Herding Cats Page 9
Whose call is it to start or delay play?
We play cricket for the highs – the moments of team and individual glory – and grudgingly accept the accompanying lows – golden ducks, dropped catches or one-over spells. But the rained-off match is the worst of the lot. An afternoon of fielding in the deep, without batting or bowling, is preferable to no cricket at all. Many of us look forward to the weekend’s game that little bit more than we probably should. From Monday to Saturday we monitor the weather forecast, fearing that rain will ruin our day. And when our worst fears are confirmed, and the game called off, we are floored. It is almost impossible for cricketers to enjoy another activity on a match day, as many of their families know all too well. We mope around the house, cursing the groundsman who made the fateful decision.
The groundsman is cricket’s unsung hero. He works all year round in all conditions to maintain the pitch. We only hear about him in the professional game when his pitch is being blamed for a huge financial loss after a Test has finished in two days. In the same way, amateurs pay attention to him when he rings up to say that the ground is waterlogged, will soon be underwater and that crocodiles are ripping apart the sightscreens. The groundsman’s language tends towards the biblical and leaves you in no doubt as to whether the game can go ahead. Until then, he couldn’t have been further from the players’ thoughts. It is usually the home team that makes the call as to whether a game is played or not. If they are courteous, they will speak to the opposition skipper beforehand, to ascertain how desperate their side is for a game – they are the ones travelling, after all. If they are happy to chance it and risk a wasted journey, then so be it. There is nothing more enjoyable than a match when none was expected. I have driven for hours through the rain, receiving increasingly querulous texts from team-mates, only to find clear skies at our destination. Equally, I have called off a game the day before, at the behest of the opposition and the team-mate who was due to buy and make tea, only for the sun to come out and shine all day. Whatever you decide, there will always be someone who objects violently to your decision. Occasionally a player arrives at the ground, having not received any of your messages about the cancellation, to find the sun out and not a crocodile in sight.
What remains to be done by the captain before the first ball is bowled?
The captain’s perennial struggle is to get the players to the ground in good time to set everything up. Ask them to turn up too early and they’ll do so once and then run on their own clock from then on. I played once for a captain who insisted we arrive 90 minutes before the start. I did and was alone for 70 of them. It takes time to unlock the pavilion, put out the boundary rope or markers, move the sightscreens into position and get the stumps out and upright. And there is nothing more shaming for a home team to arrive and to find that your opposition has done that. It is also an excellent gambit for an away side to do this, just once. It should leave the opposition’s captain in a state of furious shame.
The tea needs to be put away, ready for the interval, as we all familiarise ourselves with a new pavilion and its facilities. It is now that you find the showers are not working and that the team that played on the Saturday have blocked every toilet in the building. It is then that you passionately wish you had a plumber in your side. A player with those skills could bat and bowl when he pleased. Then you discover that a fox has crept under the covers and defecated on a length. Park cricketers are used to finding a dog turd at mid-on and mid-off at each end – far enough from the pitch for the dog owners not to feel too guilty about just leaving it there. I have only once ever seen a player remove one from the field of play. Jonathan gallantly ran off to get his copy of the New Statesman and used the wrapping to deposit it beyond the boundary.
What can he tell from looking at the strip?
No matter where you’re playing, there are some rituals that you must observe. The first of these is that on arrival you must all troop out to inspect the pitch. It could be the worst council ground in London, with craters on either side of the stumps that you could turn an ankle in, tufts of unhealthy looking grass sprouting just where they might cause you to lose your teeth later. It could be an immaculate track, as beautifully manicured as any first-class ground. Or it could even be under covers. You and your team-mates will still congregate next to it and try to predict how it will play.
This is one of the more amusing ways in which we imitate the professional game. Our bowlers are not always capable of hitting the track, let alone exploiting it perfectly. We can’t hit a manhole cover with every ball, let alone a sixpence. We tend to begin at two and play until after seven. We are not starting at 11am like the professional game. Nor are we playing for five days on this particular stretch of soil. It is unlikely to change that much in how it plays. And yet tradition dictates that the amateur captain and his team must perform this ritual every time.
What factors enter into the decision to bat or field on winning the toss?
Win the toss and bat – that’s the received wisdom. At least if you’re good at cricket. But what if you’re not? What if your opening batsmen can’t hit it off the square and the ones to come are even worse? In those situations maybe it’s better to lose the toss. If you call wrongly, there is not a lot you can do. Your team-mates will want you to talk the opposition into letting you bat first. Cardinal Richelieu might have used tears to sway Louis XIII and Rasputin had his methods, but I don’t. If I had the powers of mind control I’d probably have ambitions beyond Sunday cricket. And there is no one as intransigent as a captain who wants to bat first on a good wicket.
Your team may give you grief for your bad luck, but that will not compare to the abuse you’ll get for poor judgment. We still remember Ricky Ponting’s decision to bowl first at Edgbaston in 2005. One of my Saturday team-mates once called his Sunday captain a “f***ing c***” for choosing to bowl first. This player is, needless to say, a batsman and a good one, who delights in putting weak attacks to the sword. After all, no one can make a century against a team who’ve been bowled out for 93.
On the whole, most captains would prefer to bat first and dictate the game. This gives you time to think and garner information about the pitch and opposition. You are in the driving seat, even if your engine is spluttering and losing power. The truth is that few of your side are going to be in the peak of physical condition and no one bats better tired, so it makes sense to go first. Batting first is the safe option and allows you to take the initiative. No one is going to criticise you for it, for at least half an hour. If, however, the conditions are particularly bowler-friendly – very overcast, with a green or drying wicket – and four of your batsmen are out in the first six overs, they will blame you for not having put the opposition in. The other time to bowl first is against a much stronger team. This ensures that the game won’t all be over in an hour and that at least one side enjoyed their afternoon. These conversations between captains are not unlike the exchanges between dogs where one rolls over and submits to the dominant hound. If your opposite number looks like a weak player, you should proceed with care. The cricketer who fails far more than he succeeds may have a streak of viciousness, wanting to win at all costs.
If you are playing a timed game, with a draw a possible result, this allows you to manufacture a close game. This particular brand of cricket can be extremely enjoyable but it can also provide the worst sport of all. There are Sunday sides who shun the excitement of a run chase in favour of an afternoon spent playing for a draw. They will always want to bat second and will kill the game stone dead as a contest with 40-odd overs of dour defence. It is very difficult to get ten wickets in this time, particularly against batsmen who won’t consider an attacking shot. My policy is never to play these teams a second time. There are some exceptions to these decision-making patterns. A home team might choose to bat first so that the tail can prepare the lunch or tea. If this repast promised to be particularly good, another side might choose to bat second so they can do full justice
to it – wanting to avoid indigestion in the field. An amateur captain cannot always please his players with his decision but he ignores them at his peril.
Batting
So, after the toss, and assuming you’re batting first, you must decide the order. The problem that faces the amateur captain is that everyone in your team fancies themselves with the bat. There are few cricketers who don’t secretly think they’ll come good if given a chance. They just haven’t been given the opportunity to show what they can really do. Selective memory ensures that they remember the streaky boundaries over the years – not the rash shots they repeatedly played that let you and their team-mates down in crucial situations. But how do you remind them of this? After all, it is your job to keep their spirits high.
The second problem is that they tend to want to bat in the same place – four or five usually. Perhaps six or seven if they’re a weaker player. This should ensure that they can come on and get after the easier bowling. Runs made by an opener are harder won than those taken off the third- or fourth-change bowler, who will serve up one or two boundary balls an over. And once five wickets have fallen in the amateur game it is quite possible that friendly bowling is put on, to make a decent contest of it. Certain batsmen have a habit of being there to cash in at these moments. This is why Sunday averages should be treated with extreme caution. They don’t tell you everything about the afternoon.
The third problem is that batsmen at this level often tend to fall into two categories. Those who will swing violently at every ball until they are clean bowled. And those who prefer to bat like a hobbit from The Lord of the Rings, preciously guarding their wicket as if the future of Middle Earth depended on it. Not for them the risk of run scoring. Instead they are happy to watch their team-mates perish at the other end, as they hit out desperately. We can only speculate how much they understand of these dismissals, that they in fact caused them. It is kinder to conclude that they are focused solely on their own game. Cricket being a sport given excessively to nostalgia, these batsmen hark back to the days of timeless Tests. For them one-day cricket is an obscenity, but I suspect they would have struggled to score quickly in the era of underarm bowling and terrible pitches.
A captain should have a good idea of his batting line-up before the day of the match. It may be that you have a new player to integrate. As we know, asking a cricketer about their ability is fraught with problems. Unless you’ve seen them play it is very hard to gauge their level. Whatever you do, don’t stick them in the middle order. In the same way, you would not bring them on to bowl at a crucial stage of the game. Opening or lower order is the only place for newcomers, until you’ve assessed them thoroughly. They cannot be allowed to play themselves in during the vital middle overs. You will know the other players well – if they’re in form or not or if their personal circumstances make runs extremely unlikely.
Our opener, Tony – a wonderful man in every other respect – is not the greatest judge of a run. A dedicated husband and father and award-winning children’s author, he works extremely hard, often producing several books a year. When he has a deadline nearing he sometimes takes recently legalised brain pills bought online. These make him even more excitable than normal. He calls for runs in a tone of voice that others use in a serious emergency and it is hard for the other batsman to remain unaffected by his panic. I once opened the batting with him and found myself back in the hutch in the first over, without facing a ball. He assures me that if I’d run my bat in I’d have been fine but a captain should know what is happening in his team-mates’ lives and assess the risks accordingly.
Cricket commentators remind us constantly that partnerships are key. They are in the amateur game, too. But they’re not really partnerships, more short, unhappy flings. You cannot always predict who will end up at the crease together. Sometimes you need to separate people as much as possible. Just as Peter Roebuck’s role at Somerset was to prevent Viv Richards and Ian Botham from batting together – they would get involved in a hitting contest and perish quickly – so you want to keep certain batsmen apart. A slow runner who deals predominantly in boundaries makes a terrible partner for a nurdler who relies on the quick single. The strong batsman should not open with someone likely to run him out. I do tend to open with Tony, because even without Modafinil, he is completely fearless – a useful quality when the other batsmen are looking apprehensively at any particularly tall or youthful members of the opposition, for signs of extreme pace – and he has a sound defensive technique. And as he often points out, apart from that one time with me, he’s only ever run himself out. But that first season Sam identified him as the most likely method of dismissal and he may well have been right. When someone makes half the team’s runs, as Sam did that year, you listen to them.
Brian Lara used to say he gave the first session to the bowler. In Sunday cricket, the first ten overs are crucial. If your openers can blunt the attack during this time, not losing any wickets while making 30–35 runs, you are in a great position. Most seam bowlers at our level are significantly less dangerous with an older ball, and so those early overs need to be weathered. Then your middle order can open up against the first- and second-change bowlers, to take you to a competitive total. But we all disagree on what a competitive total might be. I usually add 20 per cent before saying what I think a par score is. I’ve seen the openers crawl on beyond the bowling change, unable to change gears. Suddenly 30 for nought off ten overs has become 42 for nought off 15 and the drinks break cannot come soon enough. For you that is. The batsmen may be thirsty but will want to avoid recriminations for as long as possible. They know they’re batting badly and that a decent total is almost out of the question now but they won’t care to be reminded about it.
Why are most captains so loath to be flexible about the batting order?
Moving your field and making bowling changes are key parts of the captain’s job but tinkering with the batting order has always been frowned upon. In Test cricket you might send in a nightwatchman but otherwise the order is sacrosanct. Batsmen are sensitive types, prone to superstition. They have lucky bats and endless rituals to perform if they are to score runs. Sometimes this verges on OCD. Ed Smith, in his professional career, would ask the umpire how many balls to come at the same point in each over. (He’d abandoned the habit by the time he played for us.) In his book Luck, he wrote about the South African Neil McKenzie who had to ensure that all dressing-room doors were shut and toilet seats down before walking out to bat. My team-mate Amol always wears odd pads to bat in and he’s one of the normal ones.
Batsmen like continuity, ignoring the fact that, if you’re not opening, you can come out to bat at any point during the innings. Only the openers know exactly what their job is before they cross the boundary rope. After that the situation changes. On tour recently, I asked a team-mate to bat at four, knowing it was his favourite spot, from which he could play himself in, and build a proper innings. But the openers stayed in, our number three made a fifty and by the time he walked out to the middle the asking rate was nine an over and there was no time to settle. He walked out to bat in a state of great agitation and holed out quickly to a fielder in the deep. I put him in to open the next day, where he fared much better. He got a glimpse of what it is to bat in the lower middle order. Those of us who lurk there usually have to hit from the first ball and perish accordingly. But bowlers can take more risks with the bat, since we know that a dismissal isn’t the end of our involvement that afternoon.
In professional cricket T20 has led the way with the idea of a flexible batting order. M. S. Dhoni promoted himself above Yuvraj Singh in the 2011 World Cup final and duly led India to victory. In the current England team, Eoin Morgan, Jos Buttler and Ben Stokes change places depending on what’s required and to ensure a right/left-hand combination. The amateurs have been doing this for years. It is perfectly normal to see four players padded up and ready to go in – showing both flexibility and a complete lack of faith in the batsmen above th
em. If you have a blocker and a hitter at the crease, you have one of each ready and send them in, depending on who’s out. No captain likes telling someone that another is going in ahead of him but sometimes you have to add that bit of momentum to an innings. There will be very few batsmen in your line-up who can score at better than a run a ball, and who would relish the challenge of doing so. The demoted player would enjoy his innings more if he came in with the run-rate at manageable levels, or when chances of victory had evaporated, and he can play for his average.
There is one fixture of ours that illustrates perfectly the problems that face the amateur captain when deciding on a batting order. Hambledon is known as the cradle of cricket, where so many of the sport’s rules and traditions emerged. The club may not dominate the game any more, and they’ve moved a few miles to a new ground at Ridge Meadow, but the club embodies what is great about cricket. The Authors play there each year and our first three games all came down to the last ball. Finishes such as these tend to be orchestrated by the stronger team and no one does it better than Mark Le-Clercq, the Hambledon skipper. In our first game we chased down 177 in 40 overs thanks to a superb, well-paced century from Sam. A year later, we batted second again and seemed in total control with 60 runs needed off 15 overs, with nine wickets in hand. Victory seemed inevitable and I was already worrying that certain players hadn’t had a bat or a bowl. But a couple of wickets (including an unnecessary run-out) brought about a terrible period of play, as our numbers four, five and six set about losing the game. I had thought of promoting our keeper or opening bowlers, all of whom could strike the ball hard and far. But I decided to show faith in our middle order. They defended the bad balls, played and missed at the good ones and the run-rate mounted. When Nick finally walked to the wicket, six was needed from the last ball. In fiction, he might have stood a chance. In real life he didn’t. Nine times out of ten, a batsman doesn’t hit a boundary off the last ball to win a game. We lost a match that haunts me still. I’d gone against my instinct to promote the stronger batsmen and we’d paid for it.