The 2006/07 hobo season began late last July, celebrating the birth of Runcorn Linnets FC at a rugby league ground in St. Helens. It ended yesterday, after 49 games (37 of which you've read about here) at Bedfont Sports. You squeeze out what you can while you can.
This season this site has dipped below level 10 of English football for the first time, to watch both the aforementioned Bedfont and South Liverpool; witnessed games in each of the first seven rounds of the FA Cup up to and including the first round proper; dipped beneath the murky surface waters of Italian football and watched some Serie D; and focused latterly on Havant & Waterlooville's run to the Conference South play-off semi-final.
To keep those of you that are interested in the Conference South picture, Salisbury City eventually beat Braintree in the play-off final to join champions Histon in the Conference National (or the Blue Square Premier as it'll be known next season). Of the sides in the relegation positions, only Bedford Town will end up demoted. Hayes were reprieved by Farnborough Town's liquidation, and then merged with their very local rivals to form Hayes & Yeading, which allowed Weston Super Mare also to breathe a sigh of relief. Joining us next year will be relegated St. Albans City and the promoted quartet of Bath City, Maidenhead United, Hampton & Richmond Borough and Bromley. Should be a fun year and I'm confident we'll be up their fighting once again.
However all this rampant summation is not to say that I'm finished here for the season as a sketch-out for the Bedfont Sports game, and one prior end of season fixture, will be forthcoming, spread out amongst the cricket missives that will occasionally appear throughout the summer.
However, there probably isn't that big a gap to cover as, all being well, the next fitba tread will begin in only seven weeks time, as the magnificent boys of the H&'Dub Foundation start the ramp up to their 07/08 campaign with a friendly across the water. It may only be the Solent water, over to Cowes Sports, but sod it, in the absence of an UEFA cup berth for next year's Hampshire Senior Cup winners next year (for shame!), this'll have to do as a European campaign.
This season has seen a slightly less rapid turnover of material, and possibly less adventure in terms of journeys undertaken, and it will probably remain that way next year. My keenness to explore remains, but now being back in the south, and nearer to the Havant & Waterlooville heartland, I have rediscovered the highs, and lows, of being partisan, and it has been brilliant to be back regularly amongst the fold. Thus next season, I'll be wanting to see them Hawks as much as possible.
However, I don't want this to become a week in week out H&W web-log. This site is currently getting 2,500 page views a week apparently (which I find unbelievable really, and thanks to all of you for stopping by) and West Leigh Park attendance averages would suggest that not all of you are H&W fans. Although you should be, of course.
Thus the genuine hobo material will be fired out at a much more considered pace, so if there are 2 to 3 weeks between postings, I hope you'll bear with me, but I imagine there'll be plenty of stuff from the FA Cup qualifying rounds at the start of next season.
Some of you might be interested in my non-hobo writing. Despite ending my musical fanzine Vanity Project this past spring, I do hope to write the occasional gig review for The Art of Noise, and when that happens it'll be flagged up with a "[reviewed]" link in the 'recent diversions' bit over there in the side column (as with this Pere Ubu review), as well as in the 'misc. writing' section further down, where you also find links to my contributions to the A-Z of Football currently being compiled, at a nice relaxed pace, by the chaps at Cheer Up Alan Shearer.
Like I say, thanks again for reading these pages.
Have a good summer.
Sunday, 27 May 2007
Monday, 21 May 2007
England vs West Indies
19may07
Npower 1st Test
Lords, St. Johns Wood
Days 1 & 2: England 553-5 dec.
[Cook 105, Collingwood 111, Prior 126no, Bell 109no]
Day 3 of 5
close of play: West Indies 363-7
[Chanderpaul 63no, Ramdin 60, Bravo 56, Ganga 49, Panesar 4-108]
The image of cricket is one where turning out to watch a game isn’t about being resolutely partisan. Individual and team achievements by the opposition are lauded and applauded almost as warmly as those by your own. Well, that is true, and part of its appeal, but it’s easy to get tugged into a more negative appraisal of a days play if your side do not come out on top.
Last year for Pakistan at Headingley, two days play were affordable, but sadly now I’ve left the provinces, and I’m into London test match pricing. Thanks to choosing two days, it meant we got to see one of the highest third wicket test partnerships of all time by Billy Beardface and Younis Khan. Which you enjoy, but it soon makes the beer boys of the Western Terrace restless when hours pass without England nabbing a wicket. Thankfully turning up on the Sunday meant that after a few more of those attritional hours, there was a flurry of wickets, and memorable ones; Inzi Big Potato falling over his stumps like a rotund pensioner rolling into a shallow ditch, and Monty Panesar taking the sort of athletic, diving catch thought beyond most, let alone our Mont. As it turned out it was the highest ever test partnership in a losing cause. Hindsight helps the magnanimity of our appreciation in this case, I guess.
However having only one day to choose this year, it appears we may have been one day behind the pace. Yesterday, four England batsmen occupied the crease, and all left as centurions to standing ovations. Today, much was expected from an England bowling attack refreshed and all performing well in county cricket, particularly those who had not gone to the World Cup. Also, the rain promised earlier in the week was apparently not now going to arrive, and everyone was here. Well not everyone, as there were a few empty seat, but Bella Emberg was here, and that is surely just as good.
Yet, it was, by and large, the West Indies’ day, so much so that the incessant sledging coming from the pocket of West Indian fans near ourselves in the Compton Stand barely let up, and by 6:30, renditions of ‘One Love’ and ‘I Shot The Sheriff’ had been attempted. I stress attempted, as what they gained in repetitive chunter, they lost in tunefulness.
It is frustrating as, in theory, the Windies were ripe for a thrashing. Their bowling performance over the first two days, outside of the pre-lunch sessions, betrayed their position as the worst established test side around, and expectation was high. Even as early as 11:21, the child sat next to us was asking “are they ever going to take a wicket?” Nothing less than a 4-0 whitewash will do it seems.
However, like the Windies, the pace bowlers only seemed to have any effect before they tucked into their lunch. At the start of the day, Harmison looked firey and Hoggard was finding a little swing, if not as much as he would have liked. Then Plunkett came on and took the first wicket in his opening over, uprooting a pretty set-looking Chris Gayle’s off-stump.
In the afternoon session though, there was rapid deterioration amongst the quicks, physically so in the case of Hoggard, who limped off with a thigh injury seemingly not to return in this test, if not the next. Harmison can have no such excuse, as his hostility ramped down to vague interest, and his radar took a hit as well, a number of balls sailing so wide as to suggest he was pitching the ball off the upturned hull of a small boat, to cause any real concern. It is a worry with Harmy, the world’s top bowler three years ago, that his performances now on the big stage are wittling away at his talent and his confidence, his post-Ashes demons not being put to rest. It appears to be a kind of modern art project, where he attempts to carve a 4ft curled-up-in-ball-under-some-coats-somewhere-in-Northumberland personal effigy out of his 6ft standing self.
Thank goodness then for Monty, who continues to be treated as though somewhere twixt cult hero and special needs kid by the crowd, regardless of what he does. During left-hand/right-hand partnerships, as he moved constantly between fine leg positions in front of the Mound Stand and then in front of the Compton, he was, each time, greeted as though he’d taken a hat-trick in the previous over. It kind of reminded me of a certain American professional wrestler, going to the crowd at each side of the ring after a winning bout, flipping his forearms into a cupping of his ear to up (and eat up) their cheers. That’s right, Monty Panesar is only a Sanchez ‘tache and an animalistic ripping of his team-shirt away from being Hulk Hogan. I genuinely believe that you’ll have heard that here first.
However, that is not to say that Monty was not due any praise at all. He was the only bowler that caused the West Indian batsmen to fret, and this on a green-top pitch that wasn’t turning, in a game he almost didn’t play in because of it. Instead of ripping the ball out of the dust, Monty merely used the suggestion of possible spin to come as his tool. As such, his very first ball goes straight on, beating Devon Smith’s expectation of turn, and knocking off the bails. Three more West Indians were foxed during the afternoon, perishing to front-foot leg-before calls with the ball not veering, thus convincing umpire Asad Rauf, correctly, that the trajectory was true and trapping.
Paul Collingwood also performed well with the ball, accounting for Dwayne Bravo by tying him up with a cheeky bodyline bouncer that was flicked into the hands of Alistair Cook at deep mid-wicket. However Owais Shah looked a little lost and pedestrian in the field, which after a poor first innings showing, will make dropping Michael Vaughan back in that whole lot easier. Also new coach Peter Moores’ apparently nepotistic demands for Prior, and the jettisoning of the Badger (despite his oddly reassuring, if barkingly eccentric, presence during the World Cup), appear justified. Lords is not known as an easy place to keep, but todays performance suggested he can do the tricky things well, grabbing a number of the more wayward leg-side deliveries before they crashed to the boundary, but shelling a number of regulation takes. However, after a rapid-fire debut ton, I think we’ll give him more than the benefit of the doubt.
As the day dwindled to a close, there was a minor fillip, with Plunkett taking a second wicket and drawing to a close Denesh Ramdin’s very tidy, thrusting lower order knock. England then finished still on top, but with the West Indies now playing only for a draw, with both considerable patience and the strength of positivity I might add, and having overcome the psychologically boosting follow-on mark, England will need to find something from deep within to be able to take thirteen more of their wickets, however easy they might be finding runs to come by.
West Indies 437ao [Chanderpaul 74, Panesar 6-129]
England 284-8 dec. [Pietersen 109, Cook 65]
West Indies 89-0
Match drawn
Npower 1st Test
Lords, St. Johns Wood
Days 1 & 2: England 553-5 dec.
[Cook 105, Collingwood 111, Prior 126no, Bell 109no]
Day 3 of 5
close of play: West Indies 363-7
[Chanderpaul 63no, Ramdin 60, Bravo 56, Ganga 49, Panesar 4-108]
The image of cricket is one where turning out to watch a game isn’t about being resolutely partisan. Individual and team achievements by the opposition are lauded and applauded almost as warmly as those by your own. Well, that is true, and part of its appeal, but it’s easy to get tugged into a more negative appraisal of a days play if your side do not come out on top.
Last year for Pakistan at Headingley, two days play were affordable, but sadly now I’ve left the provinces, and I’m into London test match pricing. Thanks to choosing two days, it meant we got to see one of the highest third wicket test partnerships of all time by Billy Beardface and Younis Khan. Which you enjoy, but it soon makes the beer boys of the Western Terrace restless when hours pass without England nabbing a wicket. Thankfully turning up on the Sunday meant that after a few more of those attritional hours, there was a flurry of wickets, and memorable ones; Inzi Big Potato falling over his stumps like a rotund pensioner rolling into a shallow ditch, and Monty Panesar taking the sort of athletic, diving catch thought beyond most, let alone our Mont. As it turned out it was the highest ever test partnership in a losing cause. Hindsight helps the magnanimity of our appreciation in this case, I guess.
However having only one day to choose this year, it appears we may have been one day behind the pace. Yesterday, four England batsmen occupied the crease, and all left as centurions to standing ovations. Today, much was expected from an England bowling attack refreshed and all performing well in county cricket, particularly those who had not gone to the World Cup. Also, the rain promised earlier in the week was apparently not now going to arrive, and everyone was here. Well not everyone, as there were a few empty seat, but Bella Emberg was here, and that is surely just as good.
Yet, it was, by and large, the West Indies’ day, so much so that the incessant sledging coming from the pocket of West Indian fans near ourselves in the Compton Stand barely let up, and by 6:30, renditions of ‘One Love’ and ‘I Shot The Sheriff’ had been attempted. I stress attempted, as what they gained in repetitive chunter, they lost in tunefulness.
It is frustrating as, in theory, the Windies were ripe for a thrashing. Their bowling performance over the first two days, outside of the pre-lunch sessions, betrayed their position as the worst established test side around, and expectation was high. Even as early as 11:21, the child sat next to us was asking “are they ever going to take a wicket?” Nothing less than a 4-0 whitewash will do it seems.
However, like the Windies, the pace bowlers only seemed to have any effect before they tucked into their lunch. At the start of the day, Harmison looked firey and Hoggard was finding a little swing, if not as much as he would have liked. Then Plunkett came on and took the first wicket in his opening over, uprooting a pretty set-looking Chris Gayle’s off-stump.
In the afternoon session though, there was rapid deterioration amongst the quicks, physically so in the case of Hoggard, who limped off with a thigh injury seemingly not to return in this test, if not the next. Harmison can have no such excuse, as his hostility ramped down to vague interest, and his radar took a hit as well, a number of balls sailing so wide as to suggest he was pitching the ball off the upturned hull of a small boat, to cause any real concern. It is a worry with Harmy, the world’s top bowler three years ago, that his performances now on the big stage are wittling away at his talent and his confidence, his post-Ashes demons not being put to rest. It appears to be a kind of modern art project, where he attempts to carve a 4ft curled-up-in-ball-under-some-coats-somewhere-in-Northumberland personal effigy out of his 6ft standing self.
Thank goodness then for Monty, who continues to be treated as though somewhere twixt cult hero and special needs kid by the crowd, regardless of what he does. During left-hand/right-hand partnerships, as he moved constantly between fine leg positions in front of the Mound Stand and then in front of the Compton, he was, each time, greeted as though he’d taken a hat-trick in the previous over. It kind of reminded me of a certain American professional wrestler, going to the crowd at each side of the ring after a winning bout, flipping his forearms into a cupping of his ear to up (and eat up) their cheers. That’s right, Monty Panesar is only a Sanchez ‘tache and an animalistic ripping of his team-shirt away from being Hulk Hogan. I genuinely believe that you’ll have heard that here first.
However, that is not to say that Monty was not due any praise at all. He was the only bowler that caused the West Indian batsmen to fret, and this on a green-top pitch that wasn’t turning, in a game he almost didn’t play in because of it. Instead of ripping the ball out of the dust, Monty merely used the suggestion of possible spin to come as his tool. As such, his very first ball goes straight on, beating Devon Smith’s expectation of turn, and knocking off the bails. Three more West Indians were foxed during the afternoon, perishing to front-foot leg-before calls with the ball not veering, thus convincing umpire Asad Rauf, correctly, that the trajectory was true and trapping.
Paul Collingwood also performed well with the ball, accounting for Dwayne Bravo by tying him up with a cheeky bodyline bouncer that was flicked into the hands of Alistair Cook at deep mid-wicket. However Owais Shah looked a little lost and pedestrian in the field, which after a poor first innings showing, will make dropping Michael Vaughan back in that whole lot easier. Also new coach Peter Moores’ apparently nepotistic demands for Prior, and the jettisoning of the Badger (despite his oddly reassuring, if barkingly eccentric, presence during the World Cup), appear justified. Lords is not known as an easy place to keep, but todays performance suggested he can do the tricky things well, grabbing a number of the more wayward leg-side deliveries before they crashed to the boundary, but shelling a number of regulation takes. However, after a rapid-fire debut ton, I think we’ll give him more than the benefit of the doubt.
As the day dwindled to a close, there was a minor fillip, with Plunkett taking a second wicket and drawing to a close Denesh Ramdin’s very tidy, thrusting lower order knock. England then finished still on top, but with the West Indies now playing only for a draw, with both considerable patience and the strength of positivity I might add, and having overcome the psychologically boosting follow-on mark, England will need to find something from deep within to be able to take thirteen more of their wickets, however easy they might be finding runs to come by.
West Indies 437ao [Chanderpaul 74, Panesar 6-129]
England 284-8 dec. [Pietersen 109, Cook 65]
West Indies 89-0
Match drawn
Monday, 14 May 2007
Tilbury 0 AFC Hornchurch 4
24apr07
Isthmian League Division One North
Chadfields, Tilbury
att. 108
Around the top end of the non-leagues, it was rather unsqueaky right at the top towards the end. Thank goodness for the play-offs for keeping things interesting just below in each division. Of the ten leagues across the top four levels, seven of the championship trophies/shields/commemorative tea trays were sewn up well ahead of time, with only the committees of the Northern League (Premier) and the Isthmian League (Premier and Division One South) made to withhold their trip to the haberdashers for the appropriate adornments. The Conference and Southern League ribbon-tiers (and their staff) have apparently already thrown on their string vests, are knotting the final corner of their hankies, and more than acquiescing to some quality deckchair inaction.
However, despite the top clubs in their fellow Isthmian leagues not playing ball, AFC Hornchurch made the life of their league’s mug-wrapping top brass that slight bit easier by winning their league by Easter. Just three years ago, Hornchurch were riding much higher, backed by an almost implausibly bizarre chairman and his money and top of the Conference for the first couple of months of its debut season. However it only took those few weeks for the cash to run out, and the club staggered through the remainder of the season before liquidating, and reforming in the Essex Senior League.
Being able to command a richer purse than most in Essex, they ran away with the league, in an equally emphatic fashion as this year. League restructuring at the end of last season meant that third place Tilbury could join them in this year’s Division One North, and thus they met again on a balmy April evening down by the docks. Tilbury have not had such an easy time of it this year, finishing 19th out of 22, Ilford and Flackwell Heath finding themselves relegated well in advance of stumps. With average attendances fluctuating around 77 and thus almost identical to the two despatched teams, Tilbury are doing well to keep their heads above water.
Still, a cat might well look at a king, and as such the Tilbury players extend the wire-frame tunnel to form a guard of honour for the Hornchurch side as they enter their field. The claps of the Tilbury side actually drown out any ‘honour’ being directed Hornchurch’s way from the terraces which comes as a surprise, considering at least half of them are travelling Urchins. With almost three weeks as praise-worthy champions behind them perhaps, like an anaemic just off a Qantas flight to Gatwick, they’re getting a little weary.
That said, they have a lot to look forward to, with a new chairman, the coming-aboard of some new sponsors and thus the apparent addition of three or four new players to beef up their squad for an assault on the Premier division next year. Who knows, their return to the Conference South could well come without any stalling whatsoever?
It may be that this ambition will see some players jettisoned along the way. Indeed, as one unpicked Urchin player walks behind the goal round to the dug-outs prior to kick off, he is greeted by a Hornchurch fan. “Couldn’t get in the team? It’s your sort of pitch though…shit.” He’s not wrong there either, as Chadfields is in as ropey a shape as you might expect considering it has hosted Tilbury, their stiffs and Essex Senior League chaps Eton Manor this season. Apparently, if this rather irreverent (and wickedly patronising) report on the Hornchurch website is to be believed, kick-off tonight was in doubt even at 7pm, owing to the pitch being “too ‘ard.”
The kind of cracks that could potentially consume a diminutive winger like a Venus fly-trap gape all across the pitch and have been plugged with sand to enable kick-off, just as well considering that after this game, only four days remain in the season to get some wet going, and thus the game. With the sand cast about, combined with the dryness of the earth, every committed tackle creates the kind of dust swirl that, had it occurred in 1930’s Oklahoma, would have caused Woody Guthrie to point the index-finger of his songwriting hand skywards as a light bulb clicked on above his head.
With the surface being as it is, sliding tackles are not in abundance. However, Tilbury do put up a noble defence for the first half, in the face of sustained Hornchurch pressure, particularly from winger Amos Foyewa and striker Kris Lee, who keep Tilbury keeper Dean Neil on his toes, complimenting each other with passes for good chances in the first ten minutes. Lee, despite his Derek Pringle physique crashing around the Tilbury half like a slightly battered bargain-tray tube of cookie dough being repeatedly flung at a wall, looks particularly impressive.
Tilbury put up a more than decent fight for the first 45 minutes, but all their hard work starts to unravel when Lee opens the scoring in added-time, powering a firm header through the diving Neil’s doily wrists. The teams return to the dressing rooms housed beneath the dark, dingey East Stand which appears to have been danked out of commission, usurped on the west side by a functional brick effort which already shows the signs of wear.
It is, generally, quite an unappealing place to come, with wire fencing behind the goal at either end to stop stray shots, making the short strips of terracing behind each essentially redundant. On this warm night, not far at all from the docks, one spends half the time slapping flies away from yer ears. However, it appears Amos Foyewa’s biggest problem with the place relates to his nose. As he enters the field of play for a second time, he sniffs and asks a nearby team-mate “phwooaaaarrr, smell that” before screwing up his face so tightly you could store a tea-towel in it.
Within four minutes of the re-start, Hornchurch put any ideas of Tilbury getting something from the game firmly to bed as Simon Parker flicks a Kris Lee nod-down over the sliding Neil. Quarter of an hour later, and Hornchurch kick through real sand to kick metaphorical sand in the collective, thick-frame bespectacled Tilbury face. The sixty second minute sees Parker put through by a long-ball and though stumbling from a clumsy challenge, he keeps his feet despite the fact that a fall may have earned his assailant a red card. He then flicks the ball over Neil, whereupon it hits both posts before finally settling into the corner like a cheeky long red along the balk.
A minute later the elongated bean bag Lee completes his brace, and that completes the scoring. However both sides have decent chances in the last ten minutes, Parker missing out on a hat-trick as his shot crashed off the bar, Dave Sadler’s follow-up hitting the post. The home side also got something together, with sub Leon Antoine unleashing a shot from the edge of the area, and seemingly trying to fox Urchins keeper Dale Brightly with his slower ball, as he dives too early and has to reach up and scoop it away like a kitten being presented with the hanging carcass of a limp and defeated yo-yo.
Hornchurch have had a sensational season, but like I say it appears with it comes an added expectation. As such it took the fourth goal to really enliven the Urchins following, and thus they spat out the most contemporary indie chant since I heard Altrincham’s choir re-appropriate Franz Ferdinand’s ‘Matinée’, by updating some Automatic; “Who’s that at the top of the league? Is it the Hornchurch, is it the Hornchuuuurch?”
Not only top but, as of tonight, breaking the 100-point barrier for the season. The other sides making up the Isthmian Premier next year will do well to note that. I’d imagine Hornchurch won’t be looking to do the consolidation thing.
Links
AFC Hornchurch website
Isthmian League Division One North
Chadfields, Tilbury
att. 108
Around the top end of the non-leagues, it was rather unsqueaky right at the top towards the end. Thank goodness for the play-offs for keeping things interesting just below in each division. Of the ten leagues across the top four levels, seven of the championship trophies/shields/commemorative tea trays were sewn up well ahead of time, with only the committees of the Northern League (Premier) and the Isthmian League (Premier and Division One South) made to withhold their trip to the haberdashers for the appropriate adornments. The Conference and Southern League ribbon-tiers (and their staff) have apparently already thrown on their string vests, are knotting the final corner of their hankies, and more than acquiescing to some quality deckchair inaction.
However, despite the top clubs in their fellow Isthmian leagues not playing ball, AFC Hornchurch made the life of their league’s mug-wrapping top brass that slight bit easier by winning their league by Easter. Just three years ago, Hornchurch were riding much higher, backed by an almost implausibly bizarre chairman and his money and top of the Conference for the first couple of months of its debut season. However it only took those few weeks for the cash to run out, and the club staggered through the remainder of the season before liquidating, and reforming in the Essex Senior League.
Being able to command a richer purse than most in Essex, they ran away with the league, in an equally emphatic fashion as this year. League restructuring at the end of last season meant that third place Tilbury could join them in this year’s Division One North, and thus they met again on a balmy April evening down by the docks. Tilbury have not had such an easy time of it this year, finishing 19th out of 22, Ilford and Flackwell Heath finding themselves relegated well in advance of stumps. With average attendances fluctuating around 77 and thus almost identical to the two despatched teams, Tilbury are doing well to keep their heads above water.
Still, a cat might well look at a king, and as such the Tilbury players extend the wire-frame tunnel to form a guard of honour for the Hornchurch side as they enter their field. The claps of the Tilbury side actually drown out any ‘honour’ being directed Hornchurch’s way from the terraces which comes as a surprise, considering at least half of them are travelling Urchins. With almost three weeks as praise-worthy champions behind them perhaps, like an anaemic just off a Qantas flight to Gatwick, they’re getting a little weary.
That said, they have a lot to look forward to, with a new chairman, the coming-aboard of some new sponsors and thus the apparent addition of three or four new players to beef up their squad for an assault on the Premier division next year. Who knows, their return to the Conference South could well come without any stalling whatsoever?
It may be that this ambition will see some players jettisoned along the way. Indeed, as one unpicked Urchin player walks behind the goal round to the dug-outs prior to kick off, he is greeted by a Hornchurch fan. “Couldn’t get in the team? It’s your sort of pitch though…shit.” He’s not wrong there either, as Chadfields is in as ropey a shape as you might expect considering it has hosted Tilbury, their stiffs and Essex Senior League chaps Eton Manor this season. Apparently, if this rather irreverent (and wickedly patronising) report on the Hornchurch website is to be believed, kick-off tonight was in doubt even at 7pm, owing to the pitch being “too ‘ard.”
The kind of cracks that could potentially consume a diminutive winger like a Venus fly-trap gape all across the pitch and have been plugged with sand to enable kick-off, just as well considering that after this game, only four days remain in the season to get some wet going, and thus the game. With the sand cast about, combined with the dryness of the earth, every committed tackle creates the kind of dust swirl that, had it occurred in 1930’s Oklahoma, would have caused Woody Guthrie to point the index-finger of his songwriting hand skywards as a light bulb clicked on above his head.
With the surface being as it is, sliding tackles are not in abundance. However, Tilbury do put up a noble defence for the first half, in the face of sustained Hornchurch pressure, particularly from winger Amos Foyewa and striker Kris Lee, who keep Tilbury keeper Dean Neil on his toes, complimenting each other with passes for good chances in the first ten minutes. Lee, despite his Derek Pringle physique crashing around the Tilbury half like a slightly battered bargain-tray tube of cookie dough being repeatedly flung at a wall, looks particularly impressive.
Tilbury put up a more than decent fight for the first 45 minutes, but all their hard work starts to unravel when Lee opens the scoring in added-time, powering a firm header through the diving Neil’s doily wrists. The teams return to the dressing rooms housed beneath the dark, dingey East Stand which appears to have been danked out of commission, usurped on the west side by a functional brick effort which already shows the signs of wear.
It is, generally, quite an unappealing place to come, with wire fencing behind the goal at either end to stop stray shots, making the short strips of terracing behind each essentially redundant. On this warm night, not far at all from the docks, one spends half the time slapping flies away from yer ears. However, it appears Amos Foyewa’s biggest problem with the place relates to his nose. As he enters the field of play for a second time, he sniffs and asks a nearby team-mate “phwooaaaarrr, smell that” before screwing up his face so tightly you could store a tea-towel in it.
Within four minutes of the re-start, Hornchurch put any ideas of Tilbury getting something from the game firmly to bed as Simon Parker flicks a Kris Lee nod-down over the sliding Neil. Quarter of an hour later, and Hornchurch kick through real sand to kick metaphorical sand in the collective, thick-frame bespectacled Tilbury face. The sixty second minute sees Parker put through by a long-ball and though stumbling from a clumsy challenge, he keeps his feet despite the fact that a fall may have earned his assailant a red card. He then flicks the ball over Neil, whereupon it hits both posts before finally settling into the corner like a cheeky long red along the balk.
A minute later the elongated bean bag Lee completes his brace, and that completes the scoring. However both sides have decent chances in the last ten minutes, Parker missing out on a hat-trick as his shot crashed off the bar, Dave Sadler’s follow-up hitting the post. The home side also got something together, with sub Leon Antoine unleashing a shot from the edge of the area, and seemingly trying to fox Urchins keeper Dale Brightly with his slower ball, as he dives too early and has to reach up and scoop it away like a kitten being presented with the hanging carcass of a limp and defeated yo-yo.
Hornchurch have had a sensational season, but like I say it appears with it comes an added expectation. As such it took the fourth goal to really enliven the Urchins following, and thus they spat out the most contemporary indie chant since I heard Altrincham’s choir re-appropriate Franz Ferdinand’s ‘Matinée’, by updating some Automatic; “Who’s that at the top of the league? Is it the Hornchurch, is it the Hornchuuuurch?”
Not only top but, as of tonight, breaking the 100-point barrier for the season. The other sides making up the Isthmian Premier next year will do well to note that. I’d imagine Hornchurch won’t be looking to do the consolidation thing.
Links
AFC Hornchurch website
Tuesday, 8 May 2007
Braintree Town 1 Havant & Waterlooville 1
05may07
Conference South play-off semi-final 2nd leg
Cressing Road Stadium, Braintree
att. 1,539
after extra time, Braintree Town win 4-2 on penalties
Usually I throw in a few photos of the day’s goings on to colour up the textual verbosity. I shan’t today. Writing these words twenty hours after, it strikes me that yesterday now has no colour. Fisher was ALL about the colour, but yesterday has quickly turned monochromatic in my head. Do not take that as depressive though, as while it may not be about the colour, yesterday was all about a collective passion. Like old war-time footage, there is a sense of loss, but with it an intense pride.
I said in the Fisher piece that I’d talk about the goings on off the pitch between our clubs since our meeting at West Leigh Park in February, but to draw too much attention to them now would suggest sourness on my part, and that really isn’t there. No Braintree players to blame, and no match officials to blame, either. In fact, they had a very good game. If you’re intrigued by our recent history with the ‘Tree though, read first this, then this, and draw your own conclusions.
Instead, let me tell you about a moment after the penalties, which for me sums up our season. As the players walked off, Shaun Wilkinson was beckoned by one of my fellow supporters. This supporter, one of our most committed, had initially reacted angrily back in January to Shaun’s return to the club, having left us twice to join (cough, spit) Weymouth, and having not been astute in his choice of words about doing so on either occasion. The supporter, who would probably not object to me saying that he doesn’t project the image of a sensitive, shrinking violet type, wrapped his arms around Wilko, before dropping himself nose-deep into the torso of another fan, and its relevant to point out that these two gents have had their disagreements over the years, although I am pleased to say not recently.
This moment spoke volumes, to my mind. It reflects the unity that now does credit to our club. Between the team, the management, the directors and as a group of fans, never have I felt the bond to be stronger throughout. Also, never have we had a better season. The Millwall game in the FA Cup was a new peak, an expensive one certainly, but unforgettable. Now, we can add this play-off epic.
There is a close relationship between agony/ecstasy; pleasure/pain; delight/despair. This game teetered on that tight-rope, and will continue to do so in afterthought, and the reason why is simple. To battle and give yourself a chance when things appear lost, particularly against a strong opponent, is what elevates sport, especially when the stakes are somewhat higher than the usual. This was, essentially, a league game, but death or glory knockout all the same. You might consider it odd that I should illustrate the valour of the fight by recalling a joke, but here I go. In one of the series’ that Dave Allen did for ITV in the mid-90’s, he performed a gag which suggested the journey of the sperm to the egg was like swimming from the British Isles to America. In glue. It is much the same playing against Braintree.
They are as organised, sturdy and virtually impassable as the Thames Barrier with its shutters up, but over two legs, we never caved in the face of it. We had to become an immovable object to combat their impenetrable force, and so very nearly did so. In the first leg at West Leigh Park last Wednesday night, Jefferson Louis, with an exquisite lob, cancelled out their 45th minute goal with two minutes left on the clock. Then today we had to overcome a setback, despite having much the better chances; Jamie Cook hitting the post early on, and Rocky Baptiste going agonisingly close twice in a minute in the second half, squaring a ball too fast and loose when a shot may have been a better bet. As the ball eventually found its way back across the gaping net, Rocky’s diving forehead was an inch away from contact. What a difference a set of corn-rows make. The cry has already gone out to Rocky on our message boards: UNFURL THE AFRO!!
However, on 75 minutes, Bertie Brayley unleashed a skidder that flipped up in front of Ryan Harrison, our keeper signed on an emergency loan at the start of the week after injuries to both Shane Gore and Gareth Howells, and flipped his fingers before hitting the back of the net. Despite allowing ourselves a couple of minutes of deflation, the Hawks did not give up, and again with only a few minutes to go, we equalised. Awarded a penalty, and regular taker Baptiste having been substituted, Jamie Collins grabbed the ball like he was about to have a tantrum, claim ownership and go home with it, and scored between the collapsed netball-hoop arms of their Redwood of a keeper, Nicky Morgan, thus provoking the biggest outpouring of Hawk joy since we brought the Millwall back to level-pegging in November. Some might also suggest the last minute equaliser against Salisbury City two weeks ago, but I didn’t bear witness to that, so I cannot be one hundred percent sure in telling you that it definitely happened. I was busy watching a tree fall noisily in a forest at the time.
Believe me, it was exhausting stuff. I, for one, had to sink to my knees and flop over a barrier for a minute to catch breath, thoughts, as well as the moment for mental posterity. The singing upped a notch and continued throughout an intense period of extra time, possibly the most emotionally draining half an hour that Havant & Waterlooville have thus enjoyed. And I say enjoyed, for as tortuous as it might be, the outcome of the penalty kicks being so devastating n'all, these are the periods that take the partisan following of sport up a notch. I felt much the same when I was at the last day of the Old Trafford Ashes Test in 2005. The body all a-tingle, the fingernails nibbled to extinction, and the breath slow and deliberate. It is a sick kind of enjoyment, I'll grant you that.
Would I rather we had limped through the season, semi-satisfied with a mid-table finish? Certainly not. Would I rather we had just acquiesced to defeat after Brayley’s goal, rather than be put through the wringer for that extra hour? Not a chance. To be there competing for the longed-for prize. To put up a fight and take it to the very last. These are the things that swell the chest in black and white hindsight.
Drained then, gutted, but proud, and let me add confident.
Next year will be another to remember.
Conference South play-off semi-final 2nd leg
Cressing Road Stadium, Braintree
att. 1,539
after extra time, Braintree Town win 4-2 on penalties
Usually I throw in a few photos of the day’s goings on to colour up the textual verbosity. I shan’t today. Writing these words twenty hours after, it strikes me that yesterday now has no colour. Fisher was ALL about the colour, but yesterday has quickly turned monochromatic in my head. Do not take that as depressive though, as while it may not be about the colour, yesterday was all about a collective passion. Like old war-time footage, there is a sense of loss, but with it an intense pride.
I said in the Fisher piece that I’d talk about the goings on off the pitch between our clubs since our meeting at West Leigh Park in February, but to draw too much attention to them now would suggest sourness on my part, and that really isn’t there. No Braintree players to blame, and no match officials to blame, either. In fact, they had a very good game. If you’re intrigued by our recent history with the ‘Tree though, read first this, then this, and draw your own conclusions.
Instead, let me tell you about a moment after the penalties, which for me sums up our season. As the players walked off, Shaun Wilkinson was beckoned by one of my fellow supporters. This supporter, one of our most committed, had initially reacted angrily back in January to Shaun’s return to the club, having left us twice to join (cough, spit) Weymouth, and having not been astute in his choice of words about doing so on either occasion. The supporter, who would probably not object to me saying that he doesn’t project the image of a sensitive, shrinking violet type, wrapped his arms around Wilko, before dropping himself nose-deep into the torso of another fan, and its relevant to point out that these two gents have had their disagreements over the years, although I am pleased to say not recently.
This moment spoke volumes, to my mind. It reflects the unity that now does credit to our club. Between the team, the management, the directors and as a group of fans, never have I felt the bond to be stronger throughout. Also, never have we had a better season. The Millwall game in the FA Cup was a new peak, an expensive one certainly, but unforgettable. Now, we can add this play-off epic.
There is a close relationship between agony/ecstasy; pleasure/pain; delight/despair. This game teetered on that tight-rope, and will continue to do so in afterthought, and the reason why is simple. To battle and give yourself a chance when things appear lost, particularly against a strong opponent, is what elevates sport, especially when the stakes are somewhat higher than the usual. This was, essentially, a league game, but death or glory knockout all the same. You might consider it odd that I should illustrate the valour of the fight by recalling a joke, but here I go. In one of the series’ that Dave Allen did for ITV in the mid-90’s, he performed a gag which suggested the journey of the sperm to the egg was like swimming from the British Isles to America. In glue. It is much the same playing against Braintree.
They are as organised, sturdy and virtually impassable as the Thames Barrier with its shutters up, but over two legs, we never caved in the face of it. We had to become an immovable object to combat their impenetrable force, and so very nearly did so. In the first leg at West Leigh Park last Wednesday night, Jefferson Louis, with an exquisite lob, cancelled out their 45th minute goal with two minutes left on the clock. Then today we had to overcome a setback, despite having much the better chances; Jamie Cook hitting the post early on, and Rocky Baptiste going agonisingly close twice in a minute in the second half, squaring a ball too fast and loose when a shot may have been a better bet. As the ball eventually found its way back across the gaping net, Rocky’s diving forehead was an inch away from contact. What a difference a set of corn-rows make. The cry has already gone out to Rocky on our message boards: UNFURL THE AFRO!!
However, on 75 minutes, Bertie Brayley unleashed a skidder that flipped up in front of Ryan Harrison, our keeper signed on an emergency loan at the start of the week after injuries to both Shane Gore and Gareth Howells, and flipped his fingers before hitting the back of the net. Despite allowing ourselves a couple of minutes of deflation, the Hawks did not give up, and again with only a few minutes to go, we equalised. Awarded a penalty, and regular taker Baptiste having been substituted, Jamie Collins grabbed the ball like he was about to have a tantrum, claim ownership and go home with it, and scored between the collapsed netball-hoop arms of their Redwood of a keeper, Nicky Morgan, thus provoking the biggest outpouring of Hawk joy since we brought the Millwall back to level-pegging in November. Some might also suggest the last minute equaliser against Salisbury City two weeks ago, but I didn’t bear witness to that, so I cannot be one hundred percent sure in telling you that it definitely happened. I was busy watching a tree fall noisily in a forest at the time.
Believe me, it was exhausting stuff. I, for one, had to sink to my knees and flop over a barrier for a minute to catch breath, thoughts, as well as the moment for mental posterity. The singing upped a notch and continued throughout an intense period of extra time, possibly the most emotionally draining half an hour that Havant & Waterlooville have thus enjoyed. And I say enjoyed, for as tortuous as it might be, the outcome of the penalty kicks being so devastating n'all, these are the periods that take the partisan following of sport up a notch. I felt much the same when I was at the last day of the Old Trafford Ashes Test in 2005. The body all a-tingle, the fingernails nibbled to extinction, and the breath slow and deliberate. It is a sick kind of enjoyment, I'll grant you that.
Would I rather we had limped through the season, semi-satisfied with a mid-table finish? Certainly not. Would I rather we had just acquiesced to defeat after Brayley’s goal, rather than be put through the wringer for that extra hour? Not a chance. To be there competing for the longed-for prize. To put up a fight and take it to the very last. These are the things that swell the chest in black and white hindsight.
Drained then, gutted, but proud, and let me add confident.
Next year will be another to remember.
Thursday, 3 May 2007
Surrey v Hampshire
27apr07
County Championship Division One
The Oval, Kennington
day 3 of 4
“C’mon the ‘Reeeee”. Regular as clockwork. Hollered across a sun-drenched Oval. The sole note of positivity amongst a Surrey support getting increasingly bothered along with the hot that they might have expected given a forecast for a 23° afternoon. “C’mon Hampshire, you’re boring to watch” shouts another, large-ish, man shoehorned into a replica one-day shirt at the front of the Peter May Stand. Considering they are going at over four-an-over in a four-day match, this reveals merely a disquiet that the Surrey bowlers cannot cause anywhere near the same trouble that the Hampshire attack had in the morning session.
Well, I say the Hants attack, but it was essentially the Warne/Tomlinson show. I decided to take the day off work today as a response to the piece in this year’s Wisden encouraging cricket supporters everywhere to make the most of Shane Warne’s remaining time in the game, time he will spend now solely with Hampshire. It is easier to get to the weekend one-dayers and Hampshire’s appearances in the environs of Greater London on Sundays have long been pencilled in to the hobo diary (although the long standing trip to Chelmsford two days after this action had to be aborted for reasons of a weary body and an even wearier wallet). Glad I made it to this though as the impact of Warne’s tactical nous and the pressure he puts on opposing batsmen is better witnessed in the longer form.
It looked nicely set up after stumps on the second day, with Hampshire 360 ahead on first innings but with the increasingly prolific Mark Ramprakash and the reliable class of Mark Butcher occupying the creases and both well set. However, Butcher, moments after reaching 50, flicked a mistimed sweep from Warne into Nic Pothas’ waiting gloves, dropping like a tiddlywink into a tall egg-cup. After that, a succession of batsman came and went quickly (four leaving with a resigned quack), all trying to play Warne as though using their bat to fend off a rabid, aggressive weasel. Thus three of Warne’s five wickets in not very much time come courtesy of a plumb striking of the pads, along with a terrific low reflex catch at slip by Chris Benham.
Aside from Ramprakash, who completed his 89th first-class ton (when not watching aghast from the non-striker’s end), only fellow leggie Ian Salisbury looked to have the measure of Warne, hitting a couple of fours before Tomlinson broke through his confidence as well as his guard and uprooted a couple of his stumps. This, if nothing else, showed the value of spin and seam working together, and while James Tomlinson might not be a Glenn McGrath, this performance showed that, like a blue movie actress of unspoken vintage, he knows his way around a good length. Two for fifty-three from his twenty overs does not adequately reflect the quality of his relatively long unbroken spell, nagging away like an over-protective mother spying rogue dirt behind progenous ears.
Despite a 278-run advantage on first innings, Warne doesn’t enforce the follow-on, giving his top order carte blache to treat the bowling like it’s Sunday league stuff. Michael Brown doesn’t need asking twice and sets the tone with a series of crisp boundaries. James Adams however is not quite as assured and eventually spoons a simple catch to Butch at leg-slip off Salisbury’s otherwise expensive and ineffective leg-spin. Some in the crowd suggested that, in the ten minute changeover between innings and with the matting of cloud cover gone, the pitch was getting easier to bat on. It’s a theory we’ll come back to in a moment.
Elsewhere, during the afternoon session, and after tea, once Warne had declared with Brown on 115 (getting to this century from only 124 balls) and John Crawley, showing the tenacious, sagacious form of last season, on 66 (having celebrated getting to 50 by reverse-thwacking Nayan Doshi swiftly to the boundary), setting Surrey a four session target of 503 to win. For the Surrey crowd it all seemed pretty bleak, expect for one group, amongst whom is our friend metronomically encouraging with the reductivist “C’mon the ‘Reee.” I half contemplate responding with a “C’mon the ‘ire”, but that’s just asking for aggro whichever way you look at it.
Seemingly getting no life from the Surrey players for all his chanting, our man entertained himself by singing a forelorn, but yet bellowy, version of “Living On A Prayer” as well as turning his attention to the gentle sledging of all the poor souls who happened to traverse the Peter May along the path in front. If one was to believe his appraisal of the get-up of each of these folks, today’s attendance was beefed by…[take a breath]…Mr Muscle, Albert Steptoe, Dan Maskell, Rod, Jane & Freddy, Bjorn Borg, Michael Cashman, Albert Steptoe, the Man from Del Monte and Mickey Pearce. Oh, and ‘Professor Yaffle’ who also gets serenaded, whilst looking around, a little lost and confused, with “Hey! Teacher! Leave those kids alone.”
As Surrey knock up the first run of their second innings with a cheeky bye, our man’s concentration returns to the game; “closing in on target, in on the taaaaargeeeet” he sings, Guantanamera style. As the day draws to a close, Surrey put up decent resistance but Adams snaffles Scott Newman at slip off the bowling of James Bruce while, perhaps crucially, the “Southern dancer” (to quote our man at the back) is stumped off creaky old Shaggy (Shaun Udal) by Nic Pothas. So, as yesterday, they hit stumps with two men down and a hundred on the board, but this time with the star man gone. However, the idea that the pitch is getting easier stays pertinent, particularly with a scorching day forecast.
So it was to prove, as Surrey got within 36 runs of a victory that would have seen them equal the fourth-highest fourth innings run chase ever in first class cricket. Batty’s century at the top of the order set the tone, aided an abetted by Butch with 72. At 283-7 all may have seemed lost but Ian Salisbury and Azhar Mahmood put together a partnership of 157 for the eight wicket, and may have felt confident of victory and at least a draw. However, despite losing the day’s most effective bowler, Udal, to a suspected broken ankle, Hampshire eventually broke the pair and wrapped up the remainder within seven runs, and with only 5.3 overs left in the day.
Phew.
Hampshire 481-9d [Adams 86, Pothas 85, Benham 76]
Surrey 203ao [Ramprakash 107no, Warne 5-45]
Hampshire 221-1d [Brown 115no, Crawley 66no]
Surrey 467ao [Batty 121, Salisbury 103, Udal 4-138]
Hampshire win by 35 runs
Links
Surrey website
Hampshire website
County Championship Division One
The Oval, Kennington
day 3 of 4
“C’mon the ‘Reeeee”. Regular as clockwork. Hollered across a sun-drenched Oval. The sole note of positivity amongst a Surrey support getting increasingly bothered along with the hot that they might have expected given a forecast for a 23° afternoon. “C’mon Hampshire, you’re boring to watch” shouts another, large-ish, man shoehorned into a replica one-day shirt at the front of the Peter May Stand. Considering they are going at over four-an-over in a four-day match, this reveals merely a disquiet that the Surrey bowlers cannot cause anywhere near the same trouble that the Hampshire attack had in the morning session.
Well, I say the Hants attack, but it was essentially the Warne/Tomlinson show. I decided to take the day off work today as a response to the piece in this year’s Wisden encouraging cricket supporters everywhere to make the most of Shane Warne’s remaining time in the game, time he will spend now solely with Hampshire. It is easier to get to the weekend one-dayers and Hampshire’s appearances in the environs of Greater London on Sundays have long been pencilled in to the hobo diary (although the long standing trip to Chelmsford two days after this action had to be aborted for reasons of a weary body and an even wearier wallet). Glad I made it to this though as the impact of Warne’s tactical nous and the pressure he puts on opposing batsmen is better witnessed in the longer form.
It looked nicely set up after stumps on the second day, with Hampshire 360 ahead on first innings but with the increasingly prolific Mark Ramprakash and the reliable class of Mark Butcher occupying the creases and both well set. However, Butcher, moments after reaching 50, flicked a mistimed sweep from Warne into Nic Pothas’ waiting gloves, dropping like a tiddlywink into a tall egg-cup. After that, a succession of batsman came and went quickly (four leaving with a resigned quack), all trying to play Warne as though using their bat to fend off a rabid, aggressive weasel. Thus three of Warne’s five wickets in not very much time come courtesy of a plumb striking of the pads, along with a terrific low reflex catch at slip by Chris Benham.
Aside from Ramprakash, who completed his 89th first-class ton (when not watching aghast from the non-striker’s end), only fellow leggie Ian Salisbury looked to have the measure of Warne, hitting a couple of fours before Tomlinson broke through his confidence as well as his guard and uprooted a couple of his stumps. This, if nothing else, showed the value of spin and seam working together, and while James Tomlinson might not be a Glenn McGrath, this performance showed that, like a blue movie actress of unspoken vintage, he knows his way around a good length. Two for fifty-three from his twenty overs does not adequately reflect the quality of his relatively long unbroken spell, nagging away like an over-protective mother spying rogue dirt behind progenous ears.
Despite a 278-run advantage on first innings, Warne doesn’t enforce the follow-on, giving his top order carte blache to treat the bowling like it’s Sunday league stuff. Michael Brown doesn’t need asking twice and sets the tone with a series of crisp boundaries. James Adams however is not quite as assured and eventually spoons a simple catch to Butch at leg-slip off Salisbury’s otherwise expensive and ineffective leg-spin. Some in the crowd suggested that, in the ten minute changeover between innings and with the matting of cloud cover gone, the pitch was getting easier to bat on. It’s a theory we’ll come back to in a moment.
Elsewhere, during the afternoon session, and after tea, once Warne had declared with Brown on 115 (getting to this century from only 124 balls) and John Crawley, showing the tenacious, sagacious form of last season, on 66 (having celebrated getting to 50 by reverse-thwacking Nayan Doshi swiftly to the boundary), setting Surrey a four session target of 503 to win. For the Surrey crowd it all seemed pretty bleak, expect for one group, amongst whom is our friend metronomically encouraging with the reductivist “C’mon the ‘Reee.” I half contemplate responding with a “C’mon the ‘ire”, but that’s just asking for aggro whichever way you look at it.
Seemingly getting no life from the Surrey players for all his chanting, our man entertained himself by singing a forelorn, but yet bellowy, version of “Living On A Prayer” as well as turning his attention to the gentle sledging of all the poor souls who happened to traverse the Peter May along the path in front. If one was to believe his appraisal of the get-up of each of these folks, today’s attendance was beefed by…[take a breath]…Mr Muscle, Albert Steptoe, Dan Maskell, Rod, Jane & Freddy, Bjorn Borg, Michael Cashman, Albert Steptoe, the Man from Del Monte and Mickey Pearce. Oh, and ‘Professor Yaffle’ who also gets serenaded, whilst looking around, a little lost and confused, with “Hey! Teacher! Leave those kids alone.”
As Surrey knock up the first run of their second innings with a cheeky bye, our man’s concentration returns to the game; “closing in on target, in on the taaaaargeeeet” he sings, Guantanamera style. As the day draws to a close, Surrey put up decent resistance but Adams snaffles Scott Newman at slip off the bowling of James Bruce while, perhaps crucially, the “Southern dancer” (to quote our man at the back) is stumped off creaky old Shaggy (Shaun Udal) by Nic Pothas. So, as yesterday, they hit stumps with two men down and a hundred on the board, but this time with the star man gone. However, the idea that the pitch is getting easier stays pertinent, particularly with a scorching day forecast.
So it was to prove, as Surrey got within 36 runs of a victory that would have seen them equal the fourth-highest fourth innings run chase ever in first class cricket. Batty’s century at the top of the order set the tone, aided an abetted by Butch with 72. At 283-7 all may have seemed lost but Ian Salisbury and Azhar Mahmood put together a partnership of 157 for the eight wicket, and may have felt confident of victory and at least a draw. However, despite losing the day’s most effective bowler, Udal, to a suspected broken ankle, Hampshire eventually broke the pair and wrapped up the remainder within seven runs, and with only 5.3 overs left in the day.
Phew.
Hampshire 481-9d [Adams 86, Pothas 85, Benham 76]
Surrey 203ao [Ramprakash 107no, Warne 5-45]
Hampshire 221-1d [Brown 115no, Crawley 66no]
Surrey 467ao [Batty 121, Salisbury 103, Udal 4-138]
Hampshire win by 35 runs
Links
Surrey website
Hampshire website
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