At least we have our memory

I have a small selection of old photos on the wall next to where I sit now. Below them are old magazine articles nailed to cork boards; things I put together while chasing a quasi-middle career as a freelance journalist. Below them are trophies, mainly from the 90s and early 2000s. All of them are worth less than the change stuffed into the back of an ordinary sofa. But they are inextricably linked to those photos, and their memories are perfectly intertwined.

They serve as a visual reminder of the old games. No one has heard of them. Almost no one cares about these games. But looking for a few guys, standing uncomfortably in those old team photos with arms folded, plus a few bottles of beer, all of a sudden the hidden details flooded up. An endless river, flowing with memories of nostalgic fragments; the “boring stories of glorious years” once sung by Bruce Springsteen. Remember that there are only interesting moments for those who have lived.

Although alcoholism and a bad life are dominant, those days are still somewhat innocent. Every Saturday and Sunday, the last reminder of the world before liability and mortgages replace cricket. When the game becomes the most important thing in the world, lost time.

On the top of the blackboard is a picture of a gusty amusement park. Everyone’s hair blows like Freddie Boswell from the 80s sitcom. bread. In the barbaric gray council locker room, you can feel the gray sky and the cold. At that time I was less than 20 years old and my hair may look permanent, but it is not. Some other lads are even younger, still hovering at school or college age, intermittently resisting real-world progress. The others were my current age. A 40-year-old male with a family; it’s impossible to get old, when the young guys will rush out to the bars and clubs on Saturday night, who will sip chandi after the game. Looking at the world from their perspective now is thought-provoking. What is more thought-provoking is that in the past 20 years, three old teammates are no longer with us.

We call him Big John, not because he is very big, but to distinguish him from the really small “Little John”. I remember once when a ticket inspector who was only 5 inches tall jumped on the back of a stranger and clung to a bar in Bournemouth like an eager koala bear drunk and aimed at me. You will not forget those moments.Another memory is that he staggered looking for a pint of bitters in Torquay nightclub, his shirt was completely open, revealing his spherical beer gut, and he complained about the relentless heat and lack of the best pint to hangover Alex’s Icy Thirsty. The diagnosis of diabetes slowed his drinking and all those extra cakes when drinking tea. I don’t know where he is now. For about five years, I would see him almost every summer weekend, until one day I did not.

“Big” John bent down at a bus stop. Massive heart attack. He died before he hit the bumpy sidewalk. He was 62 years old, or he would say “six plus two”. The math is not very good is John or English. In rare cases, he said that he would declare that his mother “wrapped him on the head when he was young.” She didn’t. It made him suffer from meningitis. The old man with a big belly and gray hair is the oldest and oldest little boy you have ever seen. He was very angry with the train, AFC Bournemouth and the endless Coke we gave him on match day.

He never plays cricket, but he is always there-our only supporter. On any given weekend, you will see his wobbly gait coming out of the bus stop and across the fields. He often wears a vest and harness, and looks like he is going to paddle before the battle on Margate Beach. He would sit quietly next to the scoreboard-waiting to fill up his boots at tea time-just smiling and listening. It took him many years to “touch” me. A single swipe on the chest or arm will tell you that he thinks you are okay.

When he went, a neatly stacked church saw his coffin hung on the banner of the AFC Bournemouth team. This may be considered cheesy, but as far as “big” John is concerned, it is perfectly appropriate. His childish dedication to the team never left him, no, even if he wanted…

Roger also likes trains. He volunteered on the steam railway between Swanage and Corfe Castle.On a bad day, he can push you into the corner and pass his Super Mario Mustache and his ever-present Hampshire hat. But despite this, after I turned off the lights for a whole day countless times, he took his jumper out to charge my car battery countless times in winter nights. He is a decent guy, and his biggest failure is that he really wants to be a good cricketer. Once he was largely unsuccessful in his pursuit, and it didn’t help because he liked to always hit the ball in the top four.

I remember one night when he was furious at the bar in Kings Park near the football field and placed an empty table opposite the lounge.I forgot the content of the argument, but this is a regular part of The Willows CC soap opera

We lost Simon earlier this year. A few years after retirement, he worked on the railway for decades. Whenever I return home from Waterloo, I look for him at the ticket office at Bournemouth Station; it would be strange to never see him there again. The end of life is unacceptable, especially when it comes to such a fundamentally decent person. As far as I can remember, the president of our club is often the only sensible person in the locker room, so the diplomatic skills of Henry Kissinger are needed to calm frequent quarrels and complaints. The worst part is that he is the only person I have ever met who is worse than my arm.

There are other people in that photo. I haven’t seen them for nearly 20 years. I don’t know their whereabouts.Graham and his drooping 70s era Gucci The mustache concealed a complete and complete lack of any athletic ability. His physique is more suitable for spending lazy days and nights in his favorite bar across the road from Wareham Station, rather than accumulating runs and wickets on the cricket court.

However, even though he is more than 40 years old, he still has a lovely, almost childish enthusiasm that makes people unable to dislike him. Ranked 11th all year round-even if it may be too high a position for him-he always makes up at the beginning of the game; despite the inevitable futility, he is still very eager to participate.

Always stationed on the thin-leg boundary, his defense is often welcomed by the audience. His strange run was just a walk with his legs raised, as if he was putting out a small fire or imagining that he was the episode where Homer Simpson (Homer Simpson) frolics in the imaginary chocolate land. Once or twice I saw him catch the ball, and then he would hold the ball tightly, as if he was Bobby Moore holding the Jules Remit trophy tightly.

In many ways, it is not a club for “ordinary” people, and this is what makes it special. In the early days, it was difficult to find a team, and almost anyone could be accepted. As the years passed, we got some better players, promoted one or two divisions, and encountered the usual two different methods: hunting or laughing with your partner. In most cases, “laughing” is the most important thing, but it is not without pitfalls and arguments in the process.

© Simon Taylor

The list of characters is endless. A man named Les, speaking softly, is almost a forbidden zone. He married the daughter of a pastor and arrived in Bournemouth via Brixton and Jamaica. There are many speculations about the story behind, but there are few real facts. He is short in stature and short stature, and occasionally makes fun of us with the strange story of his confrontation with Nigel Benn at the South London Stadium. We later deduced that Rice did indeed play 33 games as a professional boxer, and even appeared in the legendary Palace of Cesar…Although it was in Southend.

I once saw him catch the ball so otherworldly, if it happened on TV, it would repeat endlessly. Curled up on his short legs, like a bottle opener in a virgin South Africa stretched out directly from the middle towards his head. Mortals would avoid, shrink back, and keep their affairs in order; but Les just stood there motionless, only his hands casually wrapped around the missile.

I think when you are used to the “Dark Destroyer” aiming at you, there is almost no fear in cricket. But except for the moment of champagne, his bowling ball was slow and unstable. His shots rarely produce a lot of movement.

Then Steve. He is a beautiful left arm hand and is called a “mental patient” in local cricket matches. He was once the scourge of youth cricket representing the county, but the speed he had at the age of 14 never increased. He is a typical “angry fast bowler” deadpool, which is undoubtedly his impression of himself, but now he is more than 30 years old and his speed is only moderate.

Against weaker teams, he will dominate and attack the wickets. His strategy is to keep pitching with the same sixpence, but a good batsman will patiently spend a few times to train him, and then lean on the front foot to drive the spirit out of him. This usually encounters DEFCON-level curses, and a few times he will wave his boots on the stumps of non-forwarders and fly them to various places.

Physically, he looks like a clone of the crazy Liverpool football supporter played by Robert Carlyle biscuit A TV series starring Robbie Coltrane. His lowest point ever was to climb out of the car, put down his pants, and lined up the long bank holiday traffic queue outside Corfu Castle. Behind him is a temporary player named Neal and his traumatized wife.

Neal only played a few games in a few years. Wearing round glasses with a bald head, gentle and well-proportioned, he is totally unsuitable for being a civilian in a gangster. Not surprisingly, I think this is the last time we saw him.

These tangled memories are likely to last forever. The beauty of those distant days and club cricket is how it brings so many people of different personalities and age groups together. People you will never know or meet, let alone those you associate with, are suddenly thrown into a petri dish lined with willow leaves. After all, it is the game that unites them.

Ray Liotta sums it up best Good guy When he looked back on his past life and sighed “what a wonderful time this is”-it now seems to be the case. Just like Liotta’s character Henry Hill at the end of the same movie, we can now only live the rest of our lives “like a normal snooker.”

The weekend is spent around the center of the garden, rather than chasing the unparalleled glory of the Dorset Division 6 championship.

At least we have our memories…

Gary White

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