, he continued. Well, I had. (I also got seven on the Sunday, but as that was in a club match I thought it best not to mention it). From then on the sun shone out of my backside.
Another priest who also used me as a butt was Fr. Bermingham. He did it so often that one of the boys ran a book on how many times this would happen in any particular lesson. Quite a bit of pocket money changed hands. Now, as I sat in the same place for both periods, in the centre of the front row, because I was just beginning to realise I should have my eyes tested, I thought it might be politic to move. I therefore took up residence right at the back, to the left of his area of vision. As if on cue, quite early on in the proceedings, he opened his mouth to speak, looked in what he thought was my direction, closed his mouth, and scanned the rows of grinning boys. Eventually lighting on my similarly smiling face, he said: ‘Ah, there you are Knight, like a great moon over the horizon’. At least he knew my name. However, he had just given me another one. For the rest of my schooldays I was known as ‘Moon’.
Please don’t get the impression I was a victim. Most of the masters, like Bryan Snalune, who may get a mention when something appropriate crops up, actually liked me. In fact, Frs. Moses and Bermingham probably did as well. Their observations were generally meant to be humorous.
Our garden fox was well camouflaged today.
This evening The Raj in Mitcham was revisited. In order fully to appreciate the flavour of the Raj it is essential to read the post of 26th. June. So attracted by the description of our previous visit was Ian that he insisted on savouring the experience himself. Alda joined us with some ambivalence. Now we were six. I must say we were initially disappointed. The tables, albeit with paper tablecloths, were actually laid. Only one of the papers on the the two tables which were pushed together to accommodate us bore the evidence of previous use. A mound of excellent poppadoms was served on time. The drinks quickly followed. Given that they had probably come from the shop next door, we were fortunate to find them, this time, cold. The bottles of Kingfisher still bore their price labels, and the charming cook/waiter/whatever who served us had, after all, said he would go and buy Becky’s orange juice. The second round was more successful as Flo was presented with a large Kingfisher instead of an orange juice. Things got better as we had to wait an hour and a half for the main meal, having previously each received a really good onion bhaji starter. We could forgive our server for not realising we had wanted these with the main meal, and, in any case, we needed something to soak up the Kingfishers while we waited. Eventually the chef asked us if we were ready for the main meal. Ready? We were desperate for it. This time the paper napkins arrived with the food. Once again we were treated to magnificent food all round. It truly is a miracle that these two men can produce such a wonderful meal.
It was Ian who became the first to sample the loo. Unfortunately there was no toilet paper. He decided to pass.
No other customers graced the establishment. Mitcham does not know what it is missing.
The final disappointment was that the Dallas Chicken customers had let us down. There was no chicken leg to step over as we left the restaurant.
