How to write the perfect ending? It isn’t easy.
Take the drab and drabber conclusion of the last season of Line of Duty. A masterclass in how to bore your audience to within inches of death. Worse still, the clusterf*** bonfire of logic that was Game of Thrones from season five onwards. A prime example of how to turn one of the most popular series in history into a footnote in storytelling anti-climax.
And if world famous writers like Jed Mercurio or David Weiss and David Benioff can’t find the right way to finish a story, then you would be within your rights to believe that a fairytale ending might also elude the last game of The Road’s season.
But then, you’d be wrong. Beause we’re The Road. And we write our own scripts. And they’re pretty good, as it turns out.
On a brisk September Saturday morning, a squad of twelve made our annual pilgrimage down to Great Missenden to play the ‘Dors. A venue at which we have never won. But given the way records have fallen like Woody when a ball is struck within 10 meters of him of late, you wondered whether this year, change was afoot.
The opposition were light of players, and thus were lent Connor, hero of the LPL Final, to beef up their side. They managed to turn up incredibly late, perhaps hoping PEJ would feel merciful if he won the toss and allow them to bat until their players arrived. He was not feeling merciful. Road won the toss. Road batted.
PEJ would take first ball, while Dougie was promoted to open for the first time in what the skipper hoped would be a devastating right hand left hand combination.
He was right about the devastation, but responsibility fell not on the right hand half of the opening partnership. Dougie has carried the weight of the Road batting line up on his extraordinarily broad shoulders at times this season, and he needed precisely one ball to get his eye in, cracking the first legal delivery he faced to the boundary for four. “Magic mirror on the wall, who is the Fairest ball striker of them all?”, we presume he muttered, before bludgeoning boundaries through point, cover, square leg, and then losing the ball in the second over of the match with enormous slog sweep for six.
PEJ hit one lovely four through the covers, but when he fell for 6, caught at mid off from a mistimed drive, the score was already on 38 in six overs. Explosive. Birchy came next, looked decidedly sure in defense and unsure in attack, and departed for 1 after looking to pull a ball that skidded through a bit low. Both skipper and VC looked seriously relieved to be finished with batting for the season, and shared a gin and tonic together on the touchline while softly sobbing. Tears of relief that the punishment is over for now.
That brought Craigie to the crease. Dougie was continuing to make hay from the other end, blasting boundaries all round the ground against seamer and spinner alike as if he were a four-hitting whirling dervish. He looked near unstoppable, but was given a life after smearing one shot to the mid wicket boundary that was shelled by a charitable oppo fielder wearing an orange cap. When Dougie tried to repeat the trick a couple of overs later, Connor was feeling less forgiving and he snuffled the chance to remove the Fair one for 48.
Craigie meanwhile was not looking like a man who hadn’t played for more than a month, as he started fluently. One lofted drive straight down the ground for four was met with whoops from the watching fielders, and exclamations of “who brought indoor Craigie?!” He was sadly undone soon after, looking to cut a ball that was a little too full and being bowled. 70-4 was starting to look precarious.
Enter Mandy and Oscar. Curiously, it seems rare that both score runs when batting together. Is it both trying to outdo each other in the race to win batter of the season (though Dougie may have something to say about that)? Is it simply part of our deal with the devil (also known as Richard Bibby) that only one of our superhuman players can perform at any one time?
Who knows, but the Missenden team must have royally pissed off Mr BeelzeBibs, because both Mandy and Oscar were in the mood. Mandy in particular set off like a runaway train, all controlled aggression and impeccable timing. Back-to-back drives to the cover boundary that were threaded between three fielders were particularly enjoyed by the watching Roaders. There was, naturally, an enormous six in there too. They don’t even get nominated for Champagne moment these days.
And while Beauty was getting to work from one end, Beast was hacking his way into form at the other. Watching these two together is empirical proof that, truly, there is no right or wrong way to score your runs. While Mandy targeted the mid wicket and cover boundaries, Oscar was hitting with brutal efficiency straight and square of the wicket.
We soon lost another ball, Oscar pumping it into the treeline for six more down the ground. Sadly, the fun was ended when a Mandy leading edge was caught and he departed for 42 from 25 to end a stunning season with the bat. The partnership was 83, and Sainty, elevated to number 7, was next in. He took an interesting approach, dealing in dot balls or boundaries. There was a classic Sainthouse cut to the boundary, before a majestic pull to the mid wicket boundary brought him four more. Don’t bowl short to the plucky Mancunian!
By this point, Oscar was channeling the bastard child of Shahid Afridi and Chris Gayle. Fours, sixes, more fours, singles, fours, fours, fours, there were a lot of fours. Batted, Chrishid Afrigayle.
Sainthouse was then plum LBW for a brisk 20, gleefully dispatched by umpire Hawkeye. “Yes, pitching in line. Impact in line. Hitting wickets. Umpire Craigie, stay with your on-field decision.” “Thanks third umpire Craigie. I’m on screen now.”
Keats came, he sacrificed himself at the altar of Oscar run-outs in search of a personal milestone – a record standing at around 21 victims across the 2022 season. Smally had time to wrap up embarrassing, taking his bail guard for one ball in scenes that are already being described as the most farcical since he took his bail guard for two overs the week before. Oscar finished on 94* as Road amassed an aggressive 233-7.
Nobody bottles a position of strength quite like The Road at Missenden, but still, it felt like a lot of runs to defend in 35 overs. And it was here that the magic began.
A week earlier we had celebrated Sherman’s 200th game for the club. An achievement that deserves thanks and recognition for the club’s greatest ever run-scorer. He was also the captain in my first season, and did more than anybody else in making me feel welcome in my first months. A true King’s Road legend, thank you for everything you do for the club Daddy Sherms!
This time round, it was Smally’s turn. And not only was he playing his 200th game, he came into it on 196 wickets. Getting to 200 seemed a tall order, but not impossible. If Rian Johnson were writing this script, he’d have subverted our expectations by having PEJ formulate a long-winded and utterly nonsensical plan that involved he as captain telling nobody what he was doing, Smally getting zero overs and probably being killed off by a newcomer whose storyline is also then turned into a mess, before PEJ pulls some kind of suicide maneuver whereby he crashes the Great Missenden booze train into a Star Destroyer, rendering the whole day a complete waste of time.
Reader, Rian Johnson was not writing this script.
Browny did what Browny does and bowled a mean first over to put the pressure on. And from the other end, the itsy-Smally spider began to weave his web of spinning deceit. It took three balls for the first domino to fall, the batter beaten in flight and trapped dead in front LBW. Smally set off at what I would describe as a Tabraiz Shamsi on the over-celebrating of wickets scale. But reader, there was better to come.
Spooked by his predecessor perishing while looking to defend, the new batter looked instead to attack. He hit a four, tried the same thing the next ball, and shoveled it straight down the waiting Sainthouse’s throat at mid on. We moved now to an Andre Nel in the celebrations scale (I don’t know why they’re all South African but give them their due, they know how to celebrate a wicket).
Browny was bowling superbly at the other end, and now received his own reward, the other opener trapped in front having been given nothing whatsoever to get after. That brought a familiar face to the crease, Connor.
The new batter at the other end was (hello) DEV. A left hander who was taken us apart in the past. But today was not a day for Dev. It was a day for Small achievements. One ball later he was trudging back LBW, and Smally was breaking international records for the 60m sprint around the square in celebrations that now ranked at Kagiso Rabada to David Warner on the delirium Richter scale.
One more needed. Suddenly, Smally looked nervous for the first time. The field came up. First slip. Leg slip. If the ball was going in the air, there would be someone underneath it. But you don’t need a fielder when you pitch it outside off, it rips past the batter’s defenses, and kisses the top of the bail to bowl him. Game 200. Wicket number four. Wicket 200. And at this point, Smally simply went full Imran Tahir. Laps of the pitch, screaming. It was madness and we loved it. He returned figures for the day of 4-18. Bloody well bowled and a fitting tribute to another club legend. Bottled the jug though didn’t he. Selfish.
A double change was up next. Keats from one end, Shermer from t’other. And there was fight in Missenden yet in the form of a familiar face. Keats probed away but had no luck as Connor presented a staunch defence while playing his classic whip through square leg to devastating effect. Sainthouse came on and bowled threateningly but had no more luck in finding a breakthrough.
Shermer, meanwhile, has been resembling Clint Eastwood being marched through the desert in The Good, The Bad and The Ugly for a number of weeks. He’s not a man so much in need of a wicket as parched and dying of thirst in search of one. He looked jittery, dropping short now and then and watching his good balls evade the edge. But his luck turned when a ball was smacked directly at PEJ, who took a nervous-looking catch before throwing the ball over his shoulder in a manner that was far more casual than the few seconds that preceded it.
Browny was now reintroduced and finally removed Connor for a gutsy 37. ‘Great ball mate’ said Connor. ‘God that was a sh** ball’, said Browny once Connor was out of ear shot. Shermer meanwhile, was becoming a touch erratic again at the other end. ‘How many overs have you had mate?’ enquired the captain. Perhaps sensing he was about to be hooked, Shermer promptly took a screamer of a caught and bowled in a moment that would finish second in Champagne moment. The second screamer of a caught and bowled that he has failed to win the award for this season, he wryly observed.
And so, we approach the conclusion of our fairytale. Once upon a time, there was a man of the cloth who everybody loved. I know, it sounds the most far-fetched part of this tall tale so far! But it’s true, for we all adore Brother Birch. He has enjoyed something of a breakout season with ball in hand, bowling some very handy spells and chipping in with wickets. This was maybe the best of the lot, a lovely, wobbly, curvy thing that flicked the bail from atop the stumps with disdain. Figures of 1-0-1-1. I suspect his strike rate is very healthy with the ball. Frontline bowlers, watch out. He’s coming for your over.
It was to be PEJ from the other end. A tired man. A haggard man. A proud man. But most of all, a man who was ready for it all to be over. The cricket, that is. And when the ball was struck high in the air, it was poetic justice that the fielder beneath it should be the much-maligned Oscar, whose catching is as predictable as a Christopher Nolan script (also an appropriate metaphor as each new one makes less sense than the last). But on this occasion, he slid forward to take the catch, before lying on his back in what must have been utter relief. PEJ fell upon him in delight, as did several other teammates. A first win at Missenden, by more than 100 runs.
A fitting end to an unforgettable season. And the birth of a new King’s Road song chorused around Marylebone station on our return. Somewhere, Will Brown was looking down from football hooligan heaven, and smiling.
