Flashman at the Boundary
As I recollect, it was deep into the Summer of 2003, and the heat was palpable, at once making you sweat, and then drying you off in a haze of steam. And the tension was high; the last batsman was at the crease, and only 3 runs were needed for victory. Five balls left in the final over. A hush had descended over the spectators.
I remember the soft, dull thud of the cricket ball striking the turf before the batsman swung his mighty timber and sent the ball heaven-wards, a gliding arc sure to carry the ball over the boundary fence and signal victory. And then, a dashing figure, in crumpled, un-ironed whites, the trousers three inches too short, sped, gazelle-like towards the boundary fence, dropping the golden pint of lager he'd been supping on the boundary, and leapt for the ball. Jim.
Like a snap-shot of a Bognor beach holiday, I remember the sight of him spread-eagled, in mid-air, the ball suddenly nestled in his palm. The crowd erupting all about him. All of us, his team-mates, raced towards him to hoist him aloft on our shoulders. Jim picks himself off the sun-kissed grass and, in truly professional fashion, swings his arm and throws the ball into the air in celebration...save for a slight miscalculation of trajectory... Like a guided missile, the cracked leather ball flew from Jim's hand like an Exocet towards...the crowd of spectators.
The jubilation subsided almost immediately as everything was captured in freeze frame. Mothers dived on their babies to protect them, men ducked, the savage anticipation of what was about to happen turning smiles to faces of fear... The ball ricocheted off the Senior Partner's temple and thundered into the glass of the pavillion changing rooms. A moment of silence as we all looked at Jim.
And he started to giggle...as he always did. And we did too... He would always make us smile; always laugh. And he was a good friend. When my Father died, he knew just what to say. When I was sad, he always made me laugh from somewhere deep in my belly. And when I told him I was going to move away from England to the Channel Islands to work...he called me Bergerac. We will all have a favourite memory of him to keep us company. Tim.
Posted on behalf of Tim Corfield (with Jim at Wragge & Co)
1 Comments:
How well I remember Jim's presence on the cricket field. One could be forgiven for thinking that his inability to find suitable fitting and ironed cricket whites were a mere reflection of his laid back (near horizontal) approach to physical activity but one would be wrong. Jim was a lifetime devotee to the teachings of Stephen Potter and his school of lifemanship. On the subject of gamesmanship, Potter states that, 'if one cannot volley, then wear purple socks.' Jim has simply adapted this for cricket and has used his unusual attire to distract and put the opposition off guard. It must be said, it rarely worked.
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