Once upon a time, it matters little when, and in the stalwart Cherwell League, it matters little where, a fierce battle was fought.

adapted From charles dickens, the battle of life

The contest could fairly be described as a “rollercoaster” but not your regular common or garden variety of chilling boneshaker with its sudden twists and turns. No, this would be a more stately one with long curves and steady runs both up and down. Each team had a fair crack of the whip and dominated at various stages before the ride gradually veered in the opposite direction. Despite the stately nature of the ride, it would be an unfair supposition to call the game “boring” or predictable.

A fairer summation would indicate a game teetering on the edge at least until the shadows at Marston had lengthened to considerably more than their objects and the westering sun had lost some of its warmth and lustre.

Warmth and lustre! Now these were words hitherto unuttered so far this season. The constant battle between wind and sun had the former ahead on points. It was also a constant reminder of that great little moral story we learned as kids, about who could make the man remove his scarf and coat – the “gentle” sun or the fiercely blowing wind. As luck would have it, this very moral was also played out in the match, as we shall see. But first, back to the weather.

Even in June, sweaters were mandatory, at least for the seniors, taking advantage of their accumulated hoard over the years. However, there were times during the day when there was a perfect conjunction of cloudless sky and an easing of the boreal wind across the square and one could be forgiven for thinking that the summer had arrived even before the solstice. These moments were to be savoured as well as the splendid “new” square and freshly cut outfield and the two boundary rings. Yes, you read that correctly: two concentric circles marking the boundary and spaced about 5 yards apart, which piece of Euclidean artistry was to have its own impact on the game, but more on that later.

Although this was the fourth or fifth game of the season, it really seemed like the first because we were finally playing at home. There is something magical about the almost cinematic drive along the gravel path to the ground (sorry white car that was behind me, I couldn’t help wheel-spinning to raise a cloud of dust in my wake). One enters a hallowed precinct, cut off from the hustle and bustle of the city. There is nature – the full hedgerows heavy with the promise of brambleberries in autumn, that season of “mellow fruitfulness”, the tall trees swaying as in a trance, the variety of migratory birds heralding the start of summer and the now-ubiquitous red kites wheeling high on the thermals and piercing the air occasionally with their distinctive four-note piping. I am sure that there is also a small colony of ring-necked parakeets but don’t quote me on that: alas, I am no Bill Oddie. This Saturday, we were also treated to the rare sight of a fallow deer stalking shyly along the boundary edge and back into the woods at the northern side of the ground. 

Where else would one find all this a stone’s throw from the city centre? Throw in the stately roller-coaster of a game of cricket and voila! Ah yes, the game, teetering as the shadows grow long.

The Sunningwell team had not had the best of starts and were six down for 90 at around the 24th over, chasing a very respectable 232 in 45 overs. Oxford were in the ascendancy. What transpired in the next 20 overs was nothing short of a fairy tale for Sunningwell and a nightmare for Oxford. Two partnerships (73 and 67) sealed the deal for the visitors with an over to spare. The main protagonist being a meaty Pakistani who bludgeoned his way to 92 not out in 53 balls with five sixes. I found out the next day that he is a soldier from overseas gaining experience from UK forces and currently serving somewhere near Sunningwell CC. He must be doing well in soldiering considering his version of a full-frontal assault on the Oxford bowlers.

Remember the two boundary rings? This is where our decision to put the markers around the inner ring may have cost us the match. Have a slightly smaller boundary, we said. The pros do it. It’ll make for a more free-scoring game. And it did. The Oxford openers got off to a flier as the combination of short boundary and quick outfield paid handsome dividends. Steve Hurt’s normally languid style was put aside for a while as he stroked and caressed his way to a number of boundaries. The scoring rate was helped by the older version of the Smiths as this charming man, Andy (replacing son Patrick), smote anything within his arc and rearranged the muck and nettle on the shorter side with a couple of sixes. At one point the umpire even confided in him that the bowler was never going to get an LBW from him. Well that was a miserable lie, as a couple of overs later, Andy was adjudged LBW. A slightly dubious decision. The bowler had burgled a wicket. Shoplifters of the world unite, indeed.

The stand of 78 had been made at a fair lick but the fielding side were now finding their feet. Trishan Holder came and went without troubling the scorers as she spooned one back to the bowler, Thomas Harris (note: probably not the author of Silence of the Lambs). The Sunningwell teas would have been interesting – I have never had fava beans. Or chianti. 

The arrival of Hunain Ahmed restored the tempo of the innings somewhat but upon his demise, Oxford showed glimpses of what could have been but did not quite walk the walk. Captain Steve went back into his shell but steered his sinking ship manfully, his series of forward defensives drawing admiring comments and jealous glances from those of us back in the hutch.

He struck out towards the end with a series of meaty drives to end on a well-crafted 88. The total of 232 was probably par or even just above. Oxford had made good use of the shorter boundary but progress had been stately and well-measured. Echoes of the sun warming the man in the overcoat gently.

The comeback from Sunningwell had been brutal and not unlike the wind unleashing its ferocity to remove the man’s overcoat. The crucial difference being that the moral of the story had been turned on its head: the sunshine stroke-play had failed against the winnowing wind.

The Oxford team had tried valiantly and even had a couple of supporters on the boundary towards the end of the affair: Smiths, no less. However, as the last shouts of encouragement were strangled by the Sunningwell onslaught, each of the Oxford contingent were probably thinking, heaven knows I’m miserable now. 

However, cricket is a great equaliser and being Romans, we were also thinking about coming back next week and having another go.

Takeaways from the game:

The British are generally obsessed by the weather and even more so during the cricket season. There are a wealth of weather-related idioms to trip up the unwary foreigner: raining cats and dogs, red sky at night, bucketing down, lovely weather for the ducks. You get the idea. Don’t forget the fine rain that soaks you through!

Quote of the day:

Sunningwell batter: I’m glad I don’t have to bat on this dodgy wicket every week. Oxford captain: what, the one that I made 88 on?