Burns' Winter Net

In 1786 the first instance of a dismissal for hitting the ball twice was recorded.  A subject that eminent cricket poet Robert Burns chose to ignore.  Instead, he wrote Winter Night.  The published version bears little resemblance to the original manuscript now recovered by FB and which reports the winter torment cricketers have faced through the ages.

Burns in the snow -
musing on winter nets

When biting Boreas, fell and doure,
Sharp shivers thro' the leafless bow'r;
The crick’ter’s year is langsyne o’er
He whiles regrets
Then maun the frozen chiel endure
Thon winter nets

Like Odysseus in the Iliad
The coach doth call his myriad
Groaning seniors and keen young lads
No one forgets
To scour each press tae find their pads
For winter nets

In a drafty schoolhouse gym
Peers Fant’sy Bob through darkness dim
Saft muscles bruised on ilka limb
Face mortal threats
Whan junior quickies bowl at him
In winter nets

Has Fant’sy Bob lost a’ his reason
See him bowl he’ll na stop wheezin
See him bat ye’d think he’s bleezin
They're makin' bets
He'll hit it yet afore the season
At winter nets

Lord can ye hear oor lamentation
Cruel hibernal tribulation
Tholin' winter nets' privation
Nothing drearer
There’s but one sma' consolation
Summer’s nearer

Sheep May Safely Graze

These are worrying times for the lower league cricketer.  Many are dependent on pitches provided by public authorities.  They accept with stoicism the fact that the quality of these facilities may, from time to time, compare less than favourably with Lords.  But they have a charm, a heritage that is all their own and without them there would be be no cricket at all.  

A charm all its own
Edinburgh's Home of Cricket - the Meadows

But tightening budgets in local authorities do not look good.  Wickets already seem subject to minimal preparation and the outfields are far from the short grassed billiard table smooth surfaces the coaching manuals presume.  There is surely nothing left to cut........er except lots of grass.

Outfields have long been a concern to Fantasy Bob.  On the increasingly rare occasion he middles it, his mind's eye sees the ball flash to the boundary.  But there in front of him is the cruel reality.  His shoulders slump as he sees the ball disappear in the undergrowth just off the square.  A certain four becomes a scrambled single - or a two if the fielding side has difficulty finding the ball in the grass.  FB is concerned that those younger team members of shorter stature risk disappearing in the jungle - he may consider allowing them to carry their phones so that he can pick up a locational signal from them.  It would not surprise him if, come tea, an emaciated player emerged blinking from the denseness asking whether Churchill was still prime minister.

Deep fine leg of lamb

So, rather than face the risk posed by grass cutting austerity, FB wishes to propose a solution.  Local authorities should invest in a flock of sheep to nibble the outfield to a satisfactory shortness.    If this was good enough for cricket's inventors on the Hampshire Downs of the 17th Century, it should be good enough for lower league cricketers.

Sceptics may pose all manner of problems, but FB is confident that his legendary ability to shepherd hordes of young cricketers will give him all the skills to deal with sheep in the outfield.  On occasion he could even envisage a sheep being pressed into service - and it might well be more effective than many of the senior cricketers that he has played with.

Evidence that some sheep
could be up for it

Pimping

The conversation at Fantasy Bob's breakfast table reached a level of unusual raciness the other day.

Mrs FB rustled her newspaper and said, 'I see you're a bit of a pimp these days.'

It was only through extreme self control that FB retained the mouthful of coffee he had just imbibed.  Over the course of their years together Mrs FB had referred to him by many terms, some of them implying endearment, the majority the opposite.  But this was a first.  He was unaware of the circumstances which had lead to her accusation.  But he was confident that she would shortly enlighten him.

She duly drew his attention to the newspaper article which had stimulated her observation.   From it he discovered that touted to emerge as one of this year's food trends is pimped porridge.

Pimped Porridge

'See, this is what counts for journalism these days,'  Mrs FB snorted - for she was once a member of that much reduced and maligned profession.  Recovering from the distraction of her sisterly concern at the plight of a fellow professional having to present such hollow fare to her editor, she returned to her main point.

'You've been a pimp for years.'

FB was uncertain whether this was an accusation, a compliment or a mere statement of fact.  It was of no matter, for the answer in each case was identical.

'Yes.'

For FB had been pimping his porridge in no uncertain style for many years.    He understands that ignorance is no defence in the eyes of the law.  He might not have known that he was pimping.  But pimping he was - unaware of how far ahead of the curve of fashion he was.

He had started out in a small way - which he suspects is not an uncommon  claim in pleas of mitigation among members of the pimping classes.  Eschewing the traditional salted porridge he at first sprinkled a little muscovado sugar or a squirt of maple syrup.  But this led on to more significant delights such as apricot puree, cherry compote, stewed rhubarb, and a range of exotically flavoured yoghurts.  That very morning under Mrs FB's watchful gaze he had pimped in high style with blueberries, muscovado sugar and winter spice Greek yoghurt.

Mrs FB was off her long run.

'What else have you been pimping then?'

Depimped bat

It was clear from her demeanour that nothing was unlikely to be an acceptable answer. FB was on the back foot. He needed to defend his honour.

He invited Mrs FB to recall his excitement a couple of years ago when a couriered package from Gray Nicolls arrived containing his new Nitro bat.  He reminded her of the temporary coarseness of his language when he discovered that the weapon was covered in unsightly stickers.  In the parlance of today it had been subject to extreme pimping.  It was a mess.  FB spent many hours , stripping the garish blazes, stripes and chevrons from its back to leave an unsullied surface.

Yes FB was a confirmed depimper.

Away from the porridge field that is.

Beyonce

Fantasy Bob has been avoiding the distressing reports about England's continuing Ashes humiliation by immersing himself in the biography of Gustav Mahler, a present on his recent birthday. 

Gustav Mahler at the end of his run up

As his worldwide handful of faithful readers knows, it has long been FB's quest to determine the bowling action of the great Austrian symphonist.  At last he seemed to have an opportunity to make progress on this vital question.  This authoritative biography would surely have much to say on the subject.  FB's hopes were built up only to be dashed again.

Shamefully, although the author addresses some important questions such as did Mahler ski (his conclusion is not), there is absolutely nothing at all about his cricketing prowess.  That Mahler must have been a cricketer is transparently obvious to anyone with a passing familiarity with his work - after all what is The Song of the Earth other than a series of hymns to the variable quality of wickets  encountered by Mahler?  But cricketing facts have been ruthlessly suppressed leaving FB no further forward.   Will he ever find confirmation of his intuitive speculation that Mahler was the originator of the Doosra?  It looks unlikely.

This is not to say that this biography is totally useless.  For besides all the stuff about death, melancholia, death, melancholia and death, it reveals important new information to FB namely that Mahler's cousin four times removed is Beyonce Knowles.

Beyonce - possible addition to the pace attack?

(For those of FB's handful of worldwide readers that are not up with these things, Ms Knowles is an American popular singer, apparently of some stature).

This is a momentous revelation.  On the face of it there is little similarity between Mahler's Songs for Dead Children and Beyonce's Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It) - for example,  there is little evidence, at least to FB's ear, of off-stage cow bells in the latter piece.

So FB does not know how to assess this new information.  The book does not give any additional information beyond a bare statement of this relationship.  In particular the author has chosen not to give insight into Beyonce's bowling action. A lost opportunity, for it would surely display some inherited characteristics from Mahler's own action and so could be a vital clue in  FB's long, and so far unfruitful, search. 

FB will therefore have to do the hard work himself and review all available footage of Beyonce in search of clues as to whether she might be a worthwhile addition to the pace attack.  Life is hard.

A Birthday Hattrick

Fantasy Bob has been silent too long.  Not that he has had anything of consequence to say - as if he ever did.  Many times in recent weeks he has thought that it is about time he made another series of startling insights into the challenges he faces when encountering 11 year old leg spinners.  Challenges which grow with every passing year as FB's eyes grow dimmer and his feet more rooted to the spot. 

The seasons come and go.  The years turn. Boys grow into men. They disappear to fresh and distant conquests.  Only FB's ineptitude endures.  There is always another 11 year old at the other end, nonchalantly flipping the ball from one hand to the other.  There is no escape.  It is the tale that has been told throughout the history of poetry and story.  And FB must tell it.

On several occasions he has described to Mrs FB his need to reclaim his place in the great literary tradition - she has not discouraged him.   To be fair, neither has she encouraged him.  Indeed, she did not think it worth it to pass any comment other than to suggest he might not yet again leave his shoes in the exact spot she is likely to trip over them. 

So he turned to the keyboard with a renewed resolve.   But his firmness of purpose wilted as he suddenly brought to mind that it was his birthday. 

Again?  So soon after the last one?  The gloom of the January day deepened.  He could hear that 11 year old at the other end chuckling devilishly to himself.  All seemed lost.

But Mrs FB was on hand to save the day with a splendid hattrick.

He he scoffed the cake, he dipped into Blowers and savoured Mahler: that 11 year old leg spinner would just have to wait.

Notes and Queries

Amongst all the fake news, the jeremiads and hagiographies of worthless footballers, there was an item in the newspapers this week which stimulated Fantasy Bob's interest more than usual. In the Guardian's excellent Notes and Queries section there was posed the question,

'Which requires more skill - returning a 150mph John Isner serve in tennis or defending a 95mph Dale Steyn delivery in cricket?'

As FB perused the answers offered by fellow readers, his brain began to race - if not to 150mph then pretty near 15mph.  Why is not exactly clear - for FB's chances of seeing either delivery would be zero.

It reminded him of a tale he heard a long time ago - he has no idea as to whether it is apocryphal or not.  So in the contemporary spirit of fake news he retells it here.

Middlesex CC were playing against a local club side in some charity match. Their full squad was there including West Indian quickie Wayne Daniel.  An opposing tail ender came into bat.  Carefully took his guard, scanned the filed and prepared to face the demon.  The keeper and slip cordon crouched in readiness.  Daniel turned at the end of his long run and steamed in, arms pumping, nostrils flaring.  A huge leap and his arm came over.  The batsman fended.  There was a huge appeal as the keeper threw the ball skyward. Shaking his head the batsman slowly departed.  It was not until he neared the boundary that he was called back to be told with much mirth and good humour that he'd been conned - the ball had been with the keeper all the time.  It was too easy to believe that the ball was so fast that it could not be seen.

FB is sure that he has been victim to this rouse a number of times, only the perpetrators have not confessed to their deception.

But to return to the question put.  A respondent noted that a tennis ball slows down significantly faster than a cricket ball (something to do with mass) - added to which the distance between the server and returner is significantly greater than between bowler and batter.  That did it for FB - it was conclusive - he still wouldn't see either.

But he noted with interest the fact that the ball slows as it approaches the batter.  This is not FB's experience at the crease.  Invariably the ball speeds up as it approaches him - and in the case of 11 year old leg spinners the increase in speed is exponential. There is only explanation - a special zone of magnetic attraction around FB where the laws of physics are reversed.  So here is a question for the clever clog readers of the Guardian - Is FB a black hole?

Celebration

Fantasy Bob feathered the ball.  Perhaps the faintest edge in the history of cricket. But the wicket keeper safely gobbled it up and FB was on his way.   But he was almost flattened by the keeper who having pouched the ball, extended his arm in front of him and ran directly to the bowler yelling with an inchoate scream.  His team mates joined in the cacophony, jumping up and down in a demonstration of pogo-ing not seen since the high days of punk rock (if there were any).  The excitement continued until FB had trudged safely beyond the boundary.  FB had totally dominated the bowling to score a majestic 2, expertly using both the edges of his bat to avoid wearing out the valuable middle.

Even acknowledging the value of FB's wicket, this celebration seemed disproportionate.  More correctly , even acknowledging the complete lack of value in FB's wicket, this celebration seemed particularly disproportionate.

Whirling Dervish XI celebrate the dismissal of opposing skipper

FB has more or less resigned himself to the necessity of sharing high fives with his junior team mates on the rare occasion he takes a wicket.  He may even have ventured a fist bump - and woken in terror in the middle of the night as the horror of the memory sinks in.  But to run around screaming like a deranged whirling dervish, hugging everyone in sight, seems, well, not to put too fine a point on it, just not cricket.

And yet this form of celebration is increasingly pervasive in the lower leagues that FB inhabits. Passing dogs run in terror at the high pitched screaming.  Gibbons in the zoo reach a fervour of excitement at what seem to them endless mating calls drifting on the wind in their direction.  FB is reduced yet again to wondering where the world found this handcart in which it is fast descending.

It is against this backdrop that FB presents the photograph below which was taken in the same match in which FB suffered the indignity of being whooped and hollered all the way to boundary.  He commends it to the appropriate authorities for inclusion in forthcoming coaching manuals.

FB has just taken a catch off his young bowler.  (For the benefit of readers who may be uncertain on this point, FB is on the left and his young bowler on the right). There is no whooping, no dervish dance. Just a nod of the head and a manly handshake.  Proper cricket.

Proper Cricket