Picture the scene:-
A small country cricket ground “somewhere in England”. As the church clock strikes “two”, cars begin to arrive & the drivers, some already in whites, greet each other noisily. Doors slam, boots open to disgorge chairs & cricket bags; ladies carry tins, jugs and cloth covered trays into the small wooden pavilion.
A mobile phone rings and the resulting conversation causes alarm. Cars arrive regularly now and a tall fit-looking stranger approaches the man with the phone. It is a moment pregnant with possibility-
he is:-
The Ringer
A sunny day in August, just the kind of day you’d choose
To play the match between St. Pauls & St. Bartholemews;
And one of those coincidences not unknown in sport
Produced a "ringer" with his kit the day we were one short.
Someone asked him what he did, "All rounder" he replied.
"Just the job" the skipper chuckled, "Welcome to the side.
We like to win but basically it’s all a bit of fun;
I’ve won the toss so pad up quick & go in number one".
Our bells have long been silent so strange as it may seem
The only ringer at St. Bart’s was in the cricket team.
He’d played in Minor Counties, for Cowfordshire no less,
Be sure that we, as well as he, were anxious to impress,
To kid him on we knew our stuff, to try to look the part,
But truth to tell we’d blown our cover long before the start;
We’d brought our little canvas bags to shove our bits of kit in,
But Ringer’s massive fibre box was big enough to sit in.
He’d pads & gloves & chest protectors, bats from which to choose,
Helmets, caps & velcro straps like real professionals use.
The opposition trotted out anticipating play
Innocently throwing catches unaware that they
Would soon be suffering in the sun, their hopes of victory dashed;
The Ringer would ensure that they were well & truly thrashed.
We all feel rather guilty, it didn’t seem quite fair,
But they had stuffed us last time round & now we’d all be square.
He watched a couple, blocked a couple, pushed one through the off,
Then smashed a soaring six, like Ballesteros playing golf.
They took an age to find it, bottoms up amid the clover,
While a startled looking umpire, left the field to move his Rover.
Their captain changed his field around, all credit to the chap,
But where the fielder used to be, the Ringer found the gap.
It seems hilarious at the time, but how were we to know
How we would be embarrassed, by the way events would go.
The opening bowler’d had enough and took his massive bulk
To deep - mid - backward - nowhere to lick his wounds & sulk,
The Vicar, summoned with a wave, came in from short fine leg
To bowl his loopy dolly mixtures aimed at middle peg.
Ringer showed him scant respect & slammed him hard & high -
"There’s one for the missionaries", we clearly heard him cry;
And then for 62 for nought, attempting one six more,
Was given L.B.W. – stood his ground and swore.
"Well played", called the skipper in an effort to diffuse
The tension building on the square; it was a timely ruse.
We clapped & cheered until the Ringer left the crease at last
Saying something nasty to the umpire as he passed.
He stumped into the changing room & slammed the door behind him.
"A guest", the skipper shouted out, "you really mustn’t mind him".
First wicket down was just preparing to address the ball
When Ringer threw his Duncan Fearnley through the toilet wall.
"Good grief," the skipper mumbled, "I think I’d better start
To try and calm him down before he takes the place apart."
At tea we mingled well enough, apologies were made;
The bad taste ling’ring in our mouths was not the lemonade.
The Ringer laughed and joked with us & with the opposition;
He seemed a friendly sort of chap when not in competition.
I asked "Why can’t he take it like a normal fellow would?"
The skipper said that if he did he wouldn’t be so good.
Their innings started brightly, they were soon on course to get
The one-four-six to win that St. Bartholomew’s had set.
Running like an antelope and throwing like a gun
The Ringer was at cover point & third man all in one.
The wickie couldn’t cope with him & took some painful blows
While fielders chucked themselves around to stop the overthrows.
At 27 overs gone and 95 for 2
The skipper waved the Ringer up to show what he could do.
By now all thoughts of victory were tempered by our fears
That Ringer’s contribution would make it end in tears
He placed his field decisively with ominous precision.
The skipper asked for back-stop but was greeted with derision.
We all stood rooted to the spot, half afraid to move
In case we wandered out of place and Ringer disapprove.
He’d put me by a fag-end in between two lumps of clover:
I prayed to God I’d find it at the end of the next over.
He’d said he was a spinner & he spun the ball t’was true,
But we were flabbergasted at the speed he pushed them through.
The wickie couldn’t read him which to us was no surprise
But Ringer wasn’t happy when so many went for byes.
Fine leg starting drifting round; it seemed the place to go,
But Ringer waved him back again with signs we didn’t know.
The skipper chuntered in the slips, the wickie chuntered too.
The next one was the ‘arm ball’ & the wickie let it through.
Words were not required for the Ringer to convey
His message to the wickie on the standard of his play.
"Over", called the umpire & we all reflected that
Of all the seven runs it cost not one was off the bat.
The skip took wicket number three, a stumping if you please,
And to a ripple of applause the Vicar took the crease.
He’d played ‘played a bit in India’ we’d always understood
And though his limbs were knocking on his eye was pretty good.
He seemed to read the Ringer & with shots around the square
The green shoots of a cameo were definitely there.
An ‘arm ball’ found the outside edge & looped towards the slips
Where Chief Inspector Howard stood his hands upon his hips.
He dived, he groped, he lost his cap, he finished on the floor;
The ball he knew he should have caught went bobbling on for four.
At once this ageing pillar of the Dampfordshire Constabulary
Became the subject of the Ringer’s colourful vocabulary.
"Easy" called the skipper quickly sensitive to shame.
"Yes", enjoined the Vicar, "just remember it’s a game".
The Ringer mumbling as he turned, ran in towards the Vicar;
Some balls he’d bowled before were fast, but this was three times quicker.
It beat the back defensive stroke and violently connected
With part of the anatomy that should have been protected.
The Vicar, crouched for comfort, said, "I’m sorry, I can’t help it"
Speaking with sincerity not managed from the pulpit.
The Vicar tried to carry on, in fact there was some doubt
If he was praying to stay in or praying to get out.
If it was the latter & he sought relief from care
The next ball from the Ringer brought the answer to his prayer.
He left to heartening applause but looking rather glum;
We hoped he didn’t see the Ringer gesture with his thumb.
The next man wore trousers, not flannels like he should
And gullible as ever we assumed he was no good.
He soon suggested otherwise with boundaries off the skipper
And six into the graveyard when the doctor bowled his ‘flipper’.
They only needed twenty now & didn’t need to hurry
But with the Ringer bowling through we didn’t need to worry.
Appealing like a banshee with the whole team round the bat
He stumped the last man backing up, we’d won and that was that.
We’d lost last year & hung around, they didn’t do the same:
Even though we’d won the match we knew we’d lost the game.
You might suppose it boosts morale & celebrates our cause
To take sadistic pleasure from the way we stuffed St. Pauls,
In fact the opposite is true, the Ringer in his way
Had shown the cost of victory was more than we could pay.
We’ve lost the fixture sadly & there the matter rests;
Perhaps it’s just as well in case they cram their team with guests.
But one thing’s pretty certain, whatever else befalls,
We won’t forget the Ringer, & neither will St. Pauls!
By Arthur Salway
