England

An Imperfect Win.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

So after an intense week of family care-stuff, I drove from just outside Grimsby, to Birmingham. Quite possibly feeling bit liberated… and certainly happy to ease through the under-rated Lincolnshire countryside, before by-passing Newark, Nottingham and the suburban metropoles-cluster where the East Midlands slides into the second city. A46 – much of which nods genially towards the buccolic – then dunno-what, as we hop roundabouts and the buildings close in. (M180 had been closed, so ‘scenic route it was). Enjoyed the drive – maybe especially the bit where google maps danced us round a pile-up – taking me through Diddly Squat-cum-Thingummy-Top, before seamlessly reconnecting with Plan A. Love maps and will always use them (if only to get that picture in my head), but strewth the electro-voices are good, these days. Weird note-to-universe: saw at least six deer carcasses in about a five mile stretch of dual carriageway. Big and broken.

Do love Edgbaston. Admit this is partly for the lush hospitality but it’s also got *views* – particularly from the media centre – and that exciting steepling-auditorium-thing going on. Plus, entirely fortuitously, the weather’s been bloody knockout nearly every time I’ve visited, even for Finals Days, in late September. Yesterday was again properly mint, in terms of meteorology and hosting. I will note again that numbers of interested media/press were low; if anything, lower than the average women’s gig. (Pretty extraordinary, I would have thought, for a season-starter, in the New Age, at a monumental venue, but hey, we’ve been here before). On the plus side it meant again that Yours F Truly could storm to the front of the mighty, vacant press box, unopposed, and grab The Best Seat in the House. Meaning I had a privileged view of England falling in a heap, in the first half-dozen overs. Funny old game.

What follows, as some of you will know, is a streamy carve-up of the life of the game. I fail to note Amy Jones’s four catches. I fail to ‘re-cap’ everybody’s stats. But it was a good day. Even the travel – next stop, Bristol – was okay.

Edgbaston and the Brum skyline. Tidy; every time. Today a bit hazy (1400 hours) but maybe this makes it feel that the Glorious Ents that circle us are getting closer – and therefore makes it better? The view Northwards(?) from the perennially splendid media centre is wrapped, laterally and gorgeously green, between the foreground, now buzzing with robotic, swarming black insects (England) and the green equivalents (Pakistan), and the steely towers beyond.

Athers is bawling out that Pakistan have a) won the toss and b) will bowl. Nidar Dar then Heather Knight take it in turns to do the earnest platitudes thing, as skippers do. Then we’re close to the action.

The England team is pretty much as expected. So at 14.10 Gibson and Bell are bowling close to maximum on a side pitch, in the knowledge that they’ll soon be getting a wee rest – hopefully. Eccleston, interestingly, is having a longish visualisation-session, wicket to wicket. (She bowled plenty, earlier). Bell goes in to get kitted-out and read the Mirror, whilst Charlie Dean joins Gibson to turn her arm over.

Muggy. Lots of benign cloud – so only intermittently blazing. Ground only about a tenth full, at 14.14.

My view of this is a worldie: love this stadium, and because the media suite is sparsely populated, muggins has had absolute freedom to choose the Best Seat in the House. No pleading; no arm-wrestle. I’m down. The. Strip. Looking forward to this one because it’s the first bash, as it were… and because – be honest – we don’t know that much about the opposition. Pakistan are simply a lower profile side than some of England’s recent opponents. All this is good. Bouchier and Wyatt will open for England. This feels like a good combination. (*Fatal*).

Ear-splitting racket – not from the disappointing crowd – as we approach the Mad Singeing Moment that is the players’ welcome. Ground about a third full, now.

Bouchier will face Waheeda Akhtar. A little early away-swing, first up. Medium pace. Third man and deep cover out. Third ball strays straight and Bouchier just gets something on it – four to fine leg. Then a disappointingly lame drive, mistimed and caught at mid-off. Bouchier will be furious and a little embarrassed. No need. Capsey is in at 4 for 1: first over.

Blimey. Next ball Capsey tries a cute, fine cut but only succeeds in inside-edging. Misses her stumps by about four angstroms. Decent start from the bowler – some swing then maybe straightening. Batters haven’t judged it convincingly, yet: or maybe it’s just been really good?

Iqbal bowls slow left arm at Wyatt, who leans forward and is off the mark. Then Capsey is watchful. Poor wide one is given as an extra – rightly. Wyatt, who had been bringing her bat noticeably behind her – round the corner, as it were – mistimes. Caught at mid-on. Achh. Another lame dismissal; for her and for Ingerland.

This is getting scary. Capsey tries to hoist one over mid-on but again misjudges either the pace or bounce – the ball did very little. Caught at mid-on. Three shockers, from England.

Kemp is in, at a humiliating 11 for 3. She swings loosely, with one hand, at a wide one. Even that was bit daft. Then the bowler beats her: twice. Goodish, from Akhtar, but not convinced she’s bowling the proverbial grenades, here. And when you think it can hardly get worse, for the hosts, we have a Sunday League run-out. Utterly, utterly shambolic, with Kemp running about four miles and Knight barely shifting.

11 for 4, off 2.5 overs at this point. Enter Amy Jones. She and Knight have more experience than most, but the former has not always been one for a crisis. (And this is a crisis).

More from Iqbal. Lower stands about half-full, right now:14.49. Finally, England batters feel the ball. 18 for 4 after 4.

Understandably, Akhtar is in again. Knight (or was it Jones?) edges out and up… and is fortunate to escape cover’s outstretched hand. (Jones, I think). Maybe have to give the bowler more credit. Jaffa beats Knight on the inside edge, now. Not quick, but some swing and cut, for the seamer.

Now Khan from the City End. Straight on it. Right Arm, decent energy… but she strays to leg… and gets away with it. Jones almost completely misses the next one; ball drops between her feet. Couple of minor fielding errors creeping in – just when Pakistan need to press. They will know England have a tendency to stay scrambled, when things move against them. *Capitalise!*

But poor from Khan. Two legside wides then one shoved too wide outside off. And now a third extra. Awful and bad timing: skipper Dar will be foaming. The over finishes with another sloppy effort; Jones can slash it away from her hip – a precious four. 28 for 4 off 6. Akhtar will bowl out from beneath us: appeal denied – missing to leg.

Jones carts her in front of square. Good connection – almost six. Then great running after a really lazy misfield. Two. (Brutal truth? As expected, the fielding has been ordinary, from Pakistan). Knight misses a gift – wide loosener from Shamim but then shows some form; lovely hands through the ball, lifting over extra. Then hit ver-ry hard past square leg. Better.

Knight has so often been The Rock. And there have been times when Jones’s dynamism has been a thing of beauty. Just a sign that these two might turn this carnage into a match. Both batters are in, suddenly; waiting and playing late or getting out the baseball bat. Hassan’s off-spin is dismissed twice with some confidence. 50 up, off 9 overs. Yup; better.

Jones slaps Shamim through mid-on for four more; then squarer. Ten off the over. Significant change in the timbre of the event, as we reach halfway. Now possible that England’s captain and vice-skipper are dragging them back towards parity or even control. What else have the visitors got? If they taper off these two batters might make them pay.

Hassan flights one, deep into the crease, then Jones *really has to scamper* for the single. Wild, highish full-toss is clubbed away safely but straight at long-off. 66 for 4 after 11. Competitive.

Dar’s first ball and Knight opts to reverse. BIG APPEAL. Given, after a painful wait, for Knight. She challenges. No bat, but outside off, and the batter survives. Off-stump guard, by the looks, for Jones, who reverses ridicu-fine(ly) and does well to race through for two, before thrashing a drag-down to the boundary at backward square. The bowling is what you might call gently-paced, giving Jones time to pick her spot. Four more wide of mid-on. Eleven from the over.

Iqbal from beneath us. Poor, wide ball is clumped behind square but the connection is off. Easy catch, but good work from Jones, who made 37 from 27 balls. Important, possibly crucial. In comes Gibson. Lovely hands – she waits and clips through third. Twice. Great start. 86 for 5 off 13. Six and a bit per over? Might be enough? (But guesswork – we just don’t know too much about the opposition, pretend though we might).

Lousy full-toss from Dar is cuffed away hard, taking Knight into her 30s. Another reverse is rather shockingly avoided by the fielder at point… but it doesn’t quite have the legs to reach the boundary. Khan will follow, running towards the city. She may be the quickest of the visitor’s bowlers.

She goes over-full and Knight biffs England past 100, over extra cover. In-out: solid enough strike. Another drive-ball is eased out towards long off, by Gibson. We haven’t seen that much of her, with the willow. This is a nice opportunity to really contribute. Extravagant slower ball, by Khan, is too wide. Given. The bowler over-compensates and Gibson goes to 15 from 6 by swivelling and belting it behind square leg. 111 for 5 off 15. England will want (and might get) 160-plus. It’s guesswork, as we’ve said, but feels likely that will be enough – maybe plenty. *Fatal revisited* but decent odds on England bowling Pakistan out.

Hassan, from the City End. Knight is dancing, now – and clouting. Half-stop, from extra. Dreadful drag-down – one of those that’s so-o slow and so-o bad it’s hard to time – is clubbed over mid-wicket, but Knight falls, next ball, skying to mid-on. Cruelly, she’s gone for 49. Ecclestone saunters out… and can pat a poor full-toss over mid-on’s bonce. Ridicu-gift. 123 for 6 with 4 remaining.

Fair play. Khan bowls two successive, deep, beautiful yorkers at Ecclestone. But this is risky territory (going thisss full) and the batter carve-hoists her over mid-off. England’s star spinner has plainly worked hard at her batting, having previously been a willing slugger. Now she’s better than that. She is, however, fortunate to escape with a lose-ish clip that hangs long enough to be a regulation catch. Dropped. Gibson, meanwhile is drilling a beaut through the circle. She is 26 from 11: nice cameo. With two overs remaining mid 160s feels likely. England have 142 for 6, at this point.

Khan has bowled with commendable edge, for little reward. Full and quickish. Gibson times her impressively through square leg, and the bowler responds with a soft, slow one. Good cricket from both. Ecclestone, like so many, stands tall with an off-stump guard: body open. Khan errs, too full and to leg, and the batter clips stylishly, using the pace, over square leg.

Even the mis-hits are finding the rope. High intensity and good running from England – Gibson making something of a mockery of the early batting. Reverse sweeps are being timed; drives are being timed. 163 for 6 it is. Innings closed. Meaning excellent comeback… but also noting that horrid beginning. Quick coffee? Don’t mind if I do. OOOooh. Salted caramel ice-cream!!

Bell is in, from the city. Bowling a massive legside wide, then over-compensating, a little. Then slipping again, to leg. Pace is up – or seems it – but plainly she can’t offer freebies. Nor can Bell bowl a good line but toooo full. When she does, she is push-driven straight, for four. Followed by a classical stroke out through cover. Twelve from the over – so poor, from the strike bowler. Big fan but she has to drop onto old-school line and length – allowing for those booming inswingers, if they come. (They didn’t).

Gibson will follow. She starts with a highish full-toss, which the bowler fields. Her inswinger is overdone: cuffed away easily but just for a single. England expects (and this bloggist expects) England to out-field their opponents but they prob’ly need to out-bowl them, too, eh? Dean next, from the City End.

Decent ball, poor misfield from Wyatt, of all people. Then Ameen sweeps expertly, before repeating but missing. Big shout – looked plum – and review. Gone for 9, from 6. (Feroza is the other opener. She has 12 off 9). 24 for 1, off 3.

Gibson will bowl a second. Touch full, perhaps, but not much in that. Shamas leans forward and into it and the ball threads the circle. Nice. She follows that with an aerial drive and a neat clip off the toes – both for four, bolting to 17 off 6, with another clean strike through cover. Wow. Then four more behind point. Pakistan well ahead, early-doors, not so much because England have bowled badly – not quite – but because the home side were bloody awful with the bat, in the opening phase. That and Pakistan have started brightly.

Dean is rhythmic and is turning that key. She nearly has some reward – Gibson at a stretch almost pocketing a sharp, teasing chance. Bell changes ends to bowl from under my nose (cheers Lauren!) So I have a fabulous view of two fine deliveries, the second of which draws an error from Feroza. Jones dives athletically and instinctively to her left, to take a fine tickle. 50 for 2, now, Pakistan. Ali has joined Shamas, who has 21 off 10. Improved over from Bell, but to their credit, the batters have still taken her for runs. 57 for 2 off 6 puts them in charge.

Ecclestone may, as so often, be key. (Possibly in tandem with Glenn?) She is in from the city. Six from the over. Glenn next.

Loose fielding from Dean costs a single. Then Bouchier almost fails to gather, in the deep – not great. But Glenn draws another rather tame error; Ali getting a weird leading-edge flip into the gloves. 66 for 3. Dar boldly but convincingly sweeps her first delivery off middle stick. A safe single.

Wow. Knight goes down in weekly instalments then the boundary rider flops over the ball. Rank and unacceptable. Whatever happens, this is a ver-ry mixed performance from England. 72 for 3 off 11. But we have a game, alright.

I rate Glenn. Partly because I know from personal experience how tough it is to bowl consistent leggies using ‘a lot of wrist’. She has another appeal for lb, but Dar has made contact. On we go. Then the Pakistan captain drills her neatly enough out to Wyatt, on the extra cover boundary. Just the one. A wee drink, at the half-way, with the visitors on 77 for 3. (England were 66 for 4 off 11). Dean will bowl the eleventh, from the City End.

Another ouch. Fairly feeble run-out. Shamas made 35 off 24, so helpful contribution but that just felt tooo unnecessary, especially given the match situation. (You’re ahead; just stay focussed and play within yourselves. This is not an urgent situation. Don’t make it that way).

Dar should know better. She sweeps straight out to Bouchier – one of England’s best outfielders – and is caught: Glenn the bowler. Almost immediately, England are reviewing, with some confidence. Umpires call: tight, for leg stump, in my view. A further review, for a fine nick behind. (Surely Jones must know(?)… but she wasn’t *that convincing*). Could be a tiny feather on the toe-end(?) Not out, but Glenn has 2 for 11 off 3 overs, so far. Pakistan are 85 for 5 off 12. The game has narrowed, to say the least. Ecclestone, from the city. Muggy sunlight.

I reach for my phone and Ecclestone inevitably claims another, putting the visitors in some strife. Suddenly 6 down. Feels bit like the contest is dying. The Spin Twins – plus Dean, to be fair – have turned this around. Time for Bell to bring some slower-ball-back-of-the-hand wotsits. And a short one, which Khan can only fend away, high on the bat. Escapes.

The Shard is a brilliant at this high-tariff delivery and it gets in the heads of most batters. The extravagant variations draw another mis-hit – this time high and spiralling out to deep extra. Wyatt is waiting and then charging in. (That earlier error notwithstanding) she is as good as anybody out there. Racing in – but balanced – and then diving, Wyatt snaffles it. It’s a highlight of the day.

But the game is moving on, irrevocably, surely, towards a home win. Glenn has changed ends but the result is the same: a wicket. Hassan is out for nought. 89 for 8. Then for 9. Glenn bowls Akhtar for no score. That would be 4 for 12 off her overs, for England’s outstanding leg-spinner.

Gibson may be hoping and even expecting to finish this promptly, but Khan smashes her powerfully through extra for a defiant four. Great stuff. Iqbal is a leftie. Can she extend the resistance? She dabs the first one away.

Dean, from the City End. Cloudier and cooler. Young, female voices to my left, below. Wide ball. An appeal – but it surely pitched outside leg? Freebie: England review. No bat… and closer to that leg stick than I thought ‘live’, but not out, nonetheless. There are two out on the legside boundary but Iqbal clumps it safely and will claim four. We go into the 18th over. Ecclestone will bowl it.

Khan hits her hard, through extra cover, impressively so. The ground’s lower stands have never been more than about 60% full, I reckon. (As I say this, the attendance is confirmed at 12, 241). But it’s lovely to hear loud, excited female voices underneath the media centre. They’ll surely have loved this?

With that, Bell strikes. Iqbal may have been a bit intimidated by the sight of the tall quick slamming it down at her – who knows? The batter can only fend loopily to point. Bell finishes with 3 for 22 from 3.2 overs, so a decent return.

A contemplative in-breath or two. Enjoyable. Mixed. Bit less Edgbaston Oomph than I expected, in terms of The Event. But another step forward in terms of The Profile of the Women’s Game.

You/me/somebody might argue that England’s level was below where we might expect them to be – I don’t think that’s an unreasonable conclusion. They were shambolic, against good but not life-threatening bowling, through the powerplay and beyond. Knight and Jones and Gibson, pleasingly, rescued the batting effort and then their world-level spinners did the rest. Good to see Bell claim wickets but she remains less laser-focussed than she needs to be, at the beginning of an innings. So an imperfect win.

‘Ank Marvin: & traditions like Easter.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Ah the voices. In my head, broiling or brewing or maybe just a chemical reaction to the (breaking) toast or full-on sausage sarny issue swishing abart in me stomach. Should be writing on cricket – Glam and the boy Northeast. No! Goddabee United! Or maybe drop back into women’s cricket mode? Bouchier and the Shawly-Redemptive Amy Jones Not-Shanking-to-the-Circle thing? Or maybe the whole lot? Or more wisely (don’t be daft) *not writing at all* while everything remains a mess.

*Nips to kitchen. Pricks bangers.*

Hunger and too much sport. These are the great tormentors. Caffling-up our very souls, I tell you – or at least competing with the crap wifi to undermine our otherwise serene (s)elective processes. Eng Women in NZ. Town in the mire. Glammy in dreamland. Celtic-Rangers. Paree-Roubaix. United in hysterical disarray. Days – longer days! – melting into Eastery, chocolatey night and then back into febrile couch-surfing. Our choices once again cruelly undermined by a heathenfest of opportunity. What day is it, anyway? Did I really do all that chocolate?

Sometime in the last x hours I was watching England lose. Until 3 am closed in around me and then socials kicked in – or maybe sleep – until a rare, spirited spurt of seamlessly decent wifi made the Old Firm possible, then MU, then bits of Tottingham. And a nod or three hundred towards Lords. Via that cycling madness. So if you’ve landed here expecting ‘clarity’ best hold on tight.

The England Women tour of Kiwiville is done. Successful, largely, in the sense that both legs – T20 and 50 over – registered a W. (Hate or o-kaaay dislike that single-letter descriptor, by the way: surely insinuated in to Proper Sport by slick graph-competent anti-souls, yes?) Batting collapses still a concern but significant positives include the emergence of Bouchier as a rival or foil to Dunkley – she’s ‘classier’ and a better athlete – and further evidence that England simply have the quality to be more dynamic than ‘chasing pack’ nations like the White Ferns, *at this stage*. (I include that qualification a) to snuff out the dangers of International Incident and b) because it’s mischievously true). On.

Jones is the other story, I suppose. Viewed by many as the best keeper in the women’s game and a stylish and clean striker of the ball – can and does score relatively quickly at 6 or 7. But for me, historically scrambled faaar too often and therefore fortunate to have retained her place in the side: lack of genuine alternatives and her work behind the sticks have kept her in there. Now three fine knocks, in succession and under the cosh, have rendered the AJ Question irrelevant. She’s been lucky… but also brilliant on this tour.

Seen New Zealand live (over here) a certain amount over the last couple of years. They’re getting there; look generally competitive in the field and have bowlers in Amelia Kerr, Rowe and Tahuhu and the two Fern Icons Bates and Devine still provide quality. At times, however, their lack of dynamism was again painfully clear. This will be and should be their signal disappointment from this series: that they were *so obviously* unable to accelerate an innings. Sure, England take some credit for this – good bowling. But the White Ferns were consistently a bit lame when they had to be (had to be!) charging. They will provide the occasional upset but must find some boom, to compete.

Glam is 100 miles away from where I live, in the west of the west. This is my excuse for being a lame supporter. No chance would I go 250-odd to Lords for their opener, so I missed the historic knock from Northeast. Loved seeing posts from friends in the ground, on the Twitters. A total over 600 in the first wallop? We’ll take that – even if subsequent days ease to a ‘no-result’ scenario.

For the first time in living memory I watched a lump of the Old Firm Derby. Incredible and hilarious. And intense, as always. Sunday League defending (see more, below) but some thrilling attacks. *That noise* raised to traditionally awesome levels: scary, inspiring, violent, unforgiving. A wildish, drawn romp with a daftish lap of celebration led by the Rangers gaffer, who took performative misunderstanding to yet another high. #Legend.

And so to MU ‘Pool, via the Paris-Roubaix, which I vowed to watch right through, after the god that is van der Poel scarpered off with almost 60k to suffer. (I *did* watch right through, knowing that I’d miss a wee chunk of the shamateurs of Manchester). On cobbles, through mud and tunnels of deranged ‘supporters’, the World Champ blasted the rest into distant mediocrity, winning by three minutes, on his own, in a display of elite-level guts, control, power and discipline that your average Premier League footballer could neither comprehend nor match. This was a flawless execution: a stunning expression of superior, hard-won gifts. (Hope to god that he’s doing this clean).

Meanwhile at Old Trafford, United continued with their own distant mediocrity, being repeatedly exposed by this goodish but not Peak Scouse-level Liverpool. Sure, United had their moments, even in a first half where the visitors might have scored four, but for lack of completion from Diaz (this we expect?) and a strangely fuzzy Mo Salah. Garnacho had an early goal struck from the record but Klopp’s raging late in the half plainly reflected the mis-match and the threat of another massacre conspiring/unpeeling towards points shared or dropped.

So it turned out. Fernandes was surly, ineffective and repeatedly shockingly wasteful but he scored a worldie. Mainoo was in and out but he scored a worldie. Salah kicked the ball straight and with conviction once, from the penalty spot, for a late equaliser.

For United the issues run on, to the point where Ten Hag must and surely will go. He’s not entirely at fault for players being woefully slack at closing down/tracking/being watchful. But he is palpably responsible for team shape and the disciplines around that. His players are not good enough – most of them. The gaffer has not been smart or tough or inspiring enough to develop or deliver the matrix.

His side remain shapeless in nearly every sense. Non-negotiables remain un-ticked. They are a million miles – still – from producing performances. Any half-decent side can play through them at will.

Klopp was incandescent on 40 minutes because United were so pitifully vulnerable and yet somehow remained in the game. The home team’s three central defenders were constantly over-run, almost incredibly, both from the flanks and through the middle of the park, where Fernandes and Mainoo barely got a foot in. Diaz and Darwin Nunes pace and movement was killing them… but then not.

The stats spoke loudly again about how many strikes on goal Manchester United concede, week after week. Even if they were a fabulous side going forward, this just doesn’t work. (And they’re not).

Eighteen months ago Rashford may have been the most electrifying striker in Europe: now he’s in his own world of pain and disillusionment. Garnacho remains a prospect – Hojlund too. The midfield is so dysfunctional it’s hard to name it. There have been, no doubt, about eight zillion man-hours expended on the training ground about defending – and maybe particularly defending counter-attacks. And United are still absolutely shite at it. So I’ve been relatively supportive of Ten Hag. But now he must go… and the squad must be gutted all over again.

Beautiful Games: book launch.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Included below; the audio from our Beautiful games book launch, at The Mariners, Nolton Haven, Pembs, on Sat 23rd March 2024.

Hosted by my good friend the treble-fabulous Mr Stephen Hedges, it features some daft bloke warbling about sport and the Meaning of Everything – as he does – plus some background noises and a wee bit of ambient pre-amble. Would’ve *really loved* to include the genuinely brilliant and hugely generous #pubchat that immediately followed the talk, but certain individuals shared some personal stuff about family experiences that it just wouldn’t have been right to include. So cut.

We had intended that the aforementioned #pubchat would dig in to and expand upon the Waltonian propositions… and it certainly did that. Some concerns were raised about school experiences in activity needing to ‘mirror real life’ rather than ‘just look to cater for all’. I hear that argument, and respect the need for (for example) competitive sport. I grew up – and I do mean grew up – through competitive sport, where (amongst other things) I learned to value guys in my teams who found little support or encouragement elsewhere, because they were either fully-fledged or aspiring football hooligans. Don’t ask them to spell much, or do their French homework but stick ’em on a sports field and watch the fekkers fly. Suddenly brilliant; suddenly selfless; suddenly valuable. I get how magnificent organised sport can be, for shedloads of reasons including that one.

But only about 20% of schoolkids are getting it: or only about 20% are developing a culture of lifelong activity. Twenty per cent. This means that BIG THINGS ARE IN PLAY. It means that (without sacrificing opportunities for ‘organised sport’) we have to include everyone – get everyone active.

The speech and the book then, have to come over all philosophical. I think there are moral imperatives in play as well as economic arguments: society cannot afford for zillions of people to be physically or mentally un-healthy. We all deserve a lump of happiness and the wider clan needs us to be productive. It’s a no-brainer that activity *nearly always supports* health. Great, uplifting, compelling experiences in Physical Education for young people can be personally transformative, can maybe lift where we’re at, as individuals, on the Happiness Index.

I want all of it – generous and ‘holistic’ approaches to PE, throughout the age-groups, and fabulous recreational sports and/or pathways. Change the thinking and invest in all of it. (Surely we’re sliding somewhere quite dark, if we don’t?)

There are political and philosophical notions we just can’t duck out of. My argument, I suppose, is that we need to prioritise and invest in wellness, not maxxing-out on profits. Because every one of us is valuable.

After the verbals I include a transcript of my speech.

BOOK LAUNCH.

Enough already of this welcome and adoration. It can’t last. For as sure as eggs are eggs… and beans are beans… and brown sauce is better than red, on bangers and bacon, you will desert me. For we are fickle, are we not? We ‘like’ everything but then move on, to the next story – the next poor, unfortunate target for our fleeting attention. I’m a realist, friends. There’ll be a lol-tastic notification coming along any minute – over here; over there – cats on the Twitters; dancers on the twick-twocks – and my moment in the spotlight will be gone.

I blame the Kardashians – I blame the Kardashians for everything – just ask the kids. Pouting. Potholes on the A40. Climate Change. Footballers diving and Raducanu changing coaches every twenty minutes. I blame the Kardashians. Cold toast; hot – fuck me, burning hot – Cornish pasties; V.A.R.; 30p Lee; too many adverts spoiling yer telly. I blame the Kardashians.

Surprisingly however, Beautiful Games is not the work of an embittered old bloke who can’t pout. The closest it gets to Worldly Cynicism is maybe through the introductory quote, from Naomi Klein:

‘Everywhere we look we find “binaries where thinking once existed.”

I kinda like that, because it makes me sound brainy. To be honest I haven’t the faintest idea what she’s onnabout but it seemed a good idea to have something wordy and philosophical in the first few pages. The rest is bollocks about Ford Escorts and beer. And sport.

‘Everywhere we look we find “binaries where thinking once existed”. Wish I’d said that. Instead I said

on P xii “I really want this book to be explainer-lite. Can’t stand the idea that the dots have to be joined/profundities unpicked for a readership that is thereby presumed to be brain-dead: insulting bollocks… (more)… not everything will be revealed”.

I also say “this book, whilst wading through the baggage of a middle-aged white guy, will be anti-bigotry. Believe it or not. Its purpose is to celebrate personal and universal stuff about activity. Not sure that can be done without advocating for those damp essentials love and understanding”.

But what the feck does that mean?!?

Glad you asked. Let me have a thrash at this. The book is in three sections: the first is called ‘Formations’ because it digs into things that may have made me… but which also relate, surely, to all of us? Family; environment; good energies; trauma or tragedy.

So ‘Formations’ is Big Relatable Stories. There’s stuff about ‘cannonballs’ – the heavy, soapy, brown-leather footballs we used to head, as kids, even though they weighed about twelve tons. There’s stuff about travelling to Canada dressed as Elvis Costello, and the hairs in my nostrils freezing as we stepped off the plane into the North American winter – at minus 26. (Fact). Then about playing indoor soccer with mad Italians and some geezer pulling a large hairy knife on my best mate in a nightclub in Thunder Bay. Exactly the kind of thing we’ve all experienced, yes?

Look, there is family, adventure and growth and maaaybee one of the central themes of the book, poisons in the ether – machismo; toughness; the ever-present fraudulence that is ‘masculinity.’ But also the wonder of sport and camaraderie and the craic. So the wild, contradictory kaleidoscope that is life… as a bloke(?)… or (know what?) however we may identify.

It’s no accident that chapter one – Unwise Tendencies – is about the violent homophobia that was everywhere, in our childhoods. I may need to come out as boringly, resolutely straight at this point, but that prejudice (in the North of England, in the 60s/70s) had a massive, conditioning effect on how I was and who I became. I wonder if it might be something of a surprise to many of you to discover *how much* the book has to say about blokeyness and ‘strength’ and pressures around behaviour. Let me read you something on this – true story:

Reading from P4 …”Much of the rich hinterland around this…

and no, I don’t know what that means either”.

I don’t happen to be gay… but I/we who were skinny or medium-brainy or had some facility for French or English Lit were in mortal danger, at school and beyond. I understand this excruciatingly poisonous, mind-boggingly pervasive plane of enlightenment marks the extreme edge of ‘laddishness’ but I think we know it’s still with us – and maybe in places we don’t really care to look. Certainly machismo in sport lies very close to prejudice. Beautiful Games deals with some of this; sympathetically, I hope, but also has a pop, creates some mischief.

On a happier note, the first section of the book does contain plenty in the way of wholesome tribute to Welsh heroes at Solva Athletic Football Club and later at Llanrhian CC. There’s lots of heading (a football) and some speculation about the effect of that. There’s a brief ode to K D Lang. There’s a coupla key chapters about family tragedy because *absolutely* that has made us… and a lot of family pride. This is not just about sport: it’s about formation.

Part Two is called ‘Practice’, meaning the hows and whys of sport. And the brilliance, and the inspirational figures or methods that become your way/my way.

We’re into culture and good practice; the Wonderstuff, whether that be through the All Blacks’ ‘No Dickheads’ policy or Brian Clough’s ‘OH YOO ARE BLOODY ‘OPELESS!!’

Both were godlike and inspirational, in ver-ry different ways; the one a kind of code of honour and way of being that set extraordinary and (dare we say it) civilised standards of behaviour *as well as* producing an 86% win-rate in international rugby over more than a decade. (And this is a very high figure). The other – Brian Clough – was a law unto himself but found a way to motivate his teams through personal magnetism, elite-level pig-headedness and a truly intuitive but profound understanding of a) football and b) people.

At my own daft level I love coaching teams: in fact I really like the word – is that sad? TEEEEEAAMMM! Teams are gangs of mates or soul-sisters who do that walk-through-fire thing or just pat you on the shoulder when you’re bowling like an arse. Teams encourage and build and take you, the individual no-hoper somewhere hilarious and miraculous. And know what? Teams aren’t just for sport… and they aren’t *just about* sport.

Clough was maybe something of a drunk and something of a bully. (I’m neither, honest). But he took two mid-ranking teams – Derby and Forest – to league titles and he and Peter Taylor engineered two European Cup wins. Incredible… and I think fascinating. His players ‘just knew’ he was a genius. They followed him and believed in him. He did ‘just know’. This was about relationships as much as skill.

This may be anorak central but bear with. Clough’s former players talk about his team-talks. (I like team-talks). Apparently on occasion, even before massive games, he would spread a towel on the floor of the changing rooms, and place a football on it. Like some druid ritual. Then he would just say something like “OI. You lot. This is a ball. There’ll be one out there. Go get it… and keep the fucking thing”.

Interestingly – I think –the great All Blacks coaches Sir Graham Henry and Sir Steve Hansen – allegedly got to a point where they barely said anything on matchdays. The players were so prepared, so in charge, so empowered, that there was no hairdryer and no Churchillian rhetoric from the coaches. No need. The players are ready. I’m aware this may be a bit niche, friends. But compare and contrast with Guardiola, Klopp, Tuchel, etc etc – with the zillions of messages going out before and during top-level football matches, now. I think that may be a kind of madness.

In Part Two I write chapters on the All Blacks, Clough, Guardiola, Bazball, the fabulous and universe-changing development of women and girl’s sport. There are also Honourable Mentions for Dutch football/Bobby Charlton/Chloe Kelly/Welsh rugby/the Baabaas and many more. I do make the point that though women and girls sport is better supported than before there is still much work to be done and throughout this book, I promise, I am mindful that competitive, organised sport is not the be-all and end-all, in any event. Beautiful Games moves towards being about Sport Development – that is the provision of activity for all. More on this in a moment.

Some of you will know that I have ECB Accreditation as Written Media and most often use this to follow England and Wales Women cricket: it’s been a real privilege to have been quite close to the powerful surge in that half of the game, for towards a decade. I talk about this in the book – in both books, asitappens.

Locally, Llanrhian Ladies are a spectacular example of the joy and development occurring in cricket. They are absolutely magic and have transformed our cricket club so they are in Beautiful Games – of course they are! Finally, in the section on practice, the book turns to the other great revelation of the current moment, namely Pembrokeshire Seniors cricket.

Reading from P155 ‘Here’s something weird and wonderful...

To p157 …”I am going to be bereft when I can’t bowl”.

Sad but true, I really AM gonna be bereft when I can’t bowl. But onwards, in haste. To the final section, which I’ve called ‘The Case for Sport’.

I have worked as a coach for Cricket Wales – still doing it – and as a peripatetic PE teacher for Sport Pembrokeshire. Ver-ry proud of my colleagues in both organisations. Latterly I also did some work ploughing through a significant bundle of reports on wellbeing/activity/lifestyles for children. I’m no academic but this was ‘my territory’ so Matt at Sport Pembrokeshire let me loose on this to try and draw insights about what good, enlightened provision might look like. Who needs activity most? What’s most effective? What can we justify doing? Inevitably political/philosophical and strategic stuff, in an environment where (criminally, to be frank) budgets are likely to tighten, not loosen up.

I may have gone into this feeling a tad cynical about surveys. As a deliverer of sport you can’t help but think that it’s bloody obvious that activity is so essential and life-affirming and developmentally important in every way we don’t need reports to tell us that! They feel a bit like exercises commissioned by dead-souled office wallahs. Like who doesn’t know that exercise is good and that we have to fund absolutely everything that’s legitimate, to fight the good fight against obesity, poor mental health, the fall into sedentary behaviour and the peer pressure around body-image – for which I blame the Kardashians!

We all know this! And yet, because the more I looked at the surveys – from Pembs County Council/Senedd/the Happen Survey/the Good Childhood Report, from the Children’s Society etc, etc – the more I bought into the idea that they are often very sophisticated and skilful, and they do provide us with good, even valuable information. We just have to act on it.

So I talk about personally taking the Happen Survey into Pembrokeshire Primary Schools and then producing a kind of brainstorming document around good practice (for our Sport Pembs practitioners – Active Young People Officers, by name). About the conclusions we might draw, the options we might take. I try to weed out from the mighty, meaty documents some workable priorities or undeniable truths. I offered them to my colleagues in Sport Development across West Wales, and I offer them to you, in Beautiful Games.

Reading from p 195…

“I wrote two reports…

To end of chapter on p196.

Part Three then, does make the Case for Sport, indeed it campaigns, in a way that I hope still manages to provide some entertainment. You don’t have to be wearing a tracksuit to get this book. You really don’t. Despite being ‘sport-mad’, I can tell you that those of us who coach or teach Physical Education (or sports, or games), now understand that given where we are – deep into a wellbeing crisis, with no sign that authorities get that – we have to get moving. All of us. So PE becomes more about everybody; welcomes Joey who can’t catch and Sara who can’t run in. Welcomes them; offers them something they can do and enjoy – probably with their friends.

You don’t have to be a Sports Development geek to sense the requirement for a wider, broader remit, for Physical Education. We have to get every child comfortable with movement. Find the funding, make the change, acknowledge the crisis and the need for a re-fresh of the offer. Ludicrously, in my view, despite being lumped in to a new Area of Learning with Wellbeing & Mental Health, PE is still not a core subject. Make it a core subject.

Let me finish, dear friends, with a Mad Idea. There is nothing more important than the physical and mental health of our young people. Could we be bold enough, then, generous enough, civilised enough to *actually invest* in what matters? By this I mean – amongst other things – look at and think about the UNICEF National Happiness Index as a meaningful measure of where we’re at. Stick the GDP and the Footsie right up yer arris. Forget this charade about ‘economic growth’. Value that which is valuable: health; wellbeing; the capacity to move and make adventures. Let’s ‘get going’ on that.

Mine’s a pint of Guinness. Thankyou.

Pope and dolphins and Klopp.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ 2 Comments

Big call whether to write about Pope or Klopp. May not decide ’til I’m *really in there*. Or, unsurprisingly to the three of you who fall into the Regular Readers category, that issue may remain unresolved.

Day after the first net session where I ‘ran in’ as well as set the world straight. (Been coaching every Sunday for several weeks – and still loving that – but joined some of the old guys soon to set off for Chenai for the Over 60s World Cup and yeh, had a bowl. With mixed success). Oh – and woke up this morning having to acknowledge the schoolboy error of having bowled with toenails just that wee bit too long. Other aches and pains not kicked-in yet.

But Pope. A special, timely knock, which fits with his Golden Boy trajectory-thing – that is, ‘expectation’ – and offers England a chance to meaningfully resist the Indian strut towards a win. He may, despite the distraction of that contraflow between boyishness and the vice-captaincy, be too accomplished to need public affirmation but, let’s face it, it’s always handy. This was top-level classy, in the spotlight, under the cosh, just when we needed it and probably with Delhi Belly. He may have had to overcome a slight niggle or two and no sleep ‘cos the Bharat Army were holding an all-nighter in the hotel car park. Whatever; it was special and ver-ry public. And away; in India. Massive that he got right through the day. Next up, Bumrah with a new ball.

But Klopp. Also a moment. Whether it falls into the Do You Know Where You Were category may hinge on whether you’re a red (obvs), or if you even follow the footie. (If you follow the footie to any degree then it was biggish). I can tell you where I was – and worse still, I’m gonna do that thang.

I was on the cliffs at Strumble Head, North Pembrokeshire, because a) it’s bloody sensational and b) in the faint hope that the humpback whale that (I kid you not) has been cruising the block might reveal itself again. Glorious day, but I under-clubbed on the clothing front.

Anyway, I get out of the car – a mud-splattered VW Polo, with a century on the clock – and shift the Graham Parkeresque shades that are digging into ma beak. There’s something out in front. Wow; forget that Whatsapp notifibloodycation; there’s something there. Unmistakably. It’s a byoodiful day, if parky, but I’ve stepped right into a pod of dolphins doing their arched ‘oi oi geezer’ flypast. Forget the phone. They’re no more than fifty yards off the coast. In front of the line of empty cars – again suggesting that the moment has singled me out. I adjust my box and raise ma bat.

Then I walk to the block building, where the Proper Naturalists are watching. You can tell they’re proper because they have two dogs each and lenses that reach the Wicklow Mountains. Best not talk to them before I’ve looked at the info-posters on the back wall: I need to know what’s a dolphin and what’s a porpoise. Then we can exchange pleasantries and make circuitous (but cool) enquiries about Humpy. (Dolphins have beaks; porpoises don’t).

No sightings. But there are more dolphins to our right. And the fella with the handsome hound-terrier-thing is *actually friendly*. He’s barely anal at all, despite the clobber. We could probably talk about cricket or football as well as cetaceans. I loiter and yes, do raise bi-nocs to my eyes, purposefully, before setting out towards Carregwasted, or somewhere.

Another ping finally prompts the check. Shit – it’s The Lads – meaning elite bantz and/or stuff that matters. It’s only now I see that Klopp has recorded his ‘message to the fans’. Wow. I am 157 yards north of the block building at Strumble Head when I hear that Jurgen’s dipping out. I have no connection to Liverpool Football Club but I’m genuinely bit shocked. And then, listening to that explanation, respectful – respectfully disappointed.

I’ve not spent the last twenty-four hours trawling The Athletic (or anywhere else) for in-depth analysis or Insta-goss. This can sit with me as human story; with a thoroughly good man feeling like he best escape into family life/ordinary life ASAP. He owes that to his wife: and crucially, there is life beyond football. Liverpool can’t be everything forever. If there’s a sort of continental drift going on, Klopp’s not going to let his energy combust in the subduction zone. He ain’t gonna go down and let the all-consuming consume him. There’s more ground to discover – a life to be liberated into. Fair play.

Ar Jurgen’s always been easy to love, despite the occasional touchline aberration. (Notes to universe; all managers are monsters). Klopp is unequivocally big-hearted; generous; understanding of and able to coach the best from the human spirit and the collective will. He’s urgent and deep and brilliant, with that soft-left man-hugging soulfulness being a pleasingly sharp contrast to the spiky mania and techno-genius of Pep. The German is more lovable; closer to us; good-natured. A leader who could travel on the bus or tube: and share the jokes about Hendo or the Egyptian King. Even now.

The ‘achievements’ will be listed elsewhere. They’re real, but so too is the feeling. Klopp soaked-up the power of the surge, early doors. He knew he could make a high-energy, irresistible kind of entertainment work at Anfield. It might be high tariff in terms of that gambol around possession as god: he would tilt things more towards directness than control. Liverpool would attack you. The fanbase would identify with that and quite possibly get off, just a little, on the rawness and pace and the somehow ballsy defiance expressed or implied. It would be ‘proper’.

The gaffer understood that Liverpool is unique: there was something he could harness to his own brand. This season, a patently unexceptional Liverpool side – o-kaaay, on the Grand Scale – with a strike force consisting of Mo Salah and two blokes trying to find something find themselves top of the league. Klopp is building quickly,; is ahead of the game again. But he will know that City have more quality and are more likely to approach invulnerability. The reds will need every ounce of the gaffer’s nous and ability to motivate if they are to grab the Prem title.

I do wonder if this is part of Jurgen’s thinking. Plainly he does want to enjoy some semblance of Normal Family Life, *and* avoid a critical loss of verve whilst still in post at Anfield. But could he be stirring yet more definitive defiance amongst the Scouse Posse by announcing this now? Could he be pressing green for go on one more almighty surge? Might he understand that this is the way – the best, most likely way – to keep the storm brewing? I hope the bloke can do it.

India Eng: * sounds like*…

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Yeh, all very well, battling ‘gainst a tasty turner (is it really that?), in the angry sun, with eighty zillion people watching, but in Pembs we’re raging against the dying of the green light – the flaming WIFI! So yeh whilst I have some sympathy for Our Lads, having to get up at 3.30 to play international sport, it’s the (never-ending, trust me) high-tech/low-tech trauma I’m principally concerned with, first thing. Sure it’s gloomy; sure the calves and the crows look bit bedraggled… but can bitta damp and bitta swirl really knock out the signal?

Of course it can. Nearly always does.

I don’t get up mad early because I can’t watch – no TNT or whatever-it-is. I don’t get up because admittedly foolishly I watched a crap film ‘til lateish. (Terminator something: what the hell was I thinking?) Plus – incredibly, I know – nobody’s paying me, and we’re one notch down, rightly or wrongly, from Ashes Cricket. But I am interested in this Test.

India are good and they will want to compete: (euphemism, for grind England into the dirt). England *really might* relish the prospect of setting out the Bazball stall even there. Plus, even though he may have a somewhat reduced role, Bumrah is damned watchable. England, very much to their credit, have been tremendously watchable, for two years solid.

Like most of you, I’m on this from breakfast-time, or more exactly faffing abart trying to find available coverage on the tellybox, then laptop, via that pitiful WIFI. Half an hour’s furo-angst later, with the i-pad shoved hard against the bookshelf between me and next door, I’m in business. That former doorway might be plastered-over with unconvincingly soundproofed board and the source, from our friends at Bee Effing Tee may be scandalously poor and subject to brain-scramblingly frequent interruptions, but it lands about three foot two from the alcove, on their side. Finally, we do seem to have fluked a decent signal. Allez-bloody-loo.

I can live with the fact that the lads decide to have tea, a few minutes after I’m set. Talksport 2. Kimber has started with a duff ‘stat’ which he admits proves nothing but then gets into his flow. Some might say it’s heavyish on the smartarsery but the bloke has good intelligence and intimidating knowledge of the game. Harmison offers a decent foil. Helpfully, the match is obviously and immediately riveting.

Test Cricket is forever contemplating its navel: or worse, being either ushered towards some inevitable grave, or potentially fore-shortened. England have cut through the white noise and the tribal-historical psychobantz and had a right go at things. They’ve been thrillingly bold and changed or even made irrelevant, the arguments. They’ve entertained us in exactly the way Stokes and McCullum promised. Almost uniquely over the span of the universe, a Management Posse have said extravagantly generous stuff and then delivered. How’s that gonna go, in Hyderabad? Six an over possible?

With 23 overs left in the day, and England a smidge short of 250 all out, it’s game on – but only one side can score at a rate that would make Geoffrey Boycott blush. It’s already apparent we may be looking at a short, eventful game. Hard to know how long the McCullum Crew will remain in it, but we know that they will resist.

Highlights? Stokes has climbed into his armour and clanged another unlikely (but likely) 70. Spinners have been ‘on top’ but rather wonderfully – in terms of the execution and the narrative – Bumrah – the other knight-god-icon – was the one to fell the England skipper. Hartley offers a nice cameo, with the bat, 23 on debut.

In the zooming and booming, it’s easy to forget that England were 50 for nought, early doors. Duckett went on to get 35 before the clusters of wickets either side of some stout resistance (wot else?) from Bairstow (who sounded in great nick) and also Root. Wood, alongside Stokes, hints briefly at another lusty contribution but then suddenly he’s bowling: struck for four, first ball. The sole quick is partnered by Hartley – another characteristically bold call from the England camp. Slow left arm, second over of the Test. He is thrashed for six twice. Wow.

Wood, of course, is putting it all in there. Bowls two short ones in his second over; both called wides for height. India have 22 for no wicket after eighteen balls. Hartley looks nervy, maybe: poor ball gifts Sharma runs to leg. Then Jaiswal slams a further boundary. Two worryingly expensive overs from the newbie. Kimber notes that Hartley may never have opened the bowling with a red ball. So Big Ask. It’s also been suggested – repeatedly, by Pietersen – that he’s not finding any meaningful turn. Ah.

‘India are flying along’ at 35 for 0. They’re doing an England.

Leach is in, to follow Wood, who just bowled those two overs, with customary intent. Subtext – in and out of the comms box – Leach rarely spins it significantly.

Stokes predictably persists with Hartley, who is ‘suffering’. Jaiswal has 40… off about three deliveries. Statements are being exchanged: Stokes offering the aerial route, India saying ‘cheers then’. 68 for 0 after ten overs. Stokes saying ‘I back yooo, mate’ to the debutant.

Wow is the word. We have more rapid-fire, high-colorific cricket in front of us: from a team that are unequivocally not led by Stokes and McCullum. In a Test Match. With a capacity crowd. This might be wonderful.

If there *are* negatives they may be around just how long this match may last… and (for England) how damaging Stokes’s faith in Hartley might be.

But then Hartley beats Rohit Sharma twice! Reviewed: not out. England go on to burn all three reviews before we get to 15 overs. The calls weren’t entirely howlers… but they may need to reflect on that.

Sharma has looked/sounded watchful as well as positive, but he skies one from Leach. Stokes races around and pouches. 80 for 1. England need a cluster: could this be the start?

No. The left-hander Jaiswal sparkles throughout, and the lushly-gifted Gill sees out the day alongside. India not just ahead, at 119 for 1, but expansively, entertainingly so. The home side have not only accepted the gauntlet that is the *England Vibe*, but have stylishly brushed it against Stokes’s jaw. Yes it’s possible that the hosts could lose a bundle of wickets. Yes the England spinners might find the necessary consistency or Wood might transform the energy of the match. But it feels, to be blunt, unlikely. India are bossing this; the crowd are loving it; the batters are probably better than our lot; the bowlers are odds-on to prove more of a threat.

On day one, having won what was widely regarded as a crucial toss, England started well, faded and recovered, with the bat. On a challenging surface (though not an unfair or inconsistent one), the 246 all out was no capitulation, but offered little slack: the bowlers had to respond with discipline as well as ambition. They didn’t – not really. Stokes naturally held out with boldish or theoretically wicket-taking fields but only Leach found line and length. Hartley was targeted and though he bowled one or two jaffers, he was mediocre; short or wide *just enough* to offer fine players gifts. Ahmed was similarly unconvincing: Wood was rather mysteriously absent.

We should finish on a positive, eh? Jaiswal was pretty close to sensational.

pic from Guardian Sport

Proper England.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

70-odd thousand supporters in the ground; a grandstand finish; some heroic effort and some painfully poor choices when Our Lot seemed likely to score. Star player on the night and wisest, coolest head? In the pundit’s chair – Emma Hayes. And goddammit she’s lost to America. Everybody else bit lost in the rush and the ‘urgency’. So yeh, Proper England.

Russo fabulously mobile and full of intent – but only on the park for twenty minutes. James and Kirby and Stanway scandalously wayward or seemingly lazy… but probably just nervy, because despite their experience these MASSIVE, FLOODLIT, WEMBLEY NIGHTS are maybe something you do grow into over time. And then, in any case, they were stirred to brilliance. The visitors run ragged but also doing that ‘we’re here and we’re going to pick our moment because we *just might* have more class (or certainly composure) than you Inglish’ thing. The Oranje looking, in that first half, like they might get battered but win three nil.

Pick your moment to get irate about. Or enthuse about. Or say ‘this could only be England’ about. Because this was/is authentic, now. Was it the godawful second goal, where every Lioness in the building went AWOL, or misjudged, or daren’t commit, before the consistently excellent Earps let a distinctly ordinary shot squirm under her body? Was it when James repeated the Unbelievably Bad Choice Option, despite having time and options? Was it Kirby – the brilliant, low-slung, cerebral, skilful Kirby – being persona non wotsits again; as absent as her fellow water-carrier (and fellow absentee) Walsh? I lost energy on all these things.

But c’mon. We were gripped. By the drama of the last half hour, and the quality of Hemp, despite her cruel isolation, and by the two richly weighted assists from James, and the wonder-pass that made the Netherland’s opener. Gripped.

When Toone – who had rightly been dropped after a series of performances which kinda personified the Lionesses thoroughly disappointing campaign – slid in the winner from James’s perceptive cross, Wembley went medium-bonkers in a particularly satisfying way.

England had surged back, hugely to their credit. The gaffer – Wiegmann – who had maybe been found wanting, tactically, early doors, threw Mead and Russo and probably Stanley Matthews at this, late on. She could have withdrawn Bronze or Stanway or Kirby or anyone but Hemp, at the half. Instead the tangential (and wasteful) Kelly got the hook, with England two-down and weirdly both dominant and worryingly porous. Then Morgan, then everybody with an English passport put shoulder to the wheel. It was a great win.

What it means though, is likely disappointment. Post-match, the wonderfully sturdy Earp heaped the blame on herself. Nah. One big error but she was exposed by poor work in front. Plus England should have capitalized on chances before and after the two weak concessions. Earp we love, for her general quality and the occasional delightfully obvious and possibly marginally defiant ‘what the fuck’, to the nearest and most intrusive camera. You’d want her in your mob.

As a squad, this particular group have under-achieved in this particular competition. But what the fuck? They got Wembley rammed. They won something major. They are worth the investment and the grief. They are our new, watchable, wonderful Ingerland.

Welcome to the End of Everything.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

It rained. Like biblically. And then it was clear and bright – IS clear and bright as I write – for a big lump of time. Others, notably my hugely esteemed friend Mr G Dobell, Esquire, expressed immediate concerns about possible errors/omissions/slacknesses from the groundstaff because the match was abandoned surprisingly early, given the medium-fab conditions which followed. In short, (dare we ask?) did the venue staff cock it up, allowing the devilish downpour to seep through into critical areas of the pitch? (Because it didn’t look right).

And then – factoid – it *really was* balmy, or at the very least pleasantly helpful, for a prolonged period, immediately after the deluge. And, yaknow, this was an international match, in which England were in real danger of eviscerating the record books. So questions.

It may, however, be foolish to let hard rain be the story when the story should be Salt, or Duckett, or the cruel tribulations of the Irish seamers. Some extraordinary cricket happened.

Here’s how the action we saw felt, live:

Don’t ask me; just don’t ask me. I have no idea what triggered the enduring JD earworm. Was it Brizzle in the drizzle, being overcoatastically moody? Maybe. Maybe the (very temporary) greyness pointed my soul back to the Boy Curtis at his poetic/philosophical peak?

Existence well what does it matter? We live in the best way we can.

The past is all part of our future. The present is well out of hand.

Welcome to Gloucestershire County Cricket. Where Salt is facing Adair and Jacks is quietly pacing and Crawley – probably not a JD man – is England skipper. (I nearly wrote ‘incredibly’, here). Oh – and Salt has now taken 18 off the first four balls. (And then then the fifth was a wide). So my earworm thing was a portend. The world is ending. Welcome.

Jacks shows a greater degree of mercy than his partner; partly because the second over, from the spirited Little, is goodish. The poor fella Adair, meanwhile can’t find a wormhole quick enough or fast enough. England are going waaaay beyond that routine making of statements thing into a brutal humiliation zone. Jesus. Jacks joins in. England are SIXTY for 0 off the first FOUR OVERS. It’s an all-new, ridicu-level battering. This is happening despite the *bowler-friendly conditions*. Go figure: both Little and Adair are getting some swing and some movement off the pitch.

I’m trying hard not get distracted by a particular journo who is talking on the phone. It’s work-talk, and he’s not (now) doing that loud self-important thing (quite), but it is a pain in the arse. He ain’t gonna read this, so I will add that a senior colleague of his views him with deliciously real contempt… cos that feels like some kind of silent retribution for the last twenty minutes of infringement.

Salt has got 50 and then 60 before we get through 7 overs. Everything is ‘going’. Then he is, caught skying to mid-on. Cruelly thrilling stuff. Crawley marches out with England on 87 for 1, and McCarthy replacing Little, at the Ashley Down Road End. Jacks welcomes him with a six then four.

100 up on the 7 over mark. Perversely, Crawley gets England there with a gently steered straight drive, after having played a straight-batted defensive shot(!) to the previous ball. Jacks – fishing or fending(?) – is fortunate to escape as he edges towards short third, but Young bowls him with a peach the following delivery. 104 for 2, off 8. Duckett re-forms the Little and Large partnership with the towering captain. The skies have lowered a wee bit… and then cleared and brightened.

There are ironies in play – maybe there always are? Here they concern the noticeable softening of urgency, as the two notably urgent England Test openers see out a regression into Proper Cricket. The expectation for endless violence has retreated, somewhat. This gentility may be temporary.

Crawley drives straight and hard, at McCarthy. Classical. Four. But the recent #bantz in the press box includes the idea that England were ‘on for 700’. So even assuming a good wedge of stoutness and application from our Irish brothers, a massacre, possibly of historic proportions, seems inevitable. As if to reinforce that, Crawley hoists dismissively, for another six. 136 for 2, off 14.

Curtis Campher may be forgiven for drawing plenty of ujayii breaths, (for yogic comfort), before joining us – despite that slight tapering of violence. He gets off fairly lightly and can inhale further, over drinks. Ireland need drinks: short, nasty fekkers, probably.

Adair returns from beneath us. Goes too full. Cuffed through midwicket. Then Duckett absolutely clatters Campher, pulling just in front of square. Gleeful and violent again. When the batter tries to repeat – albeit with more of a cross-court top-spin drive, Nadal-style – mid-on bravely gets a hand there. Good, if symbolic stop.

Sit back briefly, to reflect. A re-cap should probably include the idea that Ireland haven’t necessarily bowled that badly. Feels more to me that England simply have better players. Salt (in particular) then, and Jacks were enabled or freed towards that killer explosion from the off. Duckett’s swing at Camphor suggests that he’s ready to launch, now, too: fabulous, skilled driller goes flying between the bowler and the ump. Four, and now 176 for 2, off 20.

We have our first sight of spin, from what (I’m going to call) the Media Centre End. Van Woerkom (born Christchurch) is a left-armer. The batters don’t let him settle. Little’s authentic Irishness serves him no better, on his return to Ashley Down. Crawley blasts to 50 in the over, which includes a crunching six over long-on.

200 come up in the following (23rd) over, with the light now brilliant and Duckett’s sweep joyfully extravagant. He also has 50, now.

Crawley goes. VW gets some turn away from him and the ball flies to short third. Sam Hain (born Hong Kong) will replace him. Duckett is pulling hard, at Little, who seems happy enough to proffer that gamble. Slight miscue, safe and good running brings three. Ireland cannot afford any misfields. There have been a couple. England’s leftie slog-sweeps, and times, to go to 68.

I think George Dockrell has just become Ireland’s seventh bowler on the day. No issue with that: why wouldn’t you cast around to seek some change or respite – or luck? Hain looks settled, early but it’s Duckett again who catches the eye. Another fabulous, liquid sweep rattles the boundary fence/rope/toblerone-thing. Hearing various numbers quoted here: all suggest this is a world-beating, record-breaking score (for England’s second team).

Oof. Adair has fallen heavily into the advertising-boards. He may wish it happened after his first three balls… but he will carry on.

Hain is plainly a man who can launch, but currently I’m enjoying his late-playing, soft-hands vibe. He’s guiding the ball around, seemingly untroubled, seemingly waiting. Ah. Until that. A rather ugly swipe towards cow – top-edged. He’s fortunate. There may be a team policy to pull the seamers hard, perhaps to expose and even demoralise the (mere) medium-quickness of the visitors. Cloud is in-filling, as Duckett slaps Dockrell for six, to go beyond the ton. (Off 72 deliveries; lots and lots of ver-ry well struck and well-placed shots).

14.45. Rain feels possible – maybe imminent.

I thought Hain was looking good, early doors, but his frustration may have grown. As it gets *really dark*, he slaps hard at another shortish one and clubs it to mid-wicket. Just as the rains starts.

Wow. It rains hard. On a ground where there’s not a huge amount of cover. (Not a complaint, just an observation… and possibly borne of the fact that my son is out there, and I’ve got his coat. Insert appropriate emoji). It’s rained HARD. To the extent that we wonder if this is over… at 15.02.

15.12. Clearer and brighter to our left. But is The Damage already done? Not heard any announcingments yet…

MATCH ABANDONED. May add more thoughts later… or may go the pub with my son, who leaves for Thailand/Aus (for SIX MONTHS) tomorrow!!

Welcome to the End of Everything.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Don’t ask me; just don’t ask me. I have no idea what triggered the enduring JD earworm. Was it Brizzle in the drizzle, being overcoatastically moody? Maybe. Maybe the (very temporary) greyness pointed my soul back to the Boy Curtis at his poetic/philosophical peak?

Existence well what does it matter? We live in the best way we can.

The past is all part of our future. The present is well out of hand.

Welcome to Gloucestershire County Cricket. Where Salt is facing Adair and Jacks is quietly pacing and Crawley – probably not a JD man – is England skipper. (I nearly wrote ‘incredibly’, here). Oh – and Salt has now taken 18 off the first four balls. (And then then the fifth was a wide). So my earworm thing was a portend. The world is ending. Welcome.

Jacks shows a greater degree of mercy than his partner; partly because the second over, from the spirited Little, is goodish. The poor fella Adair, meanwhile can’t find a wormhole quick enough or fast enough. England are going waaaay beyond that routine making of statements thing into a brutal humiliation zone. Jesus. Jacks joins in. England are SIXTY for 0 off the first FOUR OVERS. It’s an all-new, ridicu-level battering. This is happening despite the *bowler-friendly conditions*. Both Little and Adair are getting some swing and some movement off the pitch.

I’m trying hard not get distracted by a particular journo who is talking on the phone. It’s work-talk, and he’s not (now) doing that loud self-important thing (quite), but it is a pain in the arse. He ain’t gonna read this, so I will add that a senior colleague of his views him with deliciously real contempt… cos that feels like some kind of silent retribution for the last twenty minutes of infringement.

Salt has got 50 and then 60 before we get through 7 overs. Everything is going. Then he is, caught skying to mid-on. Cruelly thrilling stuff. Crawley marches out with England on 87 for 1, and McCarthy replacing Little, at the Ashley Down Road End. Jacks welcomes him with a six then four.

100 up on the 7 over mark. Perversely, Crawley gets England there with a gently steered straight drive, after having played a straight-batted defensive shot(!) to the previous ball. Jacks – fishing or fending(?) – is fortunate to escape as he edges towards short third, but Young bowls him with a peach the following delivery. 104 for 2, off 8. Duckett re-forms the Little and Large partnership with the towering captain. The skies have lowered a wee bit… and then cleared and brightened.

There are ironies in play – maybe there always are? Here they concern the noticeable softening of urgency, as the two notably urgent England Test openers see out a regression into Proper Cricket. The expectation for endless violence has retreated, somewhat. This may be temporary.

Crawley drives straight and hard, at McCarthy. Classical. Four. But the recent #bantz in the press box includes the idea that England were ‘on for 700’. So even assuming a good wedge of stoutness and application from our Irish brothers, a massacre, possibly of historic proportions, seems inevitable. As if to reinforce that, Crawley hoists dismissively, for another six. 136 for 2, off 14.

Curtis Campher may be forgiven for drawing plenty of ujayii breaths, before joining us – despite that slight tapering of violence. He gets off fairly lightly and can inhale further, over drinks. Ireland need drinks: short, nasty fekkers, probably.

Adair returns from beneath us. Goes too full. Cuffed through midwicket. Then Duckett absolutely clatters Campher, pulling just in front of square. Gleeful and violent again. When the batter tries to repeat – albeit with more of a cross-court top-spin drive, Nadal-style – mid-on bravely gets a hand there. Good, if symbolic stop.

Sit back briefly, to reflect. A re-cap should probably include the idea that Ireland haven’t necessarily bowled that badly. Feels more to me that England simply have better players. Salt (in particular) then, and Jacks were enabled or freed towards that killer explosion from the off. Duckett’s swing at Camphor suggests that he’s ready to launch, now, too: fabulous, skilled driller goes flying between the bowler and the ump. Four, and now 176 for 2, off 20.

We have our first sight of spin, from what (I’m going to call) the Media Centre End. Van Woerkom (born Christchurch) is a left-armer. The batters don’t let him settle. Little’s authentic Irishness serves him no better, on his return to Ashley Down. Crawley blasts to 50 in the over, which includes a crunching six over long-on.

200 come up in the following (23rd) over, with the light now brilliant and Duckett’s sweep joyfully extravagant. He also has 50, now.

Crawley goes. VW gets some turn away from him and the ball flies to short third. Sam Hain (born Hong Kong) will replace him. Duckett is pulling hard, at Little, who seems happy enough to proffer that gamble. Slight miscue, safe and good running brings three. Ireland cannot afford any misfields. There have been a couple. England’s leftie slog-sweeps, and times, to go to 68.

I think George Dockrell has just become Ireland’s seventh bowler on the day. No issue with that: why wouldn’t you cast around to seek some change or respite – or luck? Hain looks settled, early but it’s Duckett again who catches the eye. Another fabulous, liquid sweep rattles the boundary fence/rope/toblerone-thing. Hearing various numbers quoted here: all suggest this is a world-beating, record-breaking score (for England’s second team).

Oof. Adair has fallen heavily into the advertising-boards. He may wish it happened after his first three balls… but he will carry on.

Hain is plainly aman who can launch, but currently I’m enjoying his late-playing, soft-hands vibe. He’s guiding the ball around, seemingly untroubled, seemingly waiting. Ah. Until that. A rather ugly swipe towards cow – top-edged. He’s fortunate. There may be a team policy to pull the seamers hard, perhaps to expose and even demoralise the medium-quickness of the visitors. Cloud is in-filling, as Duckett slaps Dockrell for six, to go beyond the ton. (Off 72 deliveries; lots and lots of ver-ry well struck and well-placed shots).

14.45. Rain feels possible – maybe imminent.

I thought Hain was looking good, early doors, but his frustration may have grown. As it gets *really dark*, he slaps hard at another shortish one and clubs it to mid-wicket. Just as the rains starts.

Woodentops.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

I left early, exhausted and *concerned with travel*. Strode manfully back to Cardiff Central and waited, patiently. I can do patient.

Then A Journey.

I got home, ok, about 11pm, only about half an hour late – a result, given the circumstances around and behind me. My train had waited for some time yn Abertawe, to allow other delayed passengers to catch us up and clamber on board what may then have been the Last Train West.

I knew it would happen but during that pregnant pause in Swansea’s fair city the extended family group I’d seen at Haverfordwest at 9 am – all male, aged between 14 and 74 – bundled into the carriage and sat close to me. (Genuinely being exhausted, I’d done that sit right in the corner, feign sleep and almost disappear-into-the-walls thing but such was their level of intoxication (and general stupidity) these disparate gentlemen, united in their dumb, beery haze, failed to either notice my aspiration for quiet seclusion or respect it. Worse still, they failed to respect the young woman sitting more centrally.

They ‘sang’. Bad versions of Barmy Army songs, ill-remembered. Snippets of anti-German, pro RAF choons, fer chrissakes(!) But they also sang foul, repeated, endless, and pretty unfunny wee ditties about ‘The Girl in the…’ The kind of feeble, crude, dumb songs you can only sing when you’re a dumb, drunk bloke.

All this whilst they were force-feeding each other more, plainly unwanted beer – because you can’t be seen to ‘dip out’, eh? I’m sure they thought they were being ‘good-natured’ and it’s true there wasn’t the faintest whiff of violence or truly ugly, physical behaviour… but or except the songs… and the intrusions into other peoples spaces and faces… which were palpably offensive.

To cap it all, the only moment of coherent conversation between them featured Young Buck X telling Grandad(?) that he was planning on joining the police force and Grandad advising that he should try to ‘aim higher than Hendon’, which is ‘where all the Woodentops go’. Laugh? I nearly bought a round.

Here’s how the cricket felt:

Let’s shed the minor disappointments. One: the boardwalk was shut, denying your scribe the *full effect* of the Cardiffian yomp, from Central to Glam. (For aliens, the boardwalk hugs you against the Millenium Stadium – yeh, yeh, I know – and alongside the canalised river. It’s groovy). Then, arriving in a pool of sweat, and after a battle with the wifi, when one settles in to the view, it’s clear the ground is well short of full. Scandalous. Happier and medium-pointed news is that Brook is opening, with Malan. It’s a magbloodynificent day.

Southee and Henry, for New Zealand. The former is in from the River End, looking taller and maybe more disproportionately long-legged than I remember. Or maybe it’s something about that tightish, slickish kit: or his electrifyingly white trainers. Or maybe he’s had shin-lengthening surgery? Maybe a little more bounce than some Glam pitches(?) Henry beats Malan with a beauty – looked quick from up here.

Two very different fours, from Malan, in quick succession. Stylish cut and then workmanlike bundle between the bowler (Southee) and mid-off. Five overs done and England are 21 for 0. Henry beats Brook. After the scoring rate *everywhere else* of late, Brook having 9 off 14 and Malan a few more off 20, feels bit tame… but maybe that’s my heart still racing post the necessarily swift walk in. (Love 50 over internationals: for the record).

Southee goes tad over-full, to Malan. He leans beautifully over and into it: scorches square, for four more. Then weirdly – cos this is short-format – the next ball Our Dawid swishes agriculturally across the line but fails to make contact. Soon he will find those hands again; skilfully guiding Henry off the sweet spot, towards a wide third man. (Only one but bloody lovely. Eased, softly). Then Jamieson is creeeeeeemmed through extra, to welcome him to the game. Stunning: Malan looking ver-ry good. (*Fatal, usually)*…

Be honest, you had absolutely no money whatsoever on Malan scoring three times as quickly as Brook. Me neither. But it’s happening. Henry is still with us and bowling with notable determination. The England fifty is up, pleasingly symmetrically, on the 10 over mark. No loss. Malan has 34 of those runs.

Jamieson slaps one in… and Malan smashes it in front of square, emphatically. It’s a Statement as well as a boundary. More pace as Ferguson comes in to replace Henry, from Cathedral Road. Thick edge flies fine through third man. Brook, meanwhile, is sitting. Really interesting, considering recent flim-flam. The bloke could be forgiven for exploding wildly into this, on some Mission-to-Prove. But nope. Malan’s doing the walloping. ‘I’ll just sit’.

Finally, the Real Brook (of boomtastic urge) emerges. Clatters Jamieson through mid-wicket. Then again goes hard, and is maybe fortunate to inside edge for no damage. 76 for 0, after 13 overs, with Malan 52 and Brook 23. The visitors, it should be said, have had no luck. Now Ferguson zaps one passed the outside edge: looked sharp – maybe even gathering off the pitch. 

Drinks (for me) means I miss the demise of the mostly-imperious Malan. Some bloke called Root walks in. Air-con working a treat, in the Media Centre but I’m loading up on instant coffee!?!) and water. Oh – and there are about twenty-five journo’s and media-peeps in the house. For the women’s equivalent there would be eight. One brings two: Brook nibbles a bouncer behind. Gone for 26. (It was Ravindra that snared Malan. Dunno how, yet).

Blimey. Stokes nearly follows Brook. Lucky his fend from Ferguson loops cruelly over gully. (Some sense the fielder may have misjudged that, early on. Was airborne for an age – even at ‘live speed’). The game is changed, somewhat. England are now 85 for 2, off 17. Plenty short stuff happening. A decent challenge for these two youngsters at the crease. (Root… and Stokes). 

Ground fuller now than at the start of play; which is nice. 

In fairness I know plenty of folks who work at this ground. They will have been working hard for months trying to sell this fixture. They know they are often grafting in a relative vacuum, because the fan-base is arguably smaller than they ‘deserve’. It’s tough filling this ground. And this means prices are now as big as they are elsewhere… which doesn’t help filling the stadium. Not sure I know what the answer is.

Steady start from Stokes and Root. That is, until Root tries to slog-sweep Ravindra and miscues. Maybe the ball was too full? Whatever, he skies it to the man retreating man from the circle. Easily caught. 101 for 3, as Buttler joins Stokes. Not seeing anything that special from the bowler – he produces a right pie to Buttler, first up – but he has 2 for 8 from 4 overs as we stand. 103 for 3, off 21. Jamieson has changed ends.

This is shaping up ok. Spectacular day, competitive cricket. Bowling’s been good but the locals have two genuine worldies at the crease, approaching halfway. Run-rate is below 5, suggesting a fair contest twixt pill and the willow, yes? Buttler drives the first six, straight: Ravindra. Glen Phillips, entering from the Cathedral Road End, will hope that his own spin proves resistant to that kind of biffery. Just the one from the over.

Phillips has bowled a little straight, and a little short, early doors. Relatively unpunished. Now Stokes rocks back and clubs him for four, through mid-wicket. Easily. Largely, both batters are taking the easy ones, from both spinners. Two hours done, fourteen overs an hour. I may have to scoot before the end of this…

Henry, at Stokes, from the River End. My wifi resolutely not updating. On either of the two feeds being offered to me. #FirstWorldProblems.

Both batters are in; 150 for 3; can only be a matter of time before they feel a gear-change is necessary. Off for a walk, to check out the hwyl and to see if that sorts the f**king wifiproblem…

Refuse to let the DEAD WIFI to ruffle my feathers. So will carry on ‘live’ and report on Buttler’s fluky toe-end, which somehow evades the bowler as it doinks bowlerwards. Southee returns, and immediately tests Stokes with one that bounces. No dramas. But then England’s superstar (well, one of) pulls away with absurd comfort, to the legside boundary – bit ominous that, for the bowler. Cannot be long before one or both of the batsmen engage Smash Everything mode. The peach of an off-drive from Buttler, against Ferguson, suggests we may need to add ‘Stylishly’ in to that description. He now has 49, and Stokes 43, as the 36th over is completed. 179 for 3.

Ravindra has changed ends: Stokes doesn’t care. He gets to his fifty with a clumpiferous sweep, over square leg. Hah! Before tamely cuffing it to extra cover, that is. Infuriating end to a goodish-but-somehow-not-entirely-convincing knock, from the English gladiator. Enter Livingstone.

The thought strikes me that it’s rare, indeed, for a fixture in Cardiff at this level to feature so few confident clatters downtown – to the river. So plainly the pitch is either a bit more two-paced than is immediately apparent, or the bowling has been better than it seems from 80 yards away. (It’s seemed competent rather than unplayable, from up here). 200 up, from 39.4 overs. So ver-ry close to five an over, still. Less than you would think this England line-up would score, on a fabulously sunny day, in the capital.

WOW. Livingstone has pressed the boom button. Three consecutive sixes, off the unfortunate Jamieson. Twenty from the over. Here we go?


Yes – pretty much. Meaning Buttler and Livingstone find big chunks of their limited over mojo(s). The stadium gets the lift it needed, as does the England run-rate. (I bin the laptop and surge on, like the batters, upping the ante &/or seeing this baby out on my i-pad. Heroically). 300 seems thinkable, if ambitious.

Livingstone gets beyond fifty. Southee comes in from Cathedral Road. Livingstone falls, driving high to long off. As Woakes comes in, 280 seems likely. I hope I’m smelling food.

Buttler goes, for a solid 72; mistiming, to mid on. Southee the bowler. Willey has the unenviable job of cracking a few with little time in the game. He starts outstandingly – a clean pull middled to the rope. Henry will come round to England’s left-hander, for the penultimate over. Quietish.

Woakes can’t connect with Southee’s slower ball. Then Willey heaves downtown – four. Helpful cameo, from Willey, as some clean striking and quick running get England to 291 for 6 at the close. Unclear if that’s par. We’ll see.

THE REPLY.

Is steady. More cloud cover and more shadows – not sure how that works. Topley struggles for line and Woakes is unable to threaten. Willey joins us but Conway and Young proceed well enough – and occasionally sparkle their way – to twenty-odd apiece. England may need to play the long game. Big Name Journo’s/Meedyapeeps doing that thing where they pronounce powerfully about such-and-such, relaying stats and opinions to the faaar horizons. Yes. I am bored by that stuff. Meanwhile Woakes beats Young with a beauty: done for length more than by any cut, I imagine. Maiden gets a polite ripple.

The over rate has been poor, today, though I should’ve built that in to my planning. Chez moi is 100 miles west of Cardiff, so gonna leave just gone 7pm to get the train. (Later train gets me home at midnight; current option reduces that to 10.20 in Haverfordwest. Late enough for me, as I’m playing two games of cricket this weekend: only survivable if I pace myself).

Rashid gets the breakthrough, bowling Young. Conjecture in the pressbox surrounds the fact that he bowled it from wide, thereby changing the angles. There was some turn, too – classic leg-spin. Nicholls joins Conway and Root joins us from the river.

At 76 for 1 after 13, the visitors are marginally ahead in the game. Root bowling from wide – notably wide – to Nicholls. There may be some grip for the bowlers. England need a cluster of wickets to really change this. It doesn’t feel *that likely*, so the guys in black have an opportunity, here. First game in the one-day series; would be nice, for them. Tidy over from Rashid, though.

Atkinson, from the River End. Confess it’s the first time I’ve seen him live. Lights come on, as if to focus on the wide he *just bowled*. Looks slippery-quick.

Root has changed ends. Atkinson flashes one past Conway, who has 46. Nicholls nails the hook shot, to go to 13. 99 for 1. Drinks. (18 overs).

Poor, tired ball from Root is clipped away behind square. Then Conway drives sweetly at a full one – too full – it’s drilled through the field, bringing the batter his fifty. But Willey gets Nicholls: could this be the start of something? (Hasn’t felt all that likely. This has been feeling like an orderly-enough grind towards an away-win, to me). England need that cluster. Plenty of runs to find, for sure, but Conway looking in control and neither seam nor spin too scary a challenge. (At which point Mitchell dispatches Atkinson truly splendidly straight, for six). 133 for 2 after 22.

Willey is a player. Bowling with skill and heart. Did okay with the bat, too. Great yorker for no reward.

Topley returns, from the River End: Conway spanks him behind square. England will work at this… but there’s that slight sense of resignation…

Livingstone will have a bowl. Decent call – ‘something different’, to break the proverbial log-jam.

On that bombshell, going to vacate the premises. May update on journey home: fearing a cock-up re my train ticket, so allowing a little extra time to show suspicious ticket inspectors emails confirming *my return journey*. Later, peeps.

Know what? Am going to chill, on the homeward journey. If I get second wind, I may yet add something. But let’s enjoy the frisson around that lush possibility, eh?

On my medium-traumatic journey home, I see that the visitors did indeed cruise to an eight wicket win. Fairly chastening week or so, for our men and women. Work to do.

He didn’t catch that?

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

‘What the? No. He didn’t. He didn’t?!? The ball was (f-word) behind him!! He didn’t (f-word) catch that. Nobody does! That’s ridicu(f-word)lous. He’s dived back to grab that. Ridiculous’.

So sayeth you, me, and Alexander the Great, if he’s watching. Because what else is there to say, what else is there to do but be gobsmacked in that timelessly, gormlessly wonderstruck kindofaway; like Bairstow; like Broad; like Wood; like most of Australia, for pity’s sakes?

Root: catching Marnus. Diving backwards to clutch a ball that’s gone so quickly past him, the bloke in row Z is putting his pint down before the incoming pill smashes his glasses. A ball that was so utterly uncatchable by mere mortals, so loaded with searing, malevolent pace that every sentient being watching live is still ducking, now, eight hours after the event. And the God of All England takes it at full stretch, behind him.

But it gets better. Like Nadia Comaneci doing high-bar stuff, on the frame of the London Eye, whilst supping a tequila sunrise, and doughnutting a Ford Capri, it gets better because Marnus is stomping away, bawling about the bad light, to the umpire, *after Root held the catch of the century!* Irony is dead; the shockwaves have gone viral and Labuschagne’s panties are down by his quivering ankles. For those who like their #bantz or their wind-ups, there is the Broad Bonus – the lanky one having switched the bails around, purely to get in Labuschagne’s head – the *ball before* the dismissal!

But the catch; the catch. It’s a moment of inviolable sporting perfection. The sheer brilliance. The profound-but-childlike joyfulness. Largely, or first, the shock. Then, The Achievement. Oh – and the beaming, beaming lols. The faces of the England players, all mad, all so cattle-prod-up-the-jacksie stunned, but all too innocently thrilled to be triumphant, and the thundercloud that is the Marnus Stomp. If yer a Pom, un-im-provable.

The fact that Bairstow (who admittedly is crocked) barely flickers whilst Roooot launches and grabs, is unimprovable. Mark Wood’s smiling fizzog, an age after the unquenchable fuss should have died down, is unimprovable.

For all the resonances, cheap or seminal and the tribal or historic matrices, this was a great, pure sporting moment. Root’s instinct, coordination and remarkable flair for that which is both simple and classic, is sensational, exquisite, wondrous. This catch is somehow calming – for its revelatory but obviously natural brilliance? – and deeply, deeply stirring. This catch is a f***ing worldie. Thank god for cricket; for Wood’s irresistible heart and for Root.