The Cricketer’s Tale

Pembroke versus Knockharley

After the last themed match report, I was challenged to write a report of our Junior Cup win last Sunday in a medieval style. So, with apologies to Chaucer, here you go…

Squire Byers leads from the front

‘Twas a rare and pleasant sunrise that didst greet our Merry Band as we parad’d our way hither and yon to the manor of Michael Byers, Gentleman of the parish of Booters Town, on this past Lord’s Day. Whilst some dally’d ‘pon the way, to takest pleasure at the fine sight of Stately Gary Burrows, Esquire, wielding his broad Batt in practice at the Home of the Foxes of Pembroke. Others, being mindful of the great Repast being lovingly prepar’d by Mistress Lucy, hurry’d without undue delay to the Byers’ abode, whence we feast’d ‘pon such goodly food that has never before been seen by such glad eyes. A full haunch of venison with associated vittals and offal was provid’d by the Lady of the Manor, alongside skeins of press’d juice from an exotic fruit, simply named ‘Orange’.

Replinish’d by this Feast and smartly attired in fancy red Jerkins, the Merry Troop, with a full Train of apprentices and accompanying Wellwishers, and, indeed, with associat’d ne’er do wells, didst sally forth ‘pon their mighty Steeds to the Fields of the Cloth of Green, at the home of the Merrion Cricketing Fraternity. Verily, never a sight was thusfar seen, as this fine Body of Manhood didst provoke fear unto the very hearts of their Illustrious Opponents from the Shire of Knockharley and didst also provoke gasps of Amazement and Longing from the Comely Maidens that didst assemble on the banks to bear witness to this proud Army of Men as they preparest to give glorious Battle to the enemy. Young Master Noah joined the appreciative Throng, proudly dress’d in red Doublet to give voice to Cheers and Hurrahs.

A Groat was toss’d full into the Air to decide ‘pon the Order of Battle. Alas, for Squire Byers, he didth loseth the Toss but Girding well his Loins didst enter the Pavilion and thus call’d for a great Fury to fall ‘pon the Batters of Knockharley. Young Jack Balbernie, Apprentic’d to Master Spinner Leonard didst take up the Gauntlet and fire the first mighty blows. Forsooth, such Consternation and Confusion didst ensue amongest the Limbs and Minds of the Valiant Yeomen of Knockharley that Verily three of them were swiftly Dispatch’d. M^r Vulker, a Foreign Person, and Master Wallace of the Redhead, toil’d Manfully and Dutifully but with little good Fortune and deserv’d some better Reward. Journeyman Smith was not seen to his best effect and soon Viscount Steve of the McCarthys and Baron Senior, from the esteem’d County of Sussex, ran a Rout through the ranks of the Interlopers. But one Man deem’d the Honour of Knockharley import enough to cause Difficulty for the Men of Pembroke. That Falstaffian Chap, whose name I know naught of, didst Percevere until close to the End. Soon, twas over and the two Enemies conjoin’d over a modest repast.

‘Pon the Resumption of Battle, the long Batts of Smith and Sam, son of Byers, didst get to a quick away. Alas, for Smith the true aim of Simba, mighty of Shoulder, saw fit to bowl down the Wick’t and caus’d him to retire to Ponder his Fate. But this Mischance saw Young Balbernie stride like a veritable Collossus to join his Good Friend Sam and together they, with much Skill and Care, did face down the Slings and Arrows of Outrageous Fortune. Alas, with Victry within sight, occurred the most Puzzl’ng and Singular Pembroke Collapse, Stately Burrows broad Batt did not Trouble for long and Viscount Steve didst call for his Helmet and Perish. But Huzzah for Master Tucker and Brian of Bannigan, proudly wearing the Favour of Fair Emma, those Stalwart Fellows didst punish Knockharley mightly with Thrusts and Parries and strong Blows to yon Boundary. Victry was well met and a pleasing Speech did come foresooth from Squire Byers. And didst Sharpe, the King of Leinster, anoint the Victors with Medallions and a fitting Cup, that was soon o’erflowing with Foaming Ale and fine French Brandy. And all that remain’d was the Victry March to the home of those Fine Men of Pembroke where Bells were rung and Songs were compos’d to the Honour and Glory of the Fifths of that Ilk.

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The Big Sweep

Now not many people know this but I play cricket (badly). And I’m also a huge reader of crime fiction – Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett are two of the great stylists of 20th Century literature. So, when a certain Craig Senior challenged me to write a match report in the style of Chandler I had my foot through the door quicker than a bible salesman. The following appeared in the latest issue of The Henhouse, the esteemed newsletter for Pembroke CC members.

It was a slow day in the office. Slower and more soporific than an LCU committee meeting. The sun was high but I wasn’t. It was the sort of day that made you wish something would happen. The sort of day when trouble came knocking with all the grace of a two-bit insurance salesman. And in it came – it was the Little Guy, hyped up on sugar and something stronger than Ribena. “Hey doofus,” he drawled, in that endearing way that’s going to find him on the wrong end of a snub-nosed .32 some day. “The word on the street is that some broads are getting it on in the Club tonight. And they say the Scotsman is giving it large with some heat. Waddaya say we go check it out?” Quicker than a Senior single we had the Oldsmobile pointed down the Dirty Boulevard, heading for the coast.

It was quiet when we hit the Club. Too quiet. Maybe it was just me but there was something in the air or it could have been that the tide was out. And then I spotted him. Fitzpatrick. “Hey”, said the Little Guy, “let’s see what’s happening.” But I was worried. I’d run into Fitzpatrick before. His family had connections in the Club and they’d been slugging it out with the Gallaghers for top dog for years. And I didn’t want to become the meat in that particular sandwich.

Before I could turn on my heels, Fitzpatrick nailed me. “Listen gumshoe, I gotta run an errand. You look after my ladies and make sure they’re warmed up real good.” There was no escape. The Little Guy was already making nice with the dames. Now most times being asked to warm up some ladies isn’t a chore but these girls had serious business on their minds and no worn down, crumple-hatted private dick was going to distract them. There was a challenge from some young roughnecks down from the badlands of Rathmines.

I saw Aileen, Fitzpatrick’s head enforcer face up to the Leinster captain. “Little Guy,” I muttered from the corner of my mouth, “there’s gonna be someone hurt here. Let’s hit the benches and keep outta the crossfire.”

We needed our wits intact so we just ordered the one bottle of Irish from Bobby the Barman. Bobby ran all the numbers from behind the bar and kept a pool stick handy in case anyone got fresh. We negotiated ourselves a space beside Ro the Grass and the Wiz. The Grass had that haunted look of someone whose patch was slowly being taken over. He was threatening to bring in some outside muscle to keep hold of his action on the Square. The Wiz had just come down from the mountains. He was on a freelance contract for Byrne, the man behind the Dalkey rackets. The Wiz was talking about a paint job but I didn’t want to get involved. I figured whitewashes and cover-ups should be left to the professionals in Anglo-Irish. I pulled down the snap-brim over my eyes and turned back to the dames.

The action had started. Leinster sent out two kids armed with bats but they were heavily outnumbered. They began evening up the odds by taking out Noreen with a crack shot to the outfield. Noreen’s ankle swelled quicker than a Senator’s expenses sheet. These kids were cocky and had as much confidence as a convention of short-con artists. They began piling on some big numbers and I could see Fitzpatrick had more concerns than a vegetarian in a slaughter house. But you’ve got to credit Aileen’s gang, they’ve more backbone than the Natural History Museum. Sandra and the new dollface, Jenny, sent some of the Leinster mob packing and the rest of the gang never gave up.

Dutch arrived with a squeeze and some lookers from the ladies top crew. They took over a couple of benches and got themselves all juiced up. Dutch has an easy going air but he can make or break a kid with a nod in the right place. The Little Guy could feel the tension in the air. By the time the ladies were getting it on again he was racking up balls on the pool table.

Sandra and Sharon, the South African import, led the charge. They took on the attack and stared down the Leinster challenge with more face than the A-Team. Sharon soon went but Sandra was hanging tougher than a biker gang around a chip shop. Partners came and went like a country dance. But then in came Jenny. Brother, she was padded in all the right places and equipped to hit a guy for six. Jen and Sandra were taking no prisoners. They had more hits than a Chinese opium den but Sandra got gunned down by the dead-eye and quick hands of a Leinster kid.

Jen kept going with more power than a souped-up Mustang. The sense of elation from Leinster when she eventually went was like the Minister for Justice expelling the last asylum seeker. But while Leinster may have won, Aileen’s dames showed how to fight. Jen’s arrival, like Eastwood riding into town, had changed the Club. Yeah, the dames may have lost but someone, somewhere was going to pay.

As I pulled the Olds out of the Club, the Little Guy looked at me in the rear-view and said, “Dem broads, eh?” He had a point.

Cast

Doofus – erm, me

Little Guy – Noah (age 6)

The Scotsman – Rupert ‘the’ Heather

Senior – Craig Senior

Fitzpatrick – Eamonn Fitzpatrick, coach of various teams and font of cricket wisdom

Gallaghers – There’s lots of them! Current head of household, Billy, is President of Pembroke

Aileen – captain of the Pembroke Ladies 3rd XI

Bobby the Barman – erm, Bobby (the Barman)

Ro the Grass – Ronan Malin, hardworking head of grounds

The Wiz – Richard Hastie, long-term New Zealand import now residing in Wicklow and playing and coaching at Oakhill

Byrne – Philip Byrne

Noreen, Sandra, Sharon and Jenny – Ladies 3rd XI players (and bloody good ones)

Dutch – Mark ‘Timmy’ Holland, captain of the 6th XI, bon viveur, raconteur and other words ending in ‘eur’

Minister for Justice – complete cunt

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