Fat Tony catches up: a tale of Beavis and headbutt

Sorry. I know it’s been a while. So much pressure at this level; every now and then one needs to take a little time out, contemplate one’s life and goals, speak to a few people with ‘ologist’ behind a long word, just to empty the old brainbox and start afresh. So let’s do some catching up. And Lord knows, there is a lot to catch up on.

 
Where was I? O yes, a long time ago we played against a club called Quick Nijmegen. Most of their team are not so quick anymore, but just content to hit the ball hard. Their bowlers are not so quick either. And still we lost.
Like I mentioned the last time: drop Muis and you’re in trouble. We dropped him, and we were in trouble. He got 64, only two others made double figures, and they reached 200. Werner’s debut performance behind the timber was pretty good, no by’s, can’t remember a chance going down (but then it has been a while).  Eminently gettable, 200 on our ground. Right.
Her comes a bunch of ifs. If Tomba hadn’t been given leg before off a submarine. If Rolly hadn’t celebrated his halfcentury by a display of fireworks, sending a rocket straight up in the air. If Grims hadn’t slipped (BUY FRIGGING CRICKETBOOTS!) and been run out. If Dr. Phil hadn’t been caught at midwicket by the guy with go-go-Gadget-arms. If Fat Tony hadn’t decided to let Werner get off the mark, thus exposing him to their opening bowler with ten runs to get. If…
If.
. . . . . . . . . .
The week after, we played HBS. The bottom team. No wins yet this season. And we lost.
Diederik Visee is something else. If we thought Muis hits it hard, we had another thing coming. Visee went medieval on our collective arses. Out of the first 100 or so runs, he made 79. In about 17 overs. Boom. Then a few wickets fell quickly, and keeping them under 140 seemed possible. Until two of them got their heads down, no rush, and lifted it to 215.
Funniest wicket was the slowest of slower balls (bowled by guess who) that the batsman missed twice before being stumped.
Their opening bowler was fast. Started his second over with six dot balls, the umpire miscounted - and on the seventh ball he proceeded to bowl a wide that went for 5, two no-balls and another wide. Good stuff. But yet again, Tomba copped a crap decision, then made one by sending Bocko in as pinchhitter.
On the plusside: James ‘light my fire’ Morrison made his debut and Rutger ‘fill my glass’ Slagter a long overdue comeback. Never mind that he can’t run anymore. Or bat, apparantly. Or that he can’t keep his big mouth shut, according to the umpire. (All he said was ‘christ’, after the ball had beaten the bat for the umpteenth time. He was admonished by the ump that ‘that’s not the kind of language you should use on a cricketfield, young man’.)
. . . . . . . . . .
The next week I saw something I’ve never seen before. The appearance of an ambulance on a cricketground is, unfortunately, not uncommon. A police car is a different matter.
The game was against PDCCR, league leaders, who have won every game. And also a team that nobody looks forward to playing for totally different reasons.
Fielding in a persistent soft drizzle, we were keeping the score down pretty well. Craigo (we still knew him as Craig then) bowled well, as did Tomba and Dr. Phil.
A little bit of a verbal altercation took place when Sunil could understand what the f&%#$ were saying to eachother about us (and members of our family). That was all dealt with.
Until it started raining a bit harder, and Tomba wanted to take us off. Mister Ateeq Rehmann Bhutta took offense, lost his temper, started shouting and cursing. Then Bassie understood what it was about and wanted to know why the f&#$?& said all those things. He was welcomed by a headbutt to the nose.
That’s right, a grown man headbutted a 14-year old. Bassie raised his hands in defence, caught the incoming nose and now Bhutta completely lost it. If his teammates hadn’t held him back, I dread to think what would have happened.
Fortunately, they called the cops. Bhutta lied that Bassie had hit him. When the cops didn’t believe him, he started going off again. The police offered to bring him to a nice, quiet, secluded room to calm down, but Bhutta declined. About two hours after the incident, we could finally get out of there.
If anybody wants to know about the disciplinary hearing at the KNCB, ask Wouter, Tomba, Bassie or myself. I don’t want to go into it on a public website. Suffice it to say that Bhutta has now been suspended until after next season. Obviously, the board was getting tired of seeing his face appear in that room over and over and over again.
(A tip to any club that doesn’t want to play us: hire Bhutta. If we see that man in the opposing team, I for one will turn on my heels and go home. I’d rather clean the gutter with my dick than ever have to see him again. The b&$#% does not belong on a cricketfield. Or in society.)
. . . . . . . . . .
We hardly got any time to recover mentally, because the tour was on. Well, sort of. Half a tour anyway. And we hadn’t beaten Abingdon since 1991. I remember it well, Paul Haighton taking the final catch to dismiss Robin Newman and regain the ‘ashes’. Two years later, our last wicket partnership of Goof and Karel held on for five overs to secure a draw and keep the trophy. Since 1995, it has been in Abingdon’s possession.
Well, not really. It was in our clubhouse, I think we may have nicked it two years ago. But since the 29th of july, it is ours by right.
To be honest, the Abingdon boys never really put up a fight. After a typically wayward opening spell by Grims, they were lambs to the slaughter: about 100 all out.
It was a game Maxxx and Fat Tony won’t easily forget. Having taken two wickets in two balls, some great deception and variation of pace, swing and spin acounting for Ollie and Pies, I was gearing up for the hattrickball. It left the hand perfectly, homing in on off and middle. Len Banham obliged by getting a thick inside edge, Maxxx was in a perfect position to pick up the catch and make history. And he spilled it.
Well, mustn’t grumble, hey? No use moping about it, what? I’m slowly entering the twilight of my good years, some years of hanging around to come of course, and have never taken a hattrick. But what the hay. I suppose Maxxx really is a pommie bastard at heart.
Nelly slammed the runs in for us, his fifty coming off about 25 balls, and we had some beers. Next tour will be longer. Be on tour longer! One thing the Abingdonboys left us with - apart from the trophy - is a new nickname for Craigo. Thanks for that. It still pisses him off, so it’s perfect.
. . . . . . . . . .
Buoyed by the convincing victory over the ‘auld foe’, and in the knowledge that we still needed a few league wins to be safe, we turned up for the game against United. Well, most of us turned up. Bocko was again a little late. And too busy on the phone to get a grip on marking out the inner circle.
This could be a make-or-break match for our survival. Bocko bowled very well, but Beavis (yes, Beavis, huh-huh) was less accurate. And despite Dr. Phil’s most cunning plans, we just could not take that third wicket. They batted really, really well: content to just push it around for three runs an over until the 30th, then accellerating with a vengeance. It got United to 316. A big score.
But if Nelly gets going, he’s going and going and going and going. After his quickfire 97, we were well on track and they didn’t have a spare ball left. Wonky (83) took over as the central man in the runchase, Rolly made another good fifty, and with five overs left Dr. Phil top-edged a hookshot for the winning runs. Amazingly, our first innings over 200 got us to 320. ,,The best runchase I’ve ever been involved in”, according to a teary-eyed Wonky. Beavis seemed to agree, although we’re never really sure.
. . . . . . . . . .
As it turned out, we beat them twice in a week, because the following Saturday was the replay of Rolly’s nose-game that had been rained off.
This time we had to bat first and the rest of the game was also the opposite of last week.
Sunil was there on time, although obviously not fully awake. He pulled some kitbag out of the container, it looked a bit like his. And had to play in Franks shoes, two sizes too big. He’s lucky he didn’t take Werner’s bag.
Sunil, we love his pants, got out early. But Fat Tony kept the scoreboard ticking and scored his first ever first-team half-century. Then Manzoor gave two quick LBW’s and Shaggy another one, and an innings that had promised another 250-plus score fizzled out for 188. Wonky was left stranded on 49 not out, after Zoor and Bassie had played attractive little cameo’s.
Bocko then started with a 15-ball over. And in the next one, he made the first breakthrough. United was never able to build a partnership of note, and when Bassie took a sharp catch off last week’s centurion, it was all over. Tomba and Sunil wrapped it up.
. . . . . . . . . .
Although in the end United wasn’t the toughest game we ever played, Sunday proved that two matches in two days is a litlle more than some legs can handle.
We started well against VRA, had them around 75/5, but then began to sag like Loes Haasdijk’s funbags. Andy Gilder (he of the pretty good nut earlier this season) showed how to ping the ball with a straight bat, and how to dominate like nobody’s business. He rescued their innings and we had no answers anymore.
It looked a beautiful batting track, short outfield, perfect for chasing 268. But we didn’t cope with their outswing. The result: four ducks, three 1’s, two 2’s and a 6. Only Wonky reached double figures (42) in our 72 all out.
Completely slaughtered, hammered, chewed up and spat out, we were owned like a skinny white accountant in a jail full of bankrobbing brothers. And to think that we were just twenty seconds away from not losing the game… Because right after Wonky lost his stumps to an inside edge, the rain started pummeling down on the ground that Holland was going to play Bermuda on in next day’s four-day game. So the covers had to come on and we would never ever have resumed, for fear of digging up that turf pitch with a fantastic diving stop, or something to that effect.
It would have been cruel to VRA, of course. But would we have cared? Nah.
Weird thing: we came in to the clubhouse afterwards and two of their players were having a beer. Never offered us one, never cared. Even when I asked them how drinks would be arranged. They just got up, shrugged their shoulders and walked off. Strange behaviour - have a beer, don’t bother about your guests. Something to work on, boys. Although it did give me a chance to use my charms on that lovely blonde behind the bar, who served us with a smile that could melt even the coldest heart. (I’m pretty sure Bocko’s in love. Don’t tell his missus.)
. . . . . . . . . .
So that’s it. Seven games. Three wins, three losses and a brawl. We’re almost certainly safe. We have regained the ashes. We’ve succesfully chased 300 and we’ve crumbled for 70. The highs and lows of a meandering season, a game of intricacies and emotions, a story of one Werner’s debut and one Rutger’s swansong, a tale of Beavis and headbutt…