7 Flannelled fools

On a soporific afternoon in the last week of April, the air is filled with the sounds of the summer game. From Whimsey’s compact cricket ground, down Lover’s Lane, we hear shouts of “Owzat!”, followed by desultory clapping from the spectators (Ben and Carol Flowerdew). As one batsman makes his way back to our makeshift pavilion, another one wanders out to the middle, nervously adjusting his box.

There’s a poisonous atmosphere in the pavilion today: a heady pot-pourri of sweat, fungus, unwashed socks, cheap deodorant, horse liniment, athletes foot lotion, talcum powder, mildew, hand-rolled tobacco and unrestrained flatulence. It’s gloomy too; the grubby windows are shrouded with spiders’ webs, where the trussed-up corpses of unwary flies are marinading gently. A prawn salad sandwich, thoughtlessly discarded under a bench at the end of last season, is giving off a pale phosphorescent glow. Scientists seeking the perfect conditions for the propagation of virulent bacteria need to look no further than Whimsey’s premier sporting facility.

The pavilion is essentially a masculine environment. Women - even those up to date with their typhoid jabs and blessed with strong constitutions - do not cross the threshold on match days. In any case, the wives and girlfriends of the Whimsey XI have better things to do with their leisure hours than watch a bunch of overweight men chase a small red ball around a field.

Dennis, our captain, has come to terms with the disappointments of last season: having no new silverware to brighten up the optimistically large trophy cabinet mounted above the bar in the Farrier’s Arms. Talk of ‘silverware’ rings a little hollow, though, now that the league’s trophy budget is being sliced ever more thinly. Instead of lustrous metal, the trophies are cheap and nasty: just plastic sprayed to look like gold. On top of each little plinth is a figure who either bats or bowls, designed by someone ill-acquainted with both cricket and human anatomy. The batsman looks like he’s throwing a stick for a dog; the bowler appears to be dancing a jig. The gold paint soon peels away; after a few weeks the figures appear not merely deformed, but leprous too.

There are trophies for winners, runners-up, best individual performances and most sportsmanlike team. There are commemorative medallions for plucky losers. There’s the ‘clubman’ award: given to good-hearted guys who, though useless at cricket, bring other talents to the game. Like turning out uncomplainingly every weekend, even though they’ll bat last (if at all), never get a bowl and have to field down at third man where the most vicious horseflies lurk. Or mowing the wicket every Friday evening. Or shouting “Drinks all round” on a slow night in the pub.

After the game the players repair to the Farrier’s. After a few pints of cooking bitter they tend to forget just how soundly they’ve been beaten. The team’s performance will, in beery retrospect, be awarded a heroic perspective that was entirely lacking on the field of play. Yes, the unwarranted optimism of third-rate cricketers is an inspiration to us all.