Untitled Post

As another season draws to a close it could be argued that it was successful in all aspects of senior cricket. The firsts managed to stay in the top division, whilst the seconds gave several juniors their debuts, as well as regularly fielding as many as eight youngsters in the side. It could also be argued that it was unsuccessful, with the firsts avoiding the drop with only a week to spare as well as getting embroiled in a number of hutching controversies, whilst the seconds finished 6th in a division that ultimately had just 9 teams in it. But, my glass is always half full, so let us celebrate the fact that we have won two pieces of junior silverware, we have a refurbished water hog to contend with next summer’s deluges, and we may have a new scorebox in place for the start of a new season (just which season has not, as yet, been specified). 

We’re having a new scorebox 

It seems its just the job 

We also have a committee 

To design each door and knob 

It was all going quite swimmingly 

We judged each entered bid 

And then at last we all agreed 

That the man to build was Fid 

It started like a house on fire 

With bricks and wood and grout 

But Fid, you see, is a fireman 

And he put that fire out 

The work slowed down quite visibly 

Did something need a fix? 

“Oh no,” said Fid, “Its nothing bad” 

“I’m waiting for more bricks” 

In matters of a cricketing theme 

The firsts had got their wish 

They competed with the big boys now 

When they weren’t going off to fish 

The seconds was a nursery 

With juniors throughout the side 

And then there was an accident 

We really could have cried 

The mishap was Peter Crowley’s 

It happened in the cup 

The ball it broke his finger 

We knew something was up 

Because Peter couldn’t speak at all 

He motioned with his hand 

Did he want a pee? Had he gone blind? 

We didn’t understand 

So he left the field and Mr Stones 

Drove him from the scene 

Whilst we just laughed and cursed our luck 

And wondered what might have been 

The scorebox was now gathering moss 

As the six a side approached 

Fid said, “You’ll be commentating from inside” 

“Which year?” the Chairman joked 

The firsts, meanwhile, were making friends 

At the home ground of New Mills 

As Dale hutched a batsman 

Unleashing a world of ills 

All hell broke loose and then some more 

It felt like a disease 

To make it worse our players left 

And didn’t pay for teas! 

But do not panic, we paid the bill 

But the damage was surely done 

We’d upset a lot of Millers 

And we hadn’t even won 

At Whaley work remained undone 

We stared at an unfinished wall 

And wondered, “Since July the first” 

“Has anything been done at all?” 

The juniors did us proud at last 

It was good to be under fifteen 

First we hammered Mottram 

Then we crushed poor old Hawk Green 

But relegation threatened 

And the firsts were in a hole 

Thats when Birch Vale came to town 

And Dale came in to bowl 

The rest, as they say, is history 

I cannot comment much 

But everyone seemed to want their say 

As Dale used the “Hutch” 

Pandemonium ensued 

As opinions were expressed 

But no laws were broken on that day 

And Whaley came out best 

Cobwebs appeared on the scorebox 

As summer came to pass 

And the window looked morosely out 

Wondering, “When will I get glass?” 

And then the juniors came again 

Things were looking up 

This time the under seventeens 

Lifted the Compstall Cup 

But then Old Glossop loomed so large 

Over 200 runs were scored 

Do we remember Simmonds, Slack or Jones? 

No, it was all down to Eddie Ford 

We won the game and saved our skin 

We survived to fight next year 

The seconds tuned in on the phone 

The victory was cheered 

So now we put our bats away 

And adjust our winter clocks 

Next April we start again with hope 

But probably no scorebox