“The Match That Was, Then Wasn’t and Then Was Again”

Match: 24 / 654

Won by 33 runs

Team	Total
FFTMCC	190 - 3
J. Pearson 64*, C. Williams 46
Lemmings	165 - 5
A. Darley 3 - 26

I feel compelled to share a few pages of my diary and lift a lid on this Sunday gone. A match that very nearly never came to fruition but in the end did so. The background to many an unknown.

This particular story begins back in October of last year, when The MAD Fixture Secretary emailed out to all the other fixture cohorts with “hi, how you doing? Happy to ink in the same date minus a day for the usual match up next year etc?” (a leap year would make it minus two). To then receive the standardised email replies of “yeah, sounds great (yawn). Inked in. Winter well and speak to you in new year etc.” The ink dries, the job is done, time to enjoy the sound of rain crashing against the windows and the misery of Xmas is once again thrust upon us.

The next burst of energy occurs around February/March when it’s time to try and establish contact with the groundskeeper who juggles the wants of university suits, spoilt undergraduates and any other casual acquaintances who haven’t a clue just how difficult his job actually is. After checking your list of home matches tally with your man being able to facilitate them, it can then all be put to bed again until the season proper starts. Generally speaking, it’s a reasonably smooth process, because history will tell you when your grounds chappy is likely to be busy and when he isn’t, so obviously don’t organise stuff that potentially clashes with his diary. Simple.

However, there are always variables in this design and that is when our long suffering grasscutter dares to take his family on a summer vacation?! It’s a disgraceful situation, but one you’re primed to handle and understand, even though it’s a pain in the ring piece and it only serves to shag your best laid plans (sigh*).

This year’s fly in the linseed oil clashed with our historical match against one of oldest adversaries the Lemmings. So, you reach for the little black book, find an alternative and switch the match to another suitable, accommodating venue. Job done, move it on.

With just a week or so before any upcoming arrangement, you lastly contact both the groundskeeper and opposition to check all is funky in the world of jazz and send out the final details. But, every very occasionally, the something you had ticked as done, had sorted and relaxed back as needing nothing further to be done, becomes twisted, shagged and completely not bloody sorted, as was the case at 22:08 this Thursday gone when an email was received from the reservist ground to say they were unable to now host this Sunday’s match and basically “we’re really sorry.” Magic.

Leave it, leave it and just go to bed, don’t stew on it and go to sleep. And don’t dream about it or wake up really bloody angry because the world is so unfair and it all needs sorting out again because it’s completely unsorted and the sands of time are running out (to rescue the match).

With the sun now rising and a new day ahead, time to communicate with your skipper and tell him it’s gone totally tits up. Swear a lot, bitch about it and then contact your opposite number to say, erm... it’s all gone tits up, whilst obviously keeping a selfish eye on your own options and any potential alternatives for the weekend. Contact these alternatives in advance and explain you may actually be able to fill a blank but only after exhausting any salvage mission with your original opponent. Cool, at least WE might have a game of sorts. Possibly, possibly maybe.

Just some 5 minutes after this latest twist of events, receive another call out the blue to have the twist become a corkscrew of insanity when you find your original groundskeeper who couldn’t facilitate this match some 5 months ago, now says he can because his plans have changed. ARE YOU F______ KIDDING ME? And… YES, YES, YES PLEASE!!!

So... after being sorted and then unsorted, sorted again, unsorted and finally sorted again, we’re back to where it all began all those many months ago at our home of Brasenose and all is beautiful in the world of Sunday cricket.

’The Fixture Secretary’