Friendly, played on the Bonny, Bonny Banks of Edogawa, 4th December 2005

Whilst I would not dream of walking around Edinburgh in December in short sleeves or have occasion to deliberate about putting the heating on, there are some disturbing parallels to the climate of the British Isles and that of Tokyo. If the week has sported wonderful, clear blue skies, if the eve of a match has glowed with the setting sun of a day of unbounded expectation, it can only mean one thing: Match day is going to be miserable. And so it was when the curtains were pulled back to reveal a grey dawn on Sunday the fourth, when the Sharks were scheduled to take their playing leave of two stalwarts, David L and Brett the Wobbler, as well as to welcome to the line-up two new members, Ahmed and Kazuhiro, and a guest from Paddy's, Mark T. Our opponents were the sporting fellows from India Blue, who after the epic prequel to the JGC final, will surely never pass up an opportunity to thrash the living daylights out of us.

After the usual half hour hanging around the statue at Koiwa Station (am I the only one who calls it "Sumo-chan"? -- do tell), wondering whether or not to chance the latest pas-tres-francais pastry from La vie de France, we boarded the team coach to the ground. We were joined by a member of one of the women's teams, which nonplussed us a bit. Not that we have never had women in our team -- we have, and we're proud of it. It was just that, well, we hadn't selected any this time round. And neither had India Blue, to the best of our knowledge. Being mildly non-plussed turned into "Oh-oh" as we struggled over the top of the levee and the Panorama Edogawoise opened out before us. Yes, sat there on the benches by the glorified Portaloos, freezing quietly, were at least two teams' worth of women cricketers.

It transpired that matches in the women's tournament were also scheduled for the Koiwa trenches (vide the recent JGC report by Monsieur Lambert). The cricketrices were very nice about it, despite having booked the ground almost a month before us and therefore having approximately four times more of a right to be there than we did. After much discussion, some of it moving tangentially into unbridled invective at the absent, we agreed that the women's tournament should go ahead on the artificial strip as arranged and that we would play our match on the grass between the cricket field and the baseball grounds. Still, even in its semi-saturated and unprepared state it was harder than your average East of Scotland square and only half as dangerous. At least we could be grateful that a further friendly, also scheduled for the same pitch at the same time, had been called off because it was too cold. Some people have all the luck, eh? Whatever, if you mention a knees-up, don't point anyone towards the brewery.

Discussions then ensued which ranged from the merits of an Elysiac field somewhere over the horizon -- beyond even the rugby field -- to the relative dangers of different orientations and undulations of the turf roughly in line with the non-Portaloos. The whole episode was dwelt on with relish, surely because it recalled within the collective consciousness of those assembled, the early days of organized cricket, where winning the toss gave the victorious captain the right to choose where the wicket would be pitched.

A gentleman's agreement saw India Blue being elected to bat. This was a good thing for the Sharks, since the time-honoured combination of opening-bowler plus semi-geriatric-at-gully accounted for the first Blue wicket very, very early in their innings. Obviously the protracted deliberations on which strip to use for the pitch had taken their toll on the Blue openers' concentration. Taking a catch so early in the game also proved to be an excellent ploy: once the cold had set in, anyone else who tried to use his semi-frozen digits to hold onto the composite training ball, careering as it did out of a uniformly grey sky, got stung.

The damage done to the scorebook by intermittent sort-of rain later in the afternoon, means that I am unable to give details of the India Blue innings. Suffice it to say that they recovered from various setbacks (in which Brett played a significant part, including a tremendous catch in the deep -- frozen hands and all) to score, if a little unevenly, a very commendable 215 almost-all-out off their thirty overs. Some of the stroke-play was bemusing, but much of it was stunning. How so many good-length balls can hit the mid-wicket and long-on boundaries quite like that, is beyond me -- but there it is, mate, fetch it!

The sun put in a token appearance during the innings break, revealing its orb twice for about ten seconds at a time. On each occasion it decided that there must be better things to do on a Sunday afternoon and disappeared toute suite for the horizon. It had probably also caught a glimpse of the state of the presque-Portaloo urinals, which housed, curiously, a splattered turd which again reminded me of the occasional parallel to dear Scotland.

The Shark's reply got off to an increasingly good start, David Lollback (in his last game for us) and the undersigned (any game might be my last) pushing the score along at just about the required rate, aided by increasingly dodgy conditions under-foot for the Blue bowlers. (In fact, later on in the innings, when the footholds threatened to become positively dangerous, the decision was taken to move the stumps to one side.) With 115 on the board just short of the halfway point, yours truly was the first to go, stinging the hands of the poor fellow on the cover boundary with a lofted drive, two short of a maiden Sharks half-century. David L retired, as per the pre-match agreement, on 50 shortly afterwards. Nice one to take with you to Melbourne, me lad, but we'll miss you for more reasons than just your on-field performances.

The Sharks kept up with the run-rate to varying degrees of tolerance throughout the innings, with Cam Mulla putting in a powerful 31; with a run a ball to be made in the final seven overs or so it was always going to be touch and go. A combination of judicious shot-placing and running from Brett (also performing commendably with bat -- you'll be missed sorely, too!), Ahmed (looking very dapper in Charlie J's leather jacket -- it was THAT cold by this time), Charlie and Mark T (on loan from Paddy Foley's for an exorbitant loan fee) nevertheless left us looking at what is politely called a challenging run-rate as we entered the last couple of overs.

Despite the rain falling on the scorebook and making cross-checking of the various tallies almost impossible, the undersigned, clutching the scorebook to his chest and down to his last unfrozen knuckle, was still unable to fiddle the final three runs required for victory. Chris Thurgate, graciously coming in at number 10, was unable to turn the slipping run rate either, despite some powerful and judicious hitting in his unbeaten 11.

Despite the conditions there was much good humour around, though tinged with the sad knowledge that David L and Brett will soon be leaving us. Thanks for the companionship, lads: may your run-ups always accelerate and every ball speed from the middle of your bats!

Monday has now dawned, sporting wonderful, clear blue skies, even if the previous evening had glowed with nothing but neon on solid grey. Would somebody PLEASE SHOOT THAT BLOODY POET, EH?

(Report by Ian Astley)