On a glorious late September Saturday, not a cloud to be seen, cricket earned a draw against the weather. It was almost possible to forget the rain-offs and sodden abandonments earlier in what was misleadingly called the summer. Although definitively the last match of the season, it also signified a start: For many it was their first opportunity to see and play in the field henceforth to be known as the home ground, a tree-curtained secluded spot a dozen miles south of the city.
Being a mind game, especially for batsmen, the informality of an inter-club friendly gave some the opportunity to relax and perform better in the void left by the absence of pressure, not that there weren't those relishing the opportunity of proving points and settling scores, nor those for whom the lack of league frisson or consumption of alcohol would negatively impact on their ability.
The rhubarb crumble cakes and a spot just short of a length, from which an unplayable ball spat, merit mentioning, as does umpiring with six feathers, in the absence of pebbles, or broad beans which were in another pocket and planted at the conclusion of the match, just before the sloe gin was passed around.
