The Clock of Life

The Clock of Life is wound but once
And no man has the power
To tell just when the hands will stop
At late or early hour.

The present only is our own
So live, love, toil with a will

Place no faith in "Tomorrow,"
For the Clock may then be still.

The Clock of Life by Robert H Smith

Hi everyone!

After some 570,000 turns of the minute hand of my own Clock of Life and over 2 billion seconds, today is Day:23,742 for me.

My 65^th Birthday !

A day for memories of Times Past. 
And perhaps just a nod toward Tomorrow.

  

But as for Today, well the Sandwiches are cut, the Salad is prepared (OK, it’s a couple of small tomatoes) and the Pork Pie is in; never in doubt!!

I’m off to Lords for the cricket: Day 3 of Middlesex v Yorkshire in the Championship.
With Nigel, a good friend from the Fitz Class of '71

I was at Lords on Day:7,671 -  44 years ago today on Thursday 21^st June 1973 -  for my 21^st Birthday.

Was the Clock hovering somewhere around  - hopefully just before - quarter past the hour?

Peter Williams (a childhood friend from St Mark’s Primary School days), the Young Man (from even further back than that) and I sat on the upper tier of the Compton Stand at the Nursery End for Day 1 of England v New Zealand.

Ray Illingworth captained England who ended the day on 240 for 9, with a steady 61 from Geoff Boycott and a sparkling 63 from Tony Greig, the Sussex captain.

Greigy

At the Cromwell Road end, Hove

I sat looking out across the ground looking up to Father Time, who has watched over the cricket at Lords since the mid 1920’s.

Father Time is not always a hard parent and though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigour.

With such people the grey head is but the impression of the old fellow's hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life.

Barnaby Rudge by Charles Dickens

I thought back – as I always do on visits to the Home of Cricket – to the first time I ever watched a game there. It was on Day:3,263, Saturday 27^th May 1961.

Was the Clock at barely 6 minutes past the hour?

It was Marylebone Cricket Club - MCC (captained by Colin Cowdrey, with Young Jim keeping wicket) v The Australians (captained by Richie Benaud).

There were centuries for two Australians: 104 from Bill Lawry and 122 from Norman O’Neill.

Dad & I sat in the Warner stand, which was only a couple of years old back in 1961.

50+ years on, I can sense the hands on the Clock gathering speed for the stand has recently been demolished and rebuilt.

Young Ric & Dad 
The Mermaid Hotel, Rye in the early 1970's
My cousin Linda's wedding

Barely a handful of you reading the blog will have known Dad.

It is over 35 years since he died, but Dad's influence on me - how I see the world and value the people in it -  is still as strong ever. 

I have felt him walking by my side every day of my life. His hand in mine on days of Triumph and of Disaster; I’ve always tried, as Kipling wrote, to treat those two Impostors just the same.

For what it's worth, Graham Greene, that quintessentially English novelist,  was right: 

Success is more dangerous than Failure, the ripples break over a wider coastline.

As we headed back that Saturday evening to Tunbridge Wells, we drove across South East London and out along the Bromley Road. 
Though Dad & I had no absolutely idea, we were within barely a mile of Merryfield where Dianne and I would live contentedly for 30 years and more.

Lady Piper & Lord Mylo

At Merryfield: May 2017

It had been a great day at the Cricket, the game Dad & I have loved all our lives, starting out as players and then retiring to watch from the famous deckchairs at the Cromwell Road end at Hove.

Like Dad, my club cricket would be played on the village greens of Kent and Sussex.

My first game of club cricket was on Day:5,479. Wednesday 21^st June 1967, my 15^th birthday.

If I'm to make it  - as I'm determined I will - to Summer 2039 for the 200^th Anniversary lunch of my beloved Sussex, the Clock will need to have been around 10 minutes past the hour !

It was an evening game for Hawkenbury Wednesdays against Tonbridge Occasionals.

Hawkenbury Cricket Ground

The Hedge End is on the left

A Hawks player had dropped out on the Tuesday afternoon & the Hawks Wednesday captain George Bennett – whose wife knew Mum through the Banner Farm Ladies Association – had rung that evening to ask if I’d like a game. 

I cycled home from school, collected my kit and walked the 20 minutes to the ground.

George introduced me to the other Hawks players.

The Occasionals won the toss and batted.

I bowled a couple of overs and a ‘straight up & downer’ gave me my first wicket in club cricket.

When the Hawks batted, whilst they pretty much kept up with the required scoring rate, they regularly lost wickets.

The 9^th wicket fell on the final ball of the penultimate over with 8 runs still needed.

A few minutes before 7.30 a very nervous Number 11 batsman on debut walked to the non-striker’s end.

Des Hitch, who was the Hawks Sunday captain, came up & said to me: 
When I say run, run like the wind, Ric. 
And Good Luck!

The scorebook for the final over records:

Ball	Batsman	Runs
1	Des	⁃
2	Des	1
3	Ric	⁃
4	Ric	3
5	Des	1

It had all come down - as it so often does in a Lord Ric Blog – to the final ball of the game. 

1 wicket left. 3 runs to get. All results possible.
Less than one second from the ball leaving the bowler's hand to determine the result.

The Occasionals captain conferred with the bowler and together they tinkered with the field placings.

Des gave me some well-meaning advice: Play the ball on its merits.

I looked round the ground.
50 years on I can remember exactly what I saw as though it was all engraved in slow motion.

On the Square Cover boundary a dog walker and his West Highland terrier had paused to watch the denouement.

Beyond Extra Cover word had reached the tennis courts that the game had got close, very close. The mixed-doubles had stopped playing and were peering through the perimeter netting.

All the Hawks players were standing outside the Pavilion.

And to the right of the Pavilion on the Long Off boundary I saw a man in a navy blue jumper on a bench by the oak trees.  
Sitting impassively, he was grey haired, his face tanned from many Seasons watching cricket.

A man in a navy blue jumper

I didn’t need to wonder what he was thinking nor seek his advice.

For I knew that Dad would be expecting me to answer that essential question which we all face:

What’s the point of Life if you don’t Give It A Go?

There was only one shot in my armoury which I could play with a decent chance of scoring the 3 runs needed to secure a victory for the Hawks: the one-bounce through Midwicket for four.

I asked the Umpire for a new guard of Middle Stump; and turned to the legside for one final look at the field placings.

The Occasionals captain must have guessed what I was going to try to do for he moved himself from Second Slip to Midwicket, about two-thirds of the way to the boundary on the Bowling Green side of the ground.

And so it was that by a couple of minutes after 7.30 on the evening of Wednesday 21^st June 1967, exactly half a century ago today, we had reached - what in modern day T20 they call  - the Death Ball.

From behind the stumps the wicketkeeper chirruped: Come on, Boys. We can win this one!
The Umpire called: Play.
And the bowler ran in six or seven strides to the wicket

In truth, the ball was a little fuller than I would have ideally chosen, but it was on my favourite middle / middle & leg.

I swung my bat as hard as I could and felt contact with the ball.

I looked out to Midwicket.

The  Occasionals captain didn’t even move.

But then he didn’t need to … I had got a thick outside edge.

The ball had gone at catchable height to the right of the just vacated Second Slip and run down to the Hedge End of the ground for 4!!

The Hawks had won.

The Occasionals Captain came over and said wryly: Good shot, youngster.

The Captain and I  both realised that, although the Field Marshal  (probably!) wasn't watching the Hawks that particular game, Field Marshal Helmuth von Moltlke the Elder was right: 

No plan survives first contact with the enemy.

Des came up to me.

Well done, Young Ric!  
Let me buy a Birthday pint at The Spread.*

And are you available to play on Sunday?

*Editor: As Young Ric was only 15 this was a pint of Lemonade; obviously!!

The Spread Eagle, Forest Road

Too many Sunday evenings spent there to even begin to count !

So many, many happy memories of playing club cricket in the 1960’s, 70’s and ‘80s.

For the Hawks, Paddock Wood and Tunbridge Wells Borderers; especially the Saturday 2^nd XI brilliantly led by Arthur Edwards, then Nigel Turner and finally by the Young Man himself.

There are famous victories to recount, long ago forgotten defeats and - above all – friendships to cherish.

It's over 30 years since I played my last game of club cricket.
(Sorry, Pete, it was a terrible shot I got out to; one which denied you getting a well-deserved 50.)

But when I see the names from scorebooks long ago  - Bishopp, Clarke, Clayton, Green, Hardwick (K & P), Hill & others - in the Fixtures I know that watching cricket in the sun with them is always going to be a Special Day.

The old friend is a guardian of memories on which we might otherwise have a damagingly tenuous hold... 
Remembering what it was like not to be what we are now.
Sathnam Sanghera 

As for  Des, he took me under his wing and initiated me in the ways of Sunday club cricket.

A retired semi-professional footballer for Eastbourne United, Des was an estate agent and sometime property developer. 
He was the first person I knew who owned a Jaguar, in which he often gave me a lift home.

The S-type

Driven by Des; & in the 1980's by DI Jack Regan in The Sweeney

One day, Des, I'll drive a Jag. 
And - though it took me nearly 30 years - one day I did !!

One Sunday we were away against Leigh on the village green where cricket has been played since the early 18^th century.

The Village Green, Leigh

After the game we joined the opposition for a couple of pints (each!) in the local pub.

The Fleur De Lis

By barely 10.30 we were ready to leave.

The Jag knew its way home and we were soon round the back of Bidborough and on through Southborough.

As we passed Southfields and the Cross Keys pub by Powder Mill Lane a red Ferrari overtook the Jag.

Did Des and I really chase Stirling Moss in a Ferrari down St John’s Road at 100 miles an hour?

Ferrari 250 TR58

Stirling Moss at the wheel

Well, #JustPerhaps we did …. 

For as both cars sped by the turning to Culverden Down and the Ferrari swung right along Mount Ephraim towards Stormonts garage and the Kent & Sussex hospital, a policeman flagged down the Jag.

Evening, sir. Who do think you are: Stirling Moss?

No officer, Stirling was ahead of us in the Ferrari we were chasing!

It looked for all the world that Des was Bang To Rights.

But on that Sunday evening long, long ago the Cricketing Gods were smiling down on Des for the policeman was Charlie Morphy who lived in one of the police houses in Dorset Road leading up to the Hawks’ ground and who – shifts permitting – was an opening bowler for the Saturday 1^st XI.

On your way Des. On your way.

---

Sadly, Des and I lost touch after I moved from Tunbridge Wells.

But a few years ago back in September 2011 I saw the Family Announcement in the Kent & Sussex Courier that Des had passed away, with 78 years recorded in the scorebook.

ER Hickmott & Sons organised the funeral at St Mark’s Church. 

I like to think that they used one of their Jaguars for the hearse.

And that there was time for one last spin down St John’s Road!

----

Place no faith in "Tomorrow,"

For the Clock may then be still.

Please …  Don’t ever be tempted to leave your own Bucket List until your “Tomorrow”.

After all ….

Why read a Lord Ric Cricket Blog, when You can star in your own?

See you soon!!

Lord Ric of Beckley Furnace

Follow me on Twitter: LordRic52

PS

On a day when inevitably I’ll be thinking about my own Clock of Life, you and I both might like to contemplate: 

Eternity

Think of a ball of steel as large as the world.

And a fly alighting on it once every million years.

When the ball of steel is rubbed away by the friction, Eternity will not even have begun.

The Picturegoers by David Lodge

With all  - bar the first 65 years -  of Eternity remaining

Plenty of "Final ball of the game" Lord Ric blogs still to happen !!