Glamorgan Cricket

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.

Winners, winners, winners.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

It had to be Hogan. It was only right. Hogan, the impossibly venerable Aussie Oak (or equivalent): The Bloke Who Runs In Forever, For Glam. Yet another nick behind, from a boldly fullish ball on off, and the attack leader’s compatriot – the inspired and irrepressible Cullen – fixes those eyes and pouches. Glamorgan have only gone and done it. A first one day trophy.

Extraordinary in so many ways. A genuinely fine, united, hugely gratifying team performance. A rich, worthy, throwback of a win, for a gang of lads visibly All In This Together. Un-fancied and un-starry, yet buzzing with a rare collective belief that really might restore the faith of a cynic. In a race-to-the-bottom kindofa universe, it felt good to see demonstrable loyalty and ‘teaminess’ and maybe even selflessness, win out.

So steepling catches were taken; nerves collectively and individually held; fierce, professional energy-levels demanded, understood and sustained. They ‘backed each other’: they ‘executed’.

Having rejected the Fancy Dans Policy by agreeing (so the story goes) to stick with the same bunch, come what may, Glamorgan stormed to the trophy. Contributions from Salter and Carlson may dominate the headlines – and wow, how often do Glam get to do that? – but this was the occasion Boaty McCliche-face had in mind when (s)he coined the adage ‘everyone chipped in’.

After Rutherford briefly threatened to clatter a way to glory, the young skipper Carlson did indeed play the signature innings for Glam but everyone bar the unfortunate Root – arguably out but not out, for nought – got into double figures. Meaning the innings persisted when it wasn’t flourishing. The seam-bowlers Weighell, Carey and Hogan put on 15, 19 and 12, respectively, to get the 296 for 9. Durham, ultimately, couldn’t match that application.

Hogan’s bowling, as so often, looked disciplined rather than electrifying. Death by slow squeeze. In fact Durham started well, reaching 47 before Salter plucked-out Lees with a classic off-spinner. Thereafter, Glamorgan’s grip on proceedings felt only fitfully threatened or disturbed, by the high-order Australian international Bancroft and by the excellent Dickson, who made 84. Borthwick, Bedingham, Raine, Doneathy, Potts, Trevaskis and Rushworth *all made* 10 or less, as Glamorgan hustled, focussed, planned, executed, with barely a stutter. Solid bowling; good field placement; great hands.

Their coach, Harrison, standing in for the absent Matthew Maynard, missed early 50 over games due to Covid but has overseen the Royal London Cup run. His health may be in question again, the day after but let’s allow the man a hangover and a smile of the smuggish variety. He has fostered a killer blend of guts, grit, camaraderie and belief; his posse of ‘journeymen’ and ‘bit players’ are winners. Winners, winners, winners. Without Ingram, Lloyd, van der Gugten, Cooke, Douthwaite. Winners. That’s wonderful for Glamorgan and for Wales – an affirmation of values as well as a hunk of silverware. With both teams falling into the unfashionable category this one was always going to *resonate* but that Glammy Gamble can serve as a pertinent reminder for the wider game, perhaps? Perhaps all games?

At the fall of Durham’s tenth wicket – the first ball of Hogan’s eighth over – the much-loved seamer bellowed with joyous rage and grabbed at a stump, as if to make it real and verifiable at some later date. (“Did it really happen, Hoges?”) Salter came in for a man-hug and it all kicked off. Cullen and Carlson and Weighell and Selman. Dancing; bawling; beaming. Hogan raised the stump high, to the heavens, like some Aussie Thor, calling to some unknown force, or thanking it. Call me biased – call me anything you want, I’m celebrating too – but it felt righteous.

Brutal World.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

So Croft goes, amid that abstracted, high-contrast, impulse-loaded, contra-sense that a) given the standards of the modern day, he had to… but also b) ain’t it a shame, the unpeeling of the romance, the murder of the righteous, the strangulation of the dream. Would that all that undeniable love for county and country had been converted into runs.

It wasn’t; or it wasn’t enough, or early enough. Or it wasn’t remotely, in 50 over and County Champs cricket – not recently, not so you’d notice.

The figures – painful ones for us Glammy supporters – are out there. I’m not searching through them again; too painful, too embarrassing, too brutally evidential of (one argument goes) undeniable failure.

One argument does say the Glamorgan gaffer presided over a shockingly uncompetitive period… period. Forget the wider debate or the responsibility for developing homegrown talent. Forget that. Croft was indulged waaay longer than your average football manager. His Long Term Plan for a Wonderfully Welsh Glamorgan side wasn’t working; so he goes.

A few, (not many, I think) will hold to the contrary, allegedly-truly more generous Long Term Plan, whereby patience and support for an honourable, long-term servant of the club persists. The seductive notion being that ultimately loyalty, that authentic hywl, might or should prevail. But nah. Not these days.

I remember the euphoria around the Croft retirement/appointment period. I was there when he hauled himself up the steps for the last time, his son alongside, to the Glammy dressing-room. It felt a tad staged, to be honest, but there was still a proper lump of Crofty-lurv in the air. I stood and cheered.

His succession to Coach was similarly notably wrapped in quasi-nostalgic goodwill. (Remember that?) But – as David Coleman might have said – goodwill don’t pay the rent.

The promise of real development through coupling white-ball superstars (Ingram, Steyn, Tait, etc) with wide-eyed Welsh Bois never came through for him. There were nearish misses in T20 Blast in particular but too much humiliation of late. We got to a place where the sympathy for a proper Welsh Bloke could not hold back the cruel questions; rightly so.

It’s tough all around when a patently genuine Club Legend is being undermined… but yaknow it’s his job to sort things and there’s inevitably a timescale on that.

The level of trauma (performance-wise) at Glamorgan has been such that my newish mucker, the brilliant ESPN Correspondent George Dobell has not simply questioned their quality but proposed something more powerfully challenging – the outright squishing of the club. He favours a re-boot, under a Welsh national flag, because Glammy have proved, essentially, (he says) to be non-viable. (I have, for brevity, maybe bastardised his argument but you get the point: Glam are seen by some to be a poor, inadequate, unworthy member of the County Clubs club).

Croft – and Hugh Morris – have presided over this. A few days ago, the latter relinquished his Director of Cricket, but not his CEO role. Today marks a further, significant step on. It feels to me both dramatic and appropriate.

I know Hugh Morris a little and find him impressive; tough, focused, loyal, committed, shrewd.

Croft I barely know, having been in a cohort of coaches for a workshop or two under him, and at club outreach evenings which he hosted: never truly in his company.

The man’s contribution over time deserves a certain level of respect so I am not going to repeat the one or two negative things I’ve heard about him, nor where they came from. What I will do is note to the universe that if I had to choose just the one of the two men to carry Glam forward it would be Morris.

Perhaps that’s indiscreet, perhaps it’s unnecessary? (Perhaps I’ll edit it out later).

Given the raw material available to him, it may be that Croft had to be a Pied Piper Plus – to have something deeply inspiring about him. I suspect, unfortunately, he hasn’t had enough of that magic: would Nye Donald have left if he did? Again, maybe that’s a tad harsh. But it’s a brutal world, eh?

 

A post-script.

Where to next?  Following what we can probably assume to be Hugh Morris’s difficult and therefore courageous decision to relieve Croft of his duties, where do Glammy go? Is the retention of Matthew Maynard as Batting Consultant a) erroneous b) smart c) a sign that the Welsh Connection (as it were) remains a force – a value? How far away from appointing TWO key figures – Director of Cricket and Head Coach – are the county?  We can’t know.

Personally I have no doubt that Morris will be looking to retain what we might/he might call Glamorgan’s soul. For him, despite that medium-aggressive business savvy-thing, the development of Welsh talent is more than just a marketing tool; it’s a full-on mission.

This of course doesn’t mean that he won’t be heavily conscious that Glam must now enter a period where they are competitive, where the leadership is authentically top-level. Meaning there is less or no room for sentiment.

But the need for two helmsmen (helmspeople?) may provide an opportunity here. Could he be bold enough to take it, I wonder, by bringing in a genuinely international class Director of Cricket, with Mark O’Leary – curently of Cardiff MCCU – beneath, running day-to-day coaching affairs?

(O’Leary is an ECB Level 4 Masters Coach from the same cohort as the likes of Dizzy Gillespie: he is a personable Coming Man, with verve, ingenuity, great ideas around coaching).

If this sounds a crazy-dangerous notion then consider the following scenario: essentially a triumvirate of senior staff, with a Brilliant New Guy as D of C, plus Maynard chuntering and cajoling and – importantly – at O’Leary’s shoulder).

I make this proposition for a couple of reasons.

1. I know O’Leary reasonably well and feel pret-ty convinced he may be a star in the making – that Glammy should get him into their system.

2. That there is plainly a way for him to be developed under the wings of a cool, authoritative Director of Cricket – particularly if the nuggetty Maynard remains an influence. Longer-term (only actually a year or two down the track), O’Leary might then be an utterly outstanding fit for Head Coach.

Sub-clause XXII. (I get that there are dangers around this).  Yes, O’Leary is Welsh. No, I’m not daft enough to either campaign on the issue,or pretend that going thissaway would be straightforward, for Hugh Morris.  But hey, this morning’s conversational hare… sorted. 👊🏻

Crazy, I know.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Lunchtime in Wales. The twittersphere tells me Rashid Khan can’t play tonight for Sussex – a plus.

But given the Sharks (I kinda resent calling them that but let’s go with the faux I mean flow, eh?) have maybe the most fangtastic attack in the tournament in any case, the chances for a Middlesex win at Hove prolonging Glammy’s season remain slim, yes? Sussex still have Archer, Jordan and Mills and are therefore odds-on to endstop Eoin Morgan’s campaign with another emphatic disappointment.

Or are they?

T20 does have scope for that turn-on-a-tanneresque, wtf-acious, well I ne-ver in a-all my born days jolt. It’s arguably predicated on thrills and dramatic holy cows; lurid ones, inflatable ones – ones with a microphone or megaphone. Meaning it’s a rush. 

Me, I’m in a flush. Because if you didn’t know it, my lot – our lot – Glamorgan are scrambling. They must win tonight and hope Sussex lose.

Sussex are at home to the worst team in the division. Glam have Surrey at Sophia Gardens. There may even be a weather issue, possibly, in Cardiff, which could scupper that 2 points imperative. It’s feeling cruel and ecstatic and BIG, all this. We love it and it’s almost unbearable.

If you’re like me you start wondering fatally aloud and quite probably pontificating to people in bars, or caffs or kitchens. Trying to un-mist those memories around How, Exactly It Came To This.

We blame shot selection, rank amateurism, villageism, inexperience and the coach. We know we are right even when at our most nailed-on preposterous but our love of An Opinion drives us on. Our hunches become Mona Lisas; unshiftable and mighty and true; stars in the firmament of revelation.

This is the essence of supporting stuff: knowing that our professionals haven’t got a clue.

It’s ingloriously bastardly. It’s hilarious – it drives the coaches, players and opposition mad. The utter cobblers we come out with.

Ah but it’s rejuvenating and self-validating and joyfully daft, too. It’s the essential matrix – and you bloody coaches and CEOs and players better remember this! – without which public sport itself is dead. Fans mithering or bawling or making extraordinarily, brilliantly astute contributions. It’s the game.

Hey before I get into that pre-pre-game period – where it’s too early to get hyper and too late for calm – let me leave you with the wildest daftest contribution my own allegedly-plainly free-wheelingly absurdist cerebellum came up with the other day. During that massacre at Hove.

Staggering-but-true there was a moment in that Sussex v Glam game where the visitors were if not cruising then on that most delicious cusp. Chasing a reasonable lump, Donald and Meschede had gone in and made a magnificent start. Donald (I think) got out, bringing Ingram in. But Glam had been going at something close to 12 an over. And Ingram is almost god.

In my infinite but delusional, inexperienced, unreliable wisdom I was certain that the spectacular South African could play within himself for ten overs and still score at more than the required rate, thus guiding Glam to an uncomplicated but tremendously significant win. Instead, he crashed one to the fielder.

I tweeted something to the effect that Ingram – Glam’s rock and leader and inspiration – had arguably thrown away the campaign; right there. In a flashy, unnecessary moment. (To be fair I was careful not to accuse the man of anything but you get the drift).

I kinda love Colin Ingram but I still (secretly until now) believe he was wrong… and that my own intuit-o-cobblers was right. He’s so good he could have picked and cut and nurdled or watchfully-downwardly boomed his way to the win. He could: I believe that.

And that, my friends, is both a confession of sorts and a statement of my vain, inviolable prerogative – and yours. Over a season where eight zillion more obvious errors or misjudgements patently out-rank this embarrassing hunch of mine, we reach the last, fatal knockings with me wondering on this. Crazy, I know.

 

Come ON Glam!

 

 

#Kingram at ease with his Kingdom.

~ bowlingatvincent ~ Leave a comment

Dart back from an All Stars Cricket event at Eastern Leisure Centre, supported by Minister for Health and Social Services, Vaughan Gething. (More on this later). Traffic against us but we manage to get to Sophia Gardens in the nick of.

Glammy to bat, Essex open with left arm spin. Quietish first over, 6 from it.

Change of pace claims a wicket in the next – Meschede slapping Quinn rather carelessly to midwicket. However, this feels relatively non-traumatic… as the man incoming is Ingram.

However, when Donald holes out to the same bowler from one that may have stopped a touch in the pitch (and Glamorgan are 8 for 2 after 2) our nonchalance around this is challenged, somewhat. The crowd, on another delightful evening, shuffle quietly.

Ingram, predictably, lifts things. He races to 25 and, joined by Carlson, does that uniquely T20 dynamic transformation-thing. The South African is unplayable in a way that might really be pretty demoralising (already) for the Essex attack.

He is controlling at least as much as he is exploding.  He goes through 44 off 18 balls, claiming 30 off Quinn in the 6th. At the end of the power play Glamorgan sit at 71 for 2.

Carlson is caught at deep midwicket off a slight miscue, bringing some respite for the visitors; 93 for 3. The youngster had taken 11 out of the partnership’s 75. Cooke is in. Imagine he’ll be looking to lean on his bat, in the main.

We are hearing in the Media Centre that Ingram needs 15 off 6 to beat his own ridicu-record. It feels like a formality: spoiler, he doesn’t.

Cooke, perhaps sensing that he’s a comparative irrelevance, flips Bopara to deep fine leg. There’s an argument that he might have been better simply repeatedly dropping a one to get Kingram back in and maintain the momentum: this argument is strengthened when Bopara nails Selman first ball, l.b.w. and things inevitably have stalled.

113 for 5 and Wagg must face the hat-trick ball. He survives.

Essex have mixed things up and looked decent enough in the field. But Ingram has eased his way to 89, come the end of the 14th. You feel like another irresistible burst is a -coming and then… caught in the deep, off Bopara.

125 for 6, with no meaningful contribution from anyone else in the Glam line-up; this could peter out disappointingly, we fear. Wagg and Salter must produce.

Ingram (and possibly the coaches) might be forgiven for offering icy stares and swear-words all round as the innings does indeed threaten to disappear.

Extraordinarily, after 16 overs, with Salter leaving us, Ingram is the only player to breach the boundary. Killer stat, right there. A nailed-on 200 is drifting to a likely 160 as we reach 138 for 7 off 17.

Bopara, numberless, is back. Smith slashes him wide of mid-off for a much-needed four, then cuts him square for another. Follows that with a contemptuous wallop through cow corner – having picked a very slow slower ball early. Some encouragement as Glam reach 155 for 7 by the end of the 18th. Quinn will bowl the penultimate over, from the River End.

Wagg absolutely clonks him to leg, first ball – middled and massive. He’ll be looking for 20 from the over: he exceeds that by six.

Seems inadequate to talk of ebbs and flows in T20: more like raging floods and desperate micro-calms.

Late on, from nowhere, Wagg and Smith invent the second partnership this innings desperately cried-out for. 198 for 7, we finish, with both Wagg and Smith undefeated – on 53 and 22 respectively. Strangely unbalanced, that; unaccountable, somehow.

Wheater and Chopra are the openers for Essex. They have an early dig, with Hogan responding by bowling full, full, with mixed success. 23 for 0 off 2.

Smith, from the River End, slaps a couple into the deck. Wheater connects with one off a decent length to swish him through midwicket for four, but carts the next to deep square, where he is easily caught. Walter joins Chopra and we sit at 30 for 1 after 3.

Walter is six foot nine, apparently, in old money – the language of the Media Centre. In that same illuminating tongue one of us personifies him eloquently as ‘looking like a bloody monster’. (A confession, at this point: it was me).

Van der Guten replaces Hogan, running away from us but there is no further joy for Glamorgan. Hogan, in fact, has changed ends and now charges in from the tree-lined Taff. He concedes a four through midwicket but then beats Walter with a quick one outside off. Good over – 6 from it.

Van der Gugten is a touch short of luck, barrelling in and spearing for the sticks but only finding a scruffy edge past the vacant leg-slip area. Hogan has a gentle word. Last ball also squirts past the keeper’s left hand, mind. 61 for 1 off 6.

Meschede is on and immediately makes an impact, Walter being snaffled superbly at mid-on. Shadows beginning to bloom under the lights.

Ingram is in for the eighth. No real sign of spin but he bundles through relatively unscathed.

Meschede is running in with some urgency. When he drops a tad short Salter makes a good stop at backward point.  Decent spell for Glam.

Salter is in, from underneath us in the Media Centre. Looks to me that he’s really been looking to extract a wee bit more, of late; he stays flattish, quickish, understandably so, with his off-spin but there are revs on the ball. He may be a tad unfortunate that the pitch here tends to offer little in the way of assistance.

Wagg follows, losing some pace, bowling some gentle comeandhaveagoifyouthinkyou’rehardenough cutters. Smith changes ends, with things feeling ver-ry even: required rate 10 (give or take), score now 112 for 2 off 12.

Chopra has medium-quietly gone to 50 for the visitors, as dusk falls. Wagg, returning,  has his wily head on again- successfully so – until his final delivery clears the the square leg boundary.

Magic Man Ingram again stirs the relative peace, bowling ten Doeschate for 28. We welcome in Bopara, knowing that he’s, as they say, ‘well capable’.

VDG claims what may be the key wicket of Chopra, who skies one, in trying to clear his arms: Cooke pockets it watchfully. Chopra’s 54 came off 41 balls.

The evening has gone from dusky to batty. We are back with Ingram, with Zaidi and Bopara coiled. Runs come but not decisively, you feel.

VDG will bowl the 17th. Bopara steers him rather beautifully over mid-off – six. Glam need a wicket.

Zaidi does everything to offer one, firstly by swinging wildly across something which nearly cleans him out, secondly by lofting to long-on, and the grateful Smith. This will surely be close. Hogan.

Peach of a yorker then six over mid-on. Storms and calms. Much tactical rearrangement. Another good yorker. Then too much width – it’s slashed away through third man. 167 for 5, 32 off 2 needed.

Wagg in again from the river. Around the wicket. a poor full-toss gets clattered over long-on. Six. Forgiven when Harmer finds backward point next delivery. 175 for 6 at the end of a good over. Hogan has 24 to play with.

The endgame. Two boundaries, meaning 16 off 4. Becomes 14 off 3 – Bopara facing. Six! Dot ball! Dot ball to finish, Glamorgan winning by 6 runs.

Hogan has closed it out again. He may not be the biggest threat in the division but the fella is impressively, sometimes imperiously cool at the death; genuinely rate him for that. Another win for Glammy – four in four – and that Finals Day Mad Day Out may yet streak towards us – possibly literally.