Satan’s arse it’s hot

Lumberjack for Leisure v Dirty Dogs July 2

I’ve just remembered through the haze that Fling whispered seductively in my ear while standing at slip “Would you do me the honor of writing the lumberjack?”

First of all, why was I standing at slip? I know I have the body type of a classic 70’s slips fielder and I can’t throw but I really don’t know what I am doing there.

A lot of things were awry on July 2.

The main thing was the tilt of the earth and a couple of centuries of atmospheric abuse since the industrial revolution conspiring to produce Venetian conditions. I refer to the planet, not the soon to be submarine pigeon barge of a city.

Despite this even Fakey woke up and charged to the SCSC.

A Junior Birdy made her first appearance at the ground in half her life and was joined by an Omegalette. Later on the cheer squad was bolstered by one Bambi and Thumper prog.

How many overs have we bowled?

Is it drinks yet?

We’re part way through the first over. 

Some classic spot fixing kicked us off with Giraffe bowling a wide off the first ball of his final match for the Bashers.

Paps loped in with unjolly ferocity. Not much happened, in a good way.

They continued for another 80 liters of sweat until Paps removed the middle stump of the opening dog at the end of his second. More gloriously boring overs followed from Giraffe and Paps, each flirting with Bashers maidens.

The skipper injected himself like a sledgehammer into custard, achieving the vaunted Double Bashers maiden on his second attempt.

Keeping the doggies confused was Omega who much like on his wedding night, gave them hope by allowing a boundary or two but ultimately thwarted their big score dreams and desires.

Short spells was the order of the day, and Leisure are blessed with a bowling line up which plunges deeper than Greg Louganis or a neckline which reveals pubes.

Covid20 and Fling loosened the lid on the jar of gherkins allowing Fake News to rip it off with his first ball.

Record scratch.

Yeah, batsman retired hurt feelings. Fakey’s actual over read dot, one, four, six, wide, wide, dot, four. Analyse that.

Fling took a proper wicket next over, another middle stump please groundsperson. A strategy had wafted in on the figment breeze which proposed to get the recently retired sufferer back in expeditiously by simply taking another eight wickets in the next couple of overs.

Instantly rejecting this theorem DRS instead paid proper deference to the prevailing conditions and pillaged the full depths of our bowling resources. Birdy had a trundle. Redemption was vouchsafed for him after his previous paroxysm of the yips. Six balls, all bouncing on the pitch, hello ladies.

Dispensing with the sideshow, Giraffe was reinserted for the very last time. Though the tears and sweat we watched this stalwart swinging slinger punish the pitch and discombobble the dogs until one finally succumb on the penultimate delivery to leg before. And with the new bat in place for the finale of Giraffe’s career he produced an encore strike. Bravo and all that but the umpire had failed the written exam when sitting for his dramatic license and Giraffe was denied his 74th wicket and the perfection of leaving Shanghai stranded on a hat-trick.

The doggy tail was not allowed to wag by Fling, Paps and Captain DRS. The faltering but doughty team fielding effort rewarded officially at the end by a run out.

Bowler of the day was wides, being restricted to just second top scorer.

The goal now was to score one more than 105 runs and return to the aircon as not just the heroes we already were, but those of the conquering variety.

First though a dive into cooler bags, and iced water bottles parroting Ewen McGregor in the toilet scene from Trainspotting.

A reminder for readers: this day’s weather was abysmally burdensome. The atmosphere, in lieu of precipitating, draped over everyone’s shoulders like the rotting carcass of a slain oxen we were tasked with delivering up the side of a ravine through a mudslide.

Leisure still boasted a full eleven drained husks to bat with. Remarkably the first to go down with an injury was Birdshit, in the first over.  DRS scooped one exactly square. Birdy who was standing there with the purpose of being ignored by the umpire, was faced with a choice of copping a new ball direct to the dentistry or taking athletic evasive maneuvers. As it turns out the latter was not necessarily the best choice. After twenty overs of gymnastic adequacy without foundering, a simple sidestep caused a twang followed by spasms of muscular distress. Relief was found after a mere four overs of signaling to his comrades and he spent the rest of the match prone on a picnic blanket.

DRS and Covid20 were content for a while to stand their ground and suckle at the lactating bitches teats for wides. Covid was first to extract himself when 20% of the required had been accumulated. He got four of them. Paps replaced him and acted as a mirror to that innings until the seventh over when he put his iron boots on and clubbed a few to the pickets. That was enough, he ingloriously fell to the first delivery of P. Roy. 

With the arrival of club captain Fling there was further dribbly, drippy progress, punctuated by waves of wides. 

Drinks were destroyed and the target was hauled in with surety, lead by the skipper who was still there. Until he wasn’t.

Omega rose from his armchair with fanfare. He was cheered on by all present. Those who had already batted because they wanted this to be over and those who had yet to don pads because it was too hot to get excited about making any physical excursions.

Lo all who are great and Bashery had their wishes granted as on the fourth ball of the seventeenth over Omega consigned the cherry to the imaginary rope. The tally of points was now two more than the opposition had and one more than required to facilitate victory. 

Fans and players stormed the pitch, fences were scaled and dances were performed, the celebration ran long and jubilantly through the streets until darkness descended three days hence.

No, not really. Everyone went “Yay”, we posed for posterity and anyone who could still make themselves upright in a sustainable fashion dug deep and played again for Business. These are the real heroes.

Al hail the victorious and virtuous athletes. Ample dues to the traveling circus of ice princesses, Nina, Isabel and Everly who troubled nobody and pleased themselves.

After seventy something overs, nearly 300 “feels like” degrees celsius hours, about a creek full of various consumable liquids, [SPOILERS] two victories and a shui ball, enough was called on an historic, horrific yet terrific day.