It struck me recently that literally dozens of people around the world may not have read my early musings on life with Headliners Cricket Club: the "Creased Up" column which ran for a glorious summer or two in the Evening Argus, Brighton. For those unfortunates, what follows will be a rare treat. For my devotees - and ye are many - kick back and enjoy a little HCC nostalgia!
The following is reproduced without kind permission of the Sports Argus. If their lawyers are watching: Chew the bark off my big fat log!
So let me take you back to the balmy August of 1999 . . .
The fabulous sunshine of the past few Sundays has made watching a few overs of cricket a real treat. But, at the risk of sounding churlish, it's not quite so tickitiboo if you're out there in the middle.
Of course I can only refer to fielding. Any boast about the trials of batting for hours under a scorching sun cannot be backed up by innings that have yet to last longer than 20 minutes.
Not for KJ the bright band of zinc across the bugle or oiled up forearms. Hardly a bead of sweat appears on the Jackson brow before he dollies one up to mid-wicket or thick edges to a beaming wickie.
But I can speak from experience when it comes to wilting in the outfield at third man.
I've not seen the satellite photos, but Whitemans Green must be in the path of El Nino, so bizarre are its weather patterns.
One week, all muggy and close, passing aborigines were gobsmacked by the amount of swing KJ could put on the pill.
The next week, hot and dry, swing evaporates and the batsmen make hay. I'm taken out of the attack and left to fester on the boundary until called upon to push one over for six.
Mention must be made of long-standing Headliner Tommy Faulkner. On a day when Death Valley scorpions were grumbling about the heat, Tommy trots in to bowl in T-shirt, cricket shirt, sleeveless pulley and long-sleeved woolly.
The man is better insulated than the nuclear reactor at Sellafield and has not been without a protective vest since he was eight seconds old.
Ma Faulkner was obviously a very sensible woman with her boy's best interests at heart and did not him catching a chest cold.
Skipper B.Talbot has flourished in all the greenhouse gases. The bean-pole spinball wizard is on a hat-trick with the next ball of his first spell.
Watch this space for a possible moment of rare cricketing history.
See you at the crease. I'll be the one with the parasol!
2008 update: BT did not get his hat-trick!
The following is reproduced without kind permission of the Sports Argus. If their lawyers are watching: Chew the bark off my big fat log!
So let me take you back to the balmy August of 1999 . . .
The fabulous sunshine of the past few Sundays has made watching a few overs of cricket a real treat. But, at the risk of sounding churlish, it's not quite so tickitiboo if you're out there in the middle.
Of course I can only refer to fielding. Any boast about the trials of batting for hours under a scorching sun cannot be backed up by innings that have yet to last longer than 20 minutes.
Not for KJ the bright band of zinc across the bugle or oiled up forearms. Hardly a bead of sweat appears on the Jackson brow before he dollies one up to mid-wicket or thick edges to a beaming wickie.
But I can speak from experience when it comes to wilting in the outfield at third man.
I've not seen the satellite photos, but Whitemans Green must be in the path of El Nino, so bizarre are its weather patterns.
One week, all muggy and close, passing aborigines were gobsmacked by the amount of swing KJ could put on the pill.
The next week, hot and dry, swing evaporates and the batsmen make hay. I'm taken out of the attack and left to fester on the boundary until called upon to push one over for six.
Mention must be made of long-standing Headliner Tommy Faulkner. On a day when Death Valley scorpions were grumbling about the heat, Tommy trots in to bowl in T-shirt, cricket shirt, sleeveless pulley and long-sleeved woolly.
The man is better insulated than the nuclear reactor at Sellafield and has not been without a protective vest since he was eight seconds old.
Ma Faulkner was obviously a very sensible woman with her boy's best interests at heart and did not him catching a chest cold.
Skipper B.Talbot has flourished in all the greenhouse gases. The bean-pole spinball wizard is on a hat-trick with the next ball of his first spell.
Watch this space for a possible moment of rare cricketing history.
See you at the crease. I'll be the one with the parasol!
2008 update: BT did not get his hat-trick!
