The Decline
and Fall of Almost Everyone!
( continued . . . )
Although the pendulum of interest
continued to swing our way, with on and off-field success,
progress towards local league Utopia remains elusive. True,
Brotton reformed after an initial spell playing on the school
pitch at Warsett, eventually moving to The Garth, off the High
Street, opposite Brotton Hall garage.
Their pavilion is, of necessity, a fortress and while the Council
does next to nothing to help, the lads chip in to keep the sport
available. Sometimes their efforts are confounded by such
‘wallies’ as golfers practicing their putts on the
square, six-a-side soccerettes, and boy racers on two or four
wheels ripping up the turf.
Boosbeck became established, but Lingdale faded, and this year
Liverton Mines disbanded – a sad end to one of the most
successful local sides ever.
I suppose at Skelton we have been lucky, encouraging links with
the local school. One year, our five teams (two Saturdays, one
mid-week, and two juniors) scheduled an amazing 106 fixtures,
slightly more than half being at home on the 10-pitch square.
Only four games were rained off that summer.
Off the field, our HQ was the Royal George, Skelton and the most
famous of all licensees was the formidable Clare Womersley (later
Boddington). I had first met Clare, the most professional of all
landladies, during my time with Bass-Worthington, at the Green
Bushes, Stockton, and later at the Horse and Jockey. Imagine my
delight to discover Clare and Joe behind the bar at the George,
although Joe sadly did not have much time left.
The cricketers, egged on by Prothero, ‘Johnta’ and
‘Baz’ Pell – but with Rodney Hill the undisputed
mischief-maker – enjoyed many a famous night under
Clare’s indulgent but fair regard. Games such as
‘Escape from Colditz’, ‘late arrivals’ and
‘let’s all stand on our stools and look down the front
of Rix’s new girlfriend’s blouse’ were tolerated
by landlady and fellow regulars to such an extent that the entry
of Rodney, fully decked-out in lifeboatmen’s oilskins
(including so’wester) caused nary a ripple.
A lot of this schoolboy humour had its foundation on Tour, when
it scarcely ever rained, the sun was stifling hot, and we made
friends in many areas. Our first was to Arnhem (terrifis rapport
with the locals) followed at various times to Cornwall, North
Wales, Great Yarmouth, Telford/Ironbridge, and so on – two
consecutive years to each. Bullshit was the main order of the
Touring week . . . emanating from an improbable tale by Johnny
Musset that, fielding on the County Ground at Marine Parade,
Scarborough, he once dived to catch a ball, only to realise he
had bagged a rather fast swallow. However, continued John, such
was his tender grasp that the bird was unharmed, and he released
it to fly away. Yes, well, Johnny Musset had hands like Drott
Shovels, but . . .
Probably the most famous incident was on the Tour to Llandudno
area. Rodney had impressed us (and the female staff) by
test-firing a sequence of water pistols in ‘Woolies’
– water pistols being more essential on tour than an actual
bat. However, one morning in Rhyl, he broke the
‘truce’, a period set aside (yes, we even had it then)
for serious consumption of news and refreshments, alongside the
Local Authority Boating Lake.
Many of the chaps were playing water-dodgems – that is,
trying to ram and sink each other in some ‘plasticky’
type of pedalo. ‘Rodders’ was at his most irritating,
squirting us newsreaders, past the paper and into the corner of
the eye with stunning accuracy, or topping up Youngy’s
soda-pop with extracts from his pistol. After ignoring several
warnings as to his likely fate, too late Rodney realised our
intent as five of us each grabbed an extremity (yes, five) and
into the lake he went, causing some distress to the boaters with
the size of his backwash! Emerging undaunted, casually placing a
roll of notes totalling some £300 on the concrete apron, all
Rodney could wail was, “You’re childish, you’ve
ruined my foaming sugar!” Great days . . .
Back to the challenges of retaining local cricket. The Cleveland
League recently paid tribute to Jim Ramage for his tireless work
for junior cricket, but who will replace Jim when he (and many
others) finally stand down. The modern parental approach by some
appears to use junior cricket as a sort of creche, with fewer
people prepared to commit time and energies in any way. There is
still some interest in cricket for all age groups, but fund
raising is difficult as sponsors grow weary of multi-requests,
and there are so many other approaches in pubs and clubs by
diverse bodies.
That cricket survives in East Cleveland is due to those dedicated
individuals in many private clubs who have responded to the
indifference of the Local Authority and the decline of sport in
schools by picking up the torch of the summer game. Lord McLaurin
and his EWCB are awash with money, but not much filters down to
grass-roots, although Skelton Castle did well with Lottery
funding for its new pavilion.
So thanks to all who bought the Ticket, thus helping SCCC enter
its third century . . . and best wishes to all who read The Key.
Neil Harrison