SEMI FINAL: The Plastics XI (127/5) beat Roehampton Bats (106/10) by 21 runs
FINAL: Grace’s (205/7) beat The Plastics XI (130/7) by 75 runs The omens were not good. As the Plastics XI’s first outing at tournament level drew nearer, it became clear that a number of key figures would not be available for selection: Webb, in Europe (despite the clearly expressed wish of the 52%); Davies, on holiday (we think in Hong Kong, or somewhere like that? Where do lawyers go on holiday?); Sandham, leading the Plastics Spin Bowling Development Camp in Norway; Maithri Jayasuriya, the demon bowler of Battersea Park, assassinated by a dodgy knee; Thornhill, busy representing Yorkshire at Headingley. An eleventh hour dropout did little to settle the mood, but after some frantic work by the skipper we had our men: Bishop, Bradbury (c), (Cricket), Doy, Freeman, Jackson, Lizut, Oliver (†), Warman, Webster, Winter. However many grounds we may visit, we will surely struggle to beat the idyll of Barn Elms Sports Centre: the river burbled gently just out of sight, inaudible over the scream of jet engines; geese waddled, and soared, freely around the arena. All scant consolation as our Glorious Leader trudged back from Yet Another Lost Toss (YALT): early on an overcast day, facing the one new ball of the match, we would bat first; not the result you hope for when your 11th man, a specialist batsman, can’t get there until midway through the second innings. Edges: every batsman’s worst nightmare. Take the edges off a cricket bat, though, and what have you got? A baseball bat. If you don’t see the problem with that, stop reading this report right now. No, seriously, go away! Have they gone? Alright, good. I’ll continue: our opening pair did the best they could, but it was never going to be easy scoring runs at 9am in South London on an unfamiliar pitch. The scorebook tells you all you need to know. Freeman 2 (8) ct Williamson (†), b Watson. Winter 4 (15) ct Williamson (†), b Hunt. Freeman, the first to go, in the fourth; Winter, bereft, a few balls later. Doubtless, Roehampton Bats were quietly confident. Not to say they weren’t a lovely bunch of fellas, but we were 8 for 2 in the fifth over of a T20. Still, our boys up top had done their work -- the shine was off the ball, and it was time to dual wield our secret weapons. First in, Alex Webster. Cruelly dismissed for 2 after some questionable umpiring by yours truly in his first Plastics outing, he was chomping at the bit. Joining him at number four, Mr Robert MAXPOWER Bishop. That's not a sign of respect, his first name really is “Mr Robert”. I think it's a Hampshire thing. Our excitement was palpable. Despite having a wonderful looking technique, and dispatching us to all parts in the nets, Mr Robert has never scored a run for The Plastics. It was a nervy start for those of us on the sidelines: while Webster settled quickly into the sort of form we’ve come to expect (dot; one; dot; four; dot; dot; six -- how’s that for playing yourself in?), Mr Robert played it cool. Dot. Dot. Dot. Dot. Dot. Dot. Dot. Dot. Dot. Dot. Two of those dots dropped. At the other end, Webster waited like a coiled spring, dispatching anything in his area viciously to the boundary. When it finally came, it was magical. The scorebook could never do it justice. 2. Mr Robert’s first runs for The Plastics. From now on, he would have an average (15.00 this season, 10.00 overall - we all start somewhere). With that particular hurdle cleared, he and Webster settled in for the long haul. Webster, the punisher, sending ball after ball to the ropes; Bishop, consistently finding the gap to pick up singles while his confidence grew, before himself giving it the long handle. The two of them played wonderfully, finishing on 67 (actually something a bit less than 67, but we can’t work out exactly how we got the scorebook wrong) and 23 not out. One hundred runs in the bank. Enter, then, Lizut and Bradbury. It was time to accelerate, and these two were the men for the job. Lizut was unlucky to fall to a tough run out decision. Bradbury added 7, including a powerful 4, before he was undone by one of those tricky balls that hits the stumps. That just left very well behaved Jamie to score a cheeky single, and our innings was up. Statistical analysis of the scorebook revealed the same problems the team had experienced in our previous match: namely, an inability to accurately score a cricket match. How many had we scored? 138 (bowling analysis)? 132 (batting analysis)? 127 (score tally)? Red faced, we called it 127 and took to the field. But would it be enough? 6 an over is often not enough. Luckily, our opening bowler is a man of immense cricketing knowledge, if not any actual talent. Jackson knew that consistent line and length would only allow the batsmen to build much needed confidence early on in the innings, and elected to unveil some of his special deliveries. The first over? One wide, down the leg side; one no ball, high over the bowler’s head; a couple of strategic double bouncers here, a couple of decent deliveries there. They were rattled: where the fuck would it pitch next? Would it pitch at all? Lizut, Bradbury, (Cricket), and Doy formed the rest of the bowling attack, bringing their own brand of nouse, and some actual skills, to the party. There were wickets for everyone, with (Cricket) and Doy again probably getting worse returns (4-0-26-1 and 3-0-25-1) than they deserved -- their days will come. Bradbury and Lizut were simply sensational, finishing on 3-0-13-4 and 4-1-8-3. A maiden! In a T20! Oliver, once again, was some sort of freakish ball stopping machine behind the stumps. When Martians armed only with cricket balls invade the Earth, he will be the last man standing (provided he has his keeping gloves to hand, which I know for a fact he always does, literally). He caught everything that came his way, including a fabulous juggled effort that left us all in disbelief. And then, finally, to the surprise of us all... Victory. We’d won a bloody game. Roehampton Bats, bowled out for 106 in 17.1 overs. I still think we should have gone for the perfect “all loss” record, but everyone else seemed pretty chuffed so I went with it. Truly, the Plastics will never see greater heights than this. But our day wasn’t over: after a quick lunch, we were going into our first ever final. We could do one of two things: win, and have to pretend to be a serious cricket team forevermore, or regress to the mean and lose spectacularly. No prizes for guessing which one we went for. Exceedingly lovely, that’s how I’d describe Grace’s CC. That, and miles better at cricket than us. After YALT, the skipper skipped back to give us the news: we’d be fielding first. It seemed a peculiar choice on Grace’s part - there was drizzle in the air, and surely everyone knows that DLS favours the chasing team? Still, we’d heard worrying things about their batting from their morning opposition. Spinning himself catches from hand to hand (he isn’t a spin bowler), Jackson waited for the signal to begin. Shit, dropped the ball. Literally. I don’t think anyone noticed, just play it cool. A wide to start the innings, hoping to sucker them in again. Four; dot; four; one; dot; two. Strange -- the special balls didn’t seem to be working on Grace’s, and The Plastics boys settled in for twenty overs of punishment. To quote a famous commentator, when Grace’s batsmen hit the ball, it stayed hit. Jackson, 2-0-1-21. (Cricket) 4-0-1-38. Doy 4-0-1-30. Webster 2-0-2-15. The heroes of the morning, Bradbury and Lizut, also slain: 4-0-0-59 and 3-0-0-38. Amidst the frenzy of boundaries, a beautiful over from Winter: 1-0-1-4. A target of 209 to win. It would have been more two, were it not for two more wonderful catches behind the stumps by Oliver, a stupendous run out at the non-striker’s end as Bradbury, mid follow through, deflected the ball onto the stumps, and the mind blowing Lizut catches that we’ve somehow come to expect as standard. 209, then, for immortality, at least among the very lowest echelons of south west London social cricket. Luckily, we’d levelled up over the lunch break. Our last minute saviour, Warman, had arrived part way through the morning’s game. As a specialist batsman, we sent him out with Winter. Two balls later, Winter trudged back, bowled. We started to fumble for pads and gloves. These lads were handy with the ball too. Warman, meanwhile, started circumspectly: plenty of well judged leaves, with just enough singles to let Grace’s know they weren’t on top of him quite yet. Mr Robert, in at his natural home of 3, and brimming with confidence from the morning’s 23 not out, smoked the first ball out to the boundary. Four. Strike rate 400. It was on. Lady luck, though, and the small matter of being outclassed in all departments, soon caught up with us. Mr Robert caught for seven. Webster, bowled for one. Lizut made an entertaining 12 before being caught, while Bradbury continued his morning form, getting three mighty boundaries away before being caught for 19. All the while, Warman was letting off fireworks, retiring after a wonderful fifty (six fours, two sixes): not content with saving our bacon by stepping in at the last minute, he’d muscled us to a respectable score. Oliver batted with skills that could only be learned using plastic balls in free nets, slapping down a high ball like an errant child. “Get back down there NOW!”. A team man to the end, he ran himself out on 9 to make sure we all had a chance at batting. Freeman, having been mortally wounded by a nasty blow to the calf, was not available to bat. (Cricket), Doy, and Jackson had about an over to get about 80 runs. It was going to be a tall order. (Cricket) got one away sweetly before he fell to the same bowler as his brother, Winter, for five. Bowled again. That man sure could find the stumps. Ultimately then, it came down to Jackson. Fresh in and on strike for the final ball of the innings. 75 needed. The settled batsman, Doy (on 2), stranded at the other end. Winning this match would take one hell of a swing. It didn’t come. Slapped wildly straight into the bowler’s hands, and there was the game. Defeat by 75 runs. Still, there was no shame. We lost to the better team, but we’d come second. A huge thank you to all of the teams involved on the day, we had a wonderful time and the games were played with great spirit. I can hardly pick Plastics men of the matches, because everyone was absolutely superb - special mentions though to Mr Robert, for scoring his first runs; Alex Webster, for a monstrous first game 67(ish); Peter Oliver, for sterling work behind the stumps; Captain Bradbury, for captaining with aplomb despite losing two more tosses; and Mike Winter, for the tightest over against an otherwise rampant Grace’s batting lineup. THE PLASTICS WILL RETURN ON JUNE 11TH SOMEWHERE RIDICULOUSLY FAR NORTH OF LONDON.
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THE TEAMFormed from a collection of players who met on the internet via social cricket at Archbishop's Park, Plastics XI represents the foolhardy members of that group who decided they wanted a bash at proper cricket instead of playing with plastic balls. The team's ability is best described as "weak-weak". Luckily, our social media game is much stronger. Find us on: Archives
October 2021
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