Andy Richardson: Getting your dates wrong is the only way to live, honest!
At the age of two, my dad brought me a membership at Worcestershire County Cricket Club. Long before I had figured out the answer to 1+1, mastered the art of putting on my own trousers – and She Who Must Be Obeyed would say there are still days when I only just manage that – I was rejoicing to the sound of leather on willow.
Sitting beneath a horse chestnut tree playing with toy cars, may be my earliest memory; it’s either that or riding round the back garden on a Raleigh Budgie bike, wearing a superman mask and green Y-fronts. As first memories go, I’d take both. And if anyone knows a place that sells superman masks, let me know; I’m down with reliving the past and revisiting a remarkable memory. Though I hope the neighbour’s not peering over the fence when I turn the garden into Superman’s speedway track.
Through early childhood into adolescence, we made the welcome journey to New Road, Worcester. On Saturday evenings, mom would roast a chicken so we’d got a picnic to look forward to – and then slap greedy, thieving hands that tried to nick the hot, crisp skin before Sunday came.
We enjoyed years and years of Boy’s Own stuff: Botham joining and winning a couple of Sunday leagues, the club’s unlikely rise to being the best in the country…. All of that stuff. My love for the game is deep and abiding. It is absolute. There is no other game where 22 men can play for five days only to draw. Cricket is honour and skill, drama and virtuosity, teamwork and individual brilliance. Just ask Ben Stokes. From hero to zero and back again.
A sojourn to London, a couple of failed marriages and other life stuff got in the way for a year or 30. But after a few trial runs with She Who Must Be Obeyed, we decided to return to scene of so much happiness earlier this month.
I have a running joke with She Who Must Be Obeyed that she’ll only go to cricket if it’s some form of international. She made her debut as a spectator on a broiling hot day in Adelaide, where India were playing Australia.
Next up was the fabled MCG, for a Sheffield Shield match. She took to it like the proverbial duck fat to roast potatoes, telling me off frequently for playing on my mobile phone rather than watching the action. We booked tickets for this year’s Ashes. More games. More internationals.
It was time to show her the joys of the county game. Worcester were playing Gloucester so I packed the picnic, got there nice and early and bagged the best seats; halfway up the ladies’ pavilion, at square leg. I told her who to look out for on the Worcester and Gloucester teams and we settled back.
The announcer broadcast the day’s team news. He started with this: “The Bangladesh team is….” then read through a full-line up.
I assumed he’d been listening to too much Andy Zaltman on Test Match Special and was sharing news from afar. Strange man. But then a bunch of guys wearing the Bangladesh strip descended from the pavilion and started fielding drills.
She Who Must Be Obeyed went to ask a steward what was going on. As she stepped away from our seats, the scoreboard flickered into life. England Under-19 were playing Bangladesh Under-19.
I’d gone to the wrong ground. On the wrong day. Worcester were playing 25 miles away in Cheltenham. She Who Must Be Obeyed laughed. Then she phoned my dad. He laughed too.
In fairness, it’s not the first time my diary skills have been found wanting. At the age of 18, I’d determined to write for a living. In the absence of job adverts seeking the New John Steinbeck, I’d written to hundreds of newspapers. The chances of employment at my local paper – this one – were slim: one job to every 50 applicants. So I hatched a plan to fall back on retail management.
Rackhams, in Birmingham, invited me for an interview. When I arrived at the welcome desk, they couldn’t find my name. Amid confusion, they showed me to two fragrant and beautiful women.
“I’m here for the interview,” I said.
“There are no interviews,” said the personnel ladies.
I showed them my letter. Then realised I’d gone on the wrong day. The interviews had been 24 hours earlier. I was a day late.
They interviewed me anyway. It was a charming 30-minute encounter filled with flirtatious laughter and jokes at my expense. At the end they asked what I’d do if I got the job. I said I’d buy champagne and celebrate.
They gave me the job. I didn’t take it. But I did buy a delicious bottle of Moet et Chandon. Getting your dates wrong is the only way to live. Cheers.
