There is only one Plough team playing at home this week, and so the day begins quietly, without any attempted three card monte to switch out Burbage for Nursery. Bob Keogh breathes easy, knowing that his talents for reading the swirling of a coin won’t be needed today, and instead, he can focus on match fees with the concentration and dedication that he desires.

The pitch that has been assigned to us is emerald green, with only the slopes up to the bowling crease on either side showing any brown. Elmsie is convinced that this is bowl first pitch, what with the grey skies, the gust blowing left to right and the pitch that threatens to seam us to death. That is, right up until the match coin goes aerial, at which point he changes his mind and nods at the oppo captain. We’ll bat first.

There has been nervous chatter about the opposition all day. Putney were on the receiving end of a Merilaht- led surgical dismembering a few weeks ago and word on the street is that they might be sending down their revenge XI, like a middle class Inglorious Basterds; some Brad Pitt-esque captain drawling that they will be cruel to the Plough, and through their cruelty, the Plough will know who they are, and that every one of his bowlers owes him three scalps each, and he will have his scalps.

Then they turn up with only 10 players, and most of those worries dissipate.

Yanni and Leon stride out to open. Leon is, we later realise, absolutely *riddled* with tennis elbow, like a sort of modern day Victor Hugo, if Victor had swapped out his endless stream of brothels for team selection meetings and cycling instead. He will end up playing the entire match in some sort of pain, which is a remarkable level of dedication to show any team, let alone a Sunday side in a game that doesn’t really matter.
Yanni, the man with the body, the face and the vocal chords of a Greek god, is also batting like one. Anything that is remotely in his zone is being smote with some serious power. It is at this stage that we see the greatest invention in modern village cricket, which is that Playcricket allows you to put down the location of each scoring shot for the batsman. This is revelatory. This is transcendental. This is arguably the only thing in the entire game that might bring me joy. As Chad, new scorer and possible protege of Benny Cobbett, scribbles away in the physical book, it is up to me to update the Playcricket. Every shot placement is confirmed with Chad, and there are times where I move the scoring zone three or four times before I am happy. I am mocked mercilessly for this, but I bite my tongue, knowing that God works in mysterious ways, and the naysayers will soon see the light.

Yanni departs for a relatively aggressive 25, and then Benny walks in to start an extremely aggressive innings of his own. There is clearly a squirrel nested in a tree out on the legside that Benny has taken singular umbrage with, because every single shot is going out there, and going out there with some venom. This squirrel is living through its personal Dresden as Benny mortars the living piss out of it, taking the time to hit one (1) singular shot through the offside just in case someone has a go at him for being one-track. It is in the RSPCA’s best interests that Benny is out for 28, and I walk in.

The first ball I get is a pretty generous full toss that I slap for four, right where Benny was hitting them, and I hear a muffled, but furious “Fuck!” from the boundary. I turn to see Benny scribbling in the scorebook, less than pleased to have missed out on more juicy treats.

I am going moderately well when I am dismissed for 17 by a beautiful throw down from their left arm spinner who flicks his elbow, wrist and fingers to get a delicious bit of turn to just shave my outside edge and nestle in some safe hands behind me.

Elmslie comes out and there is no let up. He is instantly and immediately MCC coaching manual. High front elbow, drop of the front shoulder into the ball, let the top hand guide, let the bottom hand apply pressure just at contact. There is a cover drive that he hits so ridiculously well that nobody moves for about five seconds; there is just an awkward pause for the fielding side as they try to decide who has to run a hundred metres to pick the ball up beyond the boundary. Afterwards he tells me that he’s worried that people might watch him bat and think he has an offside obsession. I suspect he also worries that his steak is too juicy, his lobster too buttered, and his stripper too in love with him.
Elmslie and Parks drag the team to 175, which is a reasonable total, and definitely one that can be defended. We go to tea in moderately good spirits.

The bowling innings is odd. The cricket never really takes off, the game never really sparks into anything. It sort of unfurls slowly, aimlessly, and then sort of just… ends.

Qammar, who has come down in the very, very last minute to replace Jimmy Anderson, is absolutely outstanding in his opening spell, as always. He is too quick for their openers, he is moving it too much, he is too accurate. There is an edge that perfectly bisects the keeper and first slip, one of their openers accidentally hits it between his own legs twice, he is that twisted, and their left hander scores about one run off him in front of square.

Phil Kelly, at the other end, is also terrific. For a man, who at the time of the game is not even technically Plough, he puts a lot of his body on the line. He throws a hand down at a straight drive that has been hit incredibly hard, and is rewarded with a dull fleshy thud that makes everyone in a ten metre radius wince. The very next over, he stops yet another straight drive with his ankle this time, and the winces are even more pronounced. He will finish the match having bowled 4 overs for just 9 runs, and will have a IPL-level lucrative contract waiting for him from Ploughmans CC.

Nobody bowls badly. The batsmen never roar away and rip the game from our hands. But there are so, so many dropped catches, and with every dropped chance, there is a shade more confidence in their batters, and they believe just a little bit more that they can bed in and ride this innings out. They go to the drinks break on 80-something for the loss of no wickets, which shortly becomes 100 for the loss of no wickets, which shortly becomes a 50 for Sachin, their left hander, and 50 for Almond, their right hander, and we are still not taking chances, and they are still going slowly, and the game is rolling its paraplegic body in the wheelchair of boredom towards a final sweet release.

However, credit does have to go to Chad, who bowls the best that I have ever seen him bowl for this club. He does not bowl a single obvious hit-me ball; everything he bowls is full, is straight, and he gives it every chance to swing and cause problems. After overs and overs and overs no wickets, it is Chad who finally provides the breakthrough, aided by a lovely catch from Harry Payne, who makes it look a lot easier than it was. It is Chad again who provides the second breakthrough, and there is a point before his final over where his figures read 6 overs, 26 runs and 2 wickets. On another day, maybe if we had a few more runs on the board, or if the opposition were five or six down rather than zero down, his bowling performance would have wrangled a win.

Alas, we do not have those runs on the board, or those wickets sent back to the sheds, and in the end, Putney win comfortably, having occasionally threatened to somehow lose the game. They have affected their revenge, albeit in a less brutal way than some of us were imagining. For the Plough, thoughts are already drifting towards Thursday and the tour, where no doubt high quality cricket will be played over multiple days. Given Ben Stokes’ personal proclivity for the club, there is every chance that he may be joining them out there.

Match report from Prithu "Pretty Boy" Banerjee