Andy Richardson: Creasing up about cricket’s ‘fancy’ dress
It would start with jumpers for goalposts. A back garden would be turned into what we imagined was Wembley Stadium and then we’d take to the pitch.
Tackles would fly in as though my eight-year-old mate had morphed into the child-version of Roy Keane, Vinnie Jones, Patrick Viera and Duncan Ferguson as we played one-on-one. Ouch, that hurt. Mind those ankles, Roy.
And then, with a rush of blood to the head, the football would be hoiked high in the air, gathering a little snow as it raced skyward like a rugby ball kicked by George Ford. It would land beyond conifer trees in the neighbour’s garden – about 3mm from the greenhouse. Phew. That could have been nasty. Think of all that glass. Think of all those prize-winning tomatoes.
We’d peer at the ball through the trees. Sticks, broom handles and other devices would be used to try and tease it back before we’d realise the inconvenient truth. The ball was out of reach. And it could be punctured at any moment by the neighbour’s dog.
Patiently, we’d wait until the neighbour returned from work. And then, sometime around six, an embarrassed, WBA-shorts-wearing, wet-around-the-ears boy of eight would look up at the man-giant who opened the door.
Tremulously, I’d say: “Please can I have my ball back?” And the ball would be passed back. Great. Game on. Get the jumpers back on the grass. And go easy with the tackles.
Forty years on, the game has changed.
“Please can I have my ball back?”, is no longer a question asked by kids to neighbours. Kids don’t leave their rooms any longer; they’re too busy plugging themselves into games consoles and tablets. And nobody knows their neighbours. We live our lives through mobile phones. Rather than borrowing a cup of sugar from neighbours or offering to get their washing in if it rains, we view the people next door as figures of mystery who might well have been beamed in from another planet. So much for community. . .
The question ‘Please can i have my ball back?’ has disappeared from the lexicon too.
Except, bizarrely, at cricket grounds. At Edgbaston, Birmingham’s Test Match arena, it was chanted by thousands of fancy-dressed men disguised as bananas, brides, buddhas, Mexicans, pigs and Lord knows what else. The ball in question was the size of a large pram and had probably been inflated with the air of 15 horses and 17 buffalos. It was being knocked around the Hollies Stand – the equivalent of a football terrace – before landing near to a pitch-side steward, who’d decided to keep it.
Tens of men dressed as Jesus and Buddha rushed to the perimeter fence. Their calls of ‘Please Can We Have Our Ball Back?’, were aped by the masses and the chant spread like a Mexican wave or wild fire. Soon a whole stadium was chanting ‘Please Can We Have Our Ball Back?’, and commentators on Sky TV and BBC’s Test Match Special were talking about fun-loving men asking for an errant beach ball, rather than Joe Root and Ben Stokes.
The steward who’d retained the ball huffed and puffed, trying in vain to keep hold of the object of desire as dozens and dozens of men rushed to within three metres of him before chanting, ‘Please Can We Have Our Ball Back?’. Eventually, 10 minutes on, he did the only thing he could do and the ball was returned to triumphant cheers.
The West Indies and England are locking horns again. Their third and final test match started on Thursday at Lord’s, in London. At the home of cricket, you can be pretty sure that there won’t be any men dressed as Mexicans and stewards won’t have to worry about errant beach balls. Instead, there’ll be men in egg and bacon ties with Geoffrey Boycott panama hats and women wearing twin sets and pearls.
At Edgbaston, however, in Birmingham, things are different. Brummies know how to party. A trip to Edgbaston usually involves being overtaken by three Daffy Ducks, a bunch of six foot bananas, a life-sized inflatable horse and 16 men dressed as bearded brides. And that’s just on the shuttle bus from the city centre to the ground.
The cricket becomes a secondary attraction and as the day wears on and the bars almost run out of beer, the action gets more and more raucous.
In this age of billion-pound TV deals, there remains something about live sport that can’t be replicated on TV.
Whether it’s football stadia or cricket pitches, athletics tracks or netball courts – nothing beats being there.
Unless, of course, your beach ball tips onto the pitch. And the steward won’t give it back.
