You had to have been there. While the biggest names in world white-ball cricket were slogging themselves bandy in the Indian Premier League and England and Ireland’s ODI cricketers were making history in Bristol – albeit in rather underwhelming fashion – by the end of my day absorbing Worcestershire’s Royal London One-Day Cup match against Yorkshire at New Road this time last week I may just have had the best of what was on offer.
And, as English domestic cricket prepares to be catapulted into the future by the ECB’s city-based Twenty20 competition, my experience in the spring sun and the shadow of Worcester Cathedral was a reminder of some of the less frenetic attractions that pains must be taken to preserve.
The match itself made compelling viewing. Worcestershire’s opening stand of 135 featured a brilliant century by Tom Kohler-Cadmore, his third of the season, and set a platform for their total of 342.
Then, bowling from in front of the stand named after his illustrious grandad Basil, Brett D’Oliveira and Daryl Mitchell waged and ultimately won a tense game of cat-and-mouse with Australia’s Peter Handscomb as he strained to drive Yorkshire to victory.
There was lots more batting, bowling and fielding to love and while this was not the purists’ ideal of four-day championship cricket, as much as what was happening on the field, it was what was framing the action off it that made it so memorable, and so much fun.
First, there was an exchange of views between a flustered gateman and a Worcs CCC member over the issue of him being unable to get into the car park.
As he made his way into the ground on foot, stomping politely as he did so, the member in the club fleece turned to the chap in the high-visibility jacket and, in the instant his walkie-talkie crackled deafeningly into life, informed him: “There’ll be feedback over this”. They parted all smiles. Then, in the Chestnut Marquee, venue for a hospitality event catering for around 150 guests in aid of Herefordshire Cricket, as well as coffee and lunch, those who coughed up for the raffle were offered the enticing prospect of winning a first edition of the autobiography of John Emburey.
Now come on, where else on earth could that possibly have been happening at that precise moment?
Venturing outside to join a posse of Yorkies on the far side of Dolly’s stand, my companion and I were treated to their best good-natured banter (no Western Terrace nonsense here).
When one of their number returned from the bar with four pints in plastic pots shoved into a cardboard container, then proceeded to spill most of their contents, another spoke for all when he called out “sack the juggler”.
Across the River Severn, carpeted by swans, the normally perfect view of the magnificent Anglican cathedral’s stained glass window was obscured by scaffolding, but it didn’t seem to matter.
As the day continued and the sun remained friendly, the crowd swelled to around 2,000 souls, the Ice Cream van enjoyed queues about 20 deep all afternoon and, before we knew it, the PA announcer informed us that… in the Ladies Pavilion… tea was served.
For some, of course, this is what they had really come here for. Lemon-drizzle, coffee and walnut, Victoria sponge, if there is a Women’s Institute cake stall in heaven, this is what it looks like.
With the match reaching its crucial point, Handscomb doing his best to maintain the stiff asking rate and Worcestershire’s bowlers doing their best to stop him, another familiar cameo.
Engaged in conversation, the home supporter’s first response should have given me a clue.
“Yorkshire are still just about on course,” I suggested. “That’s what they said about The Titanic,” he replied, darkly.
Then, at the end of the 26th over of Yorkshire’s innings, in which the Australian batsman had helped himself to three boundaries, my correspondent decided to offer the bowler some helpful tips as he made his way to his fielding position on the boundary right in front of us.
“Too short, lad,” the graduate of the school of the bleedin’ obvious told him, just loudly enough for everyone around us to share the bowler’s discomfort. “Pitch it up. You’ve got to make the batsman play. That was a bad over you bowled then.” As all county cricket stalwarts know, there’s always one and sometimes quite a few.
Gnarled old veterans would doubtless have cocked a deaf ‘un, laughed it off, or invited the supporter to have a go himself.
Josh Tongue, a 19-year-old seamer who underwent back surgery last season, only made his championship debut last month (taking 5-45 in their three-day victory over Glamorgan in Cardiff) and was making his List A bow, just seemed hurt.
Tongue did have the last word, however, cleaning up Steve Patterson to complete the match and his side’s 51-run win.
Good for him and for all the players, who afterwards again demonstrated the mutual respect they had shown all day and good for the supporters from home and afar who had let them know how much they appreciated their efforts.
It must be said the present has encroached on New Road’s previously timeless charm. The Graeme Hick Pavilion is not only a necessary upgrade to the original, which might only have taken one more flood to send it downstream.
It is also attractive to look at and, with its trophies, paintings of the club’s stars and characters and assorted memorabilia housed in the entrance foyer, worth more than a quick visit.
The hotel and the adjoining club office building that have risen in the opposite corner may be functional, on the other hand, and important as regards their future wellbeing, however neither wins prizes for sensitive architecture.
Yet the character of New Road on a day like this and the people inside, the quintessential English cricketness of it all, and that of other ‘smaller’ county grounds, lives on, at least for now.
You had to have been there to appreciate it and, whatever else they have in store for us, it is up to the modernisers to preserve it.
This piece originally featured in The Cricket Paper, May 12 2017
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