A Last English Summer by Author

Author:Author
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-02-26T16:00:00+00:00

Chris Woakes, who progressed from a wide-eyed and slightly bewildered on-looker to become one of the MCC’s most impressive seamers.

At first Woakes is so anxious and jittery that the wicketkeeper, James Foster, tumbles and lunges in pursuit of a series of wayward deliveries. But, as he shakes the nervousness of out his young system and realises that Lord’s won’t bite, he finds extravagant movement off the pitch. He is stringy and raw-boned, and burns energy like rocket fuel. Eventually he gets one to jag away from Gordon Muchall, and Foster is yelling his throaty appeal. Woakes is phosphorescent with joy. Next, Dale Benkenstein moves slowly and cumbersomely, as if wearing full body armour, in a tame effort to pull Mahmood. He gets the ball high on the bat instead and spoons a catch in front of square. He shakes his head, unable to believe his own rashness and hair-trigger judgement. As the match froths up, the plot of the play tilts unexpectedly towards the MCC. From 104 without loss, Durham sink to 141 for four. Their first 100 came up in 154 balls. The 150 isn’t reached for another 144. It is dour and dismal work until the fizzing spirit of Durham’s new recruit from Somerset, Ian Blackwell, takes over. By now, the clouds have gone, the sky has turned from pewter to cobalt, and the temperature has risen to a level that makes only frostbite, rather than full-blown hypothermia, a possibility.

There has been a dull orthodoxy to Key’s captaincy, which never comes vividly alive. He serves the staple but unimaginative diet of pace and seam, much to the vexation of the spin connoisseurs longing to watch Rashid use the ball decoratively with his flight and twirl. As each bowling change leaves Rashid redundant, frustrated grunts and muttered syllables are heard from the Grand Stand. After 62 overs, there are long, ironic hosannas and shouts of ‘at bloody last’ as Rashid marks out his short run from the Nursery End. The cold has infiltrated Rashid’s joints. The ball repeatedly drops on the back of a length, and Blackwell savages it with pure, clean slices. His 50, including ten fours, takes a mere 44 deliveries. Rashid wears the glum expression of someone wasting his time. Occasionally he appeals, but these are more tender wails than shouts of conviction.

For a shilling on match days during the mid-nineteenth century, you could hire bat, ball and stumps and play on one of the Lord’s pitches. If someone other than the ground-staff or a cricketer so much as sets a toe on the outfield in this game, the stewards fuss like over-protective, whining nannies. At long leg, Vaughan is asked to sign numerous books and photographs by teenage boys who lean over the fence. He solicitously beckons them towards him. The boys dash as a pack into the Warner Stand and some scale the low fence. A steward in the Grand Stand acts as though this is a wilful act of sacrilege. Immediately he starts barking into his walkie-talkie, which crackles back at him.

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