A Day at Lords

A wise man once said that there was nothing better than to watch an enjoyable game of cricket on a warm summers day. I had neither of these this weekend, but we still sought to make the best of a bad situation. For this weekend saw the author travelling to the big smoke to attend the one-day final at Lords, the home of cricket.

The sun was still on its journey from the other hemisphere, and the streets were void of life, as we drove through the deserted markets and cobbled streets on our way to the station. Making the same voyage as millions of others through the ages, aiming to realise their dreams and achieve the riches that the gold streets of London offered, we felt in good company. My travelling partner, on this pilgrimage to the mecca of cricket, was an elderly gentleman that had never made the journey before. He desired to see the vista of Old Father Time looking down from the left tower of the pavillion just once, before the long, black cloud came down over his eyes. I also need to add that he gets quite irate at the smallest of obstacles, as is the trend for men of his age, depicted so neatly in the programme, “Grumpy Old Men”.

We arrived at the station, which was packed with excited people waiting to make the same journey, and as we eventually sat down on the train three fuses had already blown. There were not enough people serving coffee, the newsagents was not open and the Saturday kid waiting outside the door would not sell a paper for cash, and finally the seats that were supposedly reserved (if we were in the last century) were not. Not a bad start. But, by the time we had arrived in London things had calmed down and we were looking forward to the adventure of getting to Lords.

I had been to Lords once before, but that occasion was not so memorable, the third day of a four day game between Surrey and Middlesex. The place, however, has an aura of respectability and Englishness, and when you walk in through the gates you feel honoured to be there. Instead of the bars serving popular beers, they should be selling Pimm’s and cucumber sandwiches. The surrounding area of St. John’s Wood also feels the same. The district in which Abbey Road is located, the cornerstone of English music, is now filled with posh café’s and Australians everywhere. The buildings seem to be holding their breath, acting like an old war hero, who is tolerating some children running around him at a picnic on the Thames. Eventually their patience will be exhausted, and people will hear a large explosion from this small area of London, and nobody will talk about it but understand that it’s best left alone.

The talk on everyone’s lips was why did Hampshire win the toss but choose to field first. Half the crowd thought it was crazy whilst the other half had faith in our legendary Australian skipper. Through out the day that faith seemed more and more misplaced, as the game slipped further away from the Hawks.

We kept our bodies lubricated through the day, knowing that dehydration was a big killer in this part of the ground. As we became less capable of controlling our faculties, so did the Hampshire batsmen. One after another they were sent back to the pavillion, like naughty children that had received a punishment and asked to send the next one in. Apart from a stubborn resistance from Crawley, no Hampshire player deserved a lift home.

But then, thankfully, the rain came and put us out of our gradual slide into depression. The game wasn’t won or lost at this stage, but the writing was already on the wall and the anti-climax of the end to the day was at least some satisfaction. It meant that the Durham supporters who had travelled twice as far didn’t get to celebrate either.

The old boy and I then tried to weave our way back through London to get to our awaiting carriage. At the halfway point, we stopped off to fill up our water bottles and met some delightful Brazilians. We built up some what of a friendship with them and learnt how Queen were still massive in Sao Paulo. I didn’t have the heart to explain that Mercury was dead, and May had been discovered as the missing link between human and poodle. (A Pooman, for anyone taking notes)

After an inevitable delay at the watering hole we had realised that we had missed our train, and needed to rush back to Waterloo to catch the next one. This resulted in a slight mix up at Bond Street Underground where the elder of the duet was unfortunately left behind, as yours truly leapt down an escalator and on to the awaiting tube. Not often found in less athletic company these days I was quite surprised by this, but I still found the funny side as I disappeared off through the tunnel.

One way or another we ended up on the train home to Southampton, and finally made it back to our base in one piece. A good adventure had by all, but unfortunately the result of the game had gone. Cricket tends to be like that though. It is more the taking part and the being there that go to having a good day, rather than the outcome.