Rob Fowler Describes A Typical Match Day At Chipping Sodbury Cricket Club
Article Date: 16th May 2003
This advert is part of CSCC Shop 'n Raise
In this modern era of uncertainty, of international crises interspersed with bland budgets and Oscar-winners abusing their positions, what a joy it is to encounter the security of a familiar emotion.
I refer to a particular emotion that will occur for only a very select few on Sunday mornings in certain households from April to September, in Chipping Sodbury.
The events of the night before will be erased with a single glob of toothpaste. The frosty reception received from the other half in the kitchen will soon be forgotten, as a certain fact looms clear in the mind.
"My car is up at the Club."
On such a small moment the truth will hit home.
At home this afternoon, to Inklethremp Contrelbury. The new season gets well and truly underway.
After five and a half months of breathless anticipation we embraced its arrival with open arms and a sense of childlike excitement. Like chocoholics on Easter Saturday, we had found ourselves tossing and turning and unable to sleep knowing what was to come.
Even with the disappointment of the last Ashes contest still hanging heavy on our hearts, our legendary powers of selective memory allow us to skip quickly past the World Cup and we find ourselves viewing with relish the prospect of another Sunday at Chipping Sodbury Cricket Club.
The sights, the noises, the smells, the atmosphere of cricket, have been often documented. However, every place in the world where cricket has a foothold, has something to set it aside as different from the rest.
So what is it about Chipping Sodbury. Is it the ground, the clubhouse, the recently re-surfaced drive? Or is it the fact that every part of the entire day can only be felt, not seen or heard.There is a certain sense of inevitability that can, if allowed to, provide pleasurable reassurance.
A nurdle around the corner will be met by a spattering of applause and a "Shot!"
A carefully judged skier pouched safely will receive "Good catch" and of course, later on, the more aggressive "Run-em-up" will doubtless make the first of many frequent visits to the sidelines.
On the North bank, a popular area for non-paying spectators, a lone deck chair and a lone pair of binoculars will accompany a lone car. Small groups of people will embark upon a seemingly eternal circumnavigation of the ground, soaking up every drop. Not all of them will engage in "Marker Bowls".Certain parts of the white fencing will be strewn with towels drying in the sun. These towels were used the day before but will be good for another three weeks or so yet.
Certain parts of the boundary line will be visibly saturated with cider, and at various points the walkers will encounter a variety of casual onlookers.
The old lady will be walking her dog where she has walked her dog for the last 120 years.
A young attractive wife or girlfriend of one of the opposition will, at a strategically crucial moment, release her own small Yappy-Type dog onto the outfield. The dog will know what to do and will evade capture for no less than 3 minutes but no more than 5. The small Yappy-Type dog will then abruptly begin trotting off toward the young attractive lady, who will now be 10 yards in from the line at square-leg pretending to be embarrassed. Much merriment will ensue.
On one of the benches will be found a retired gentleman who will be escaping from his tedious wife on a Sunday afternoon. He will be an ex-player who will bemoan the introduction of league cricket on the grounds that it makes everybody try to win. He will completely overlook the fact that he is watching a very friendly game with player's ages ranging from 12 to 62. He will inform all that he once knew somebody whose brother bought a car from a man whose cousin married Wally Hammond's chiropodist, before asking how a great former Sodbury cricketer is these days. Occasionally his melancholy monologue will be interrupted by the low thud of an old cricket ball hitting a traffic cone in one of the dilapidated practice nets.
At the Northeast corner of the ground the walkers will make out over the noise of the low flying Hercules, the playful banter and soft criticism offered to each other by footballers in the next field.
A storyteller will wax lyrical in front of the pavilion.
A young pretender will try to copy him and all present will be aware that he is simply embellishing a half-truth he overheard after a lot of lager had been taken on board the previous evening.
Somebody will say "'Ere, wurnit a good night last night".
A small wooden table will have been moved from inside the clubhouse to reside in it's spot in front of the scorebox. The spot has been occupied by a scorer's table for many years, but will be very different from the bland and functional scorer's table of years gone by. It was only during the 1990's that the sub-sport of festooning of the table with different-coloured felt-tips, or Pentel Deco, as it is now known, became popular.
Later the sun falls lower in the sky, and the lob bowler makes his appearance.
Later still, the sun goes down, and the beer flows. The cash till will ring and another social event will be conceived amid a blur of smoke and lager. "I'll tell you what, we had a cracking tea up at Ibblethripp Framptleworth today".And that will stick in the mind.
