As you might expect from someone who weaves a tangled web, my Mariner reminiscences begin with…Merrow Cricket Club. For that was the bunch of Neanderthal misfits who displayed such lack of vision that they missed out on a talent who lived a mere 300 yards; from their miserable little ground (and even nearer to the “Horse and Groom”) on the eastern outskirts of Guildford.
As a raw 19—year-old bursting with vitality, passion and romance, I offered myself for a trial game and suffered the ignominy of not being asked to bowl, despite Merrow using eight other bastards for that task; of being put in at number 10 — not last, presumably because number 11 had a wooden leg; and of being shouted at for sloppy fielding by a complete slob of a captain who knew so little about the game that he thought Viv was Barry Richards’ sister.
That was the end of my career with Merrow.
Note the contrast in debuts when, at the start of the following season, I was introduced by big brother Billy to the Mariners for their first game of the year, against Peperharow. Greeted by a bearded, beery-smelling farmer I was immediately asked what I did. ”Hell, I drink quite a lot, I suppose,” was my ale—sodden reply, “and ‘then….er..,.if’ you get my drift…” .
“Number 3,” said the bearded one.
“Christ!” I spluttered.
“No, Richard Francis actually,” he said in a gentlemanly way.
First wicket down, rookie Petzold strides to the crease recalling that Bradman was a regular at number 3. Two balls later and he’s recalling The Don‘s last Test innings when he too survived only one ball. I returned to the pavilion to be greeted by bemused and amused faces.
“What did it do?” someone asked.
“It bloody bowled me! What did it f…ing look like?”
By this time I was beginning to have doubts about my ability to hold down any position with any club in the Northern Hemisphere, and also about the psychiatric state of some of my new cricketing acquaintances. Well, there was still the bowling…. I was brought on first change and did better than I had with the bat —- and so began a near quarter century of cricket played in the manner in which it should be.
(It is a shame to spoil a good story, but the author’s recollections are not entirely borne out by the cold
evidence of the scorebook. It was in fact the second Mariner game of season 1975; having slaughtered Thursley
two weeks previously – by the huge margin of one wicket — it must have been assumed that we could now give a trial to this large, uncouth youth. And actually the Mariners fielded first. The uncouth youth was indeed brought on at
first change – that is about the only accuracy in the above account – and he produced the commendable figures of 8.5-3-14-2. His hubristic comparison with The Don is also fanciful; in fact, he batted at no. 4, not no. 3, and he survived two balls, not just one. And he wasn’t ‘bloody bowled’; he was adjudged bloody l.b.w. But dream on… Ed.)
So I was already building up memories after only a week in the job. Clear recollections of that first season are lost in a sea of alcohol and raucous sessions before, after and sometimes during the games. And that was before Stevenson returned from Rhodesia, where he’d been playing the white ‘baas’ to the local populace.
In those days the Mariners struck an invaluable balance between old and new. You’d have the seasoned campaigners on hand with their experience and advice (usually ignored), performing the less arduous tasks (because senility rendered them incapable of anything more strenuous). Then there was always a hard core of young bucks spewing vitality, energy and élan (but not showing much in the way of cricketing ability) across the cricket fields of the Surrey/Sussex border country. A collection of old and young gits, I suppose you might describe it.
They were indeed halcyon days. Occasional big scores at The Hill and communal singing amid gallons of Shepherd Neame — King & Barnes-soaked weekends ‘entertaining’ Midhurst, Ebernoe, Grafham, etc. -· the “Rivers of Blood” game at Oakwood Hill –
(Yes, we remember that one too. Prostrate on the turf, slightly concussed, our glasses shattered, bleeding copiously
from a cut above the eye, we were immediately accused of ‘dropping a catch’. With such friends who needs enemies? Ed.)
they all bring a smile to the`face.
Above all, though, it was the style (some would say the lack of it) that endeared Mariner cricket to me, and that is what I miss most on the league—obsessed battlefields of East Anglia. Up here moments of charm are about as elusive as Nixon’s forward defensive, Dyson-Laurie’s quicker delivery, or a J. O’Meara stumping. Whereas ‘needle’ and hostility are about as frequent as a Stevenson long hop, a J. Holmes appeal for l.b.w., or a certain G. Lea turning up late (if at all).
But the early June weekend of cricket in the flatlands of Norfolk brings back the memories — the chaos, the humour and the glory….
Here’s to the next half-century. Hurrah!
T.C.C.P. November 1997