Karl Johnston was a rugby and cricket writer for the Press Group and then cricket correspondent for The Irish Times. While best known for his rugby writings, his writing on cricket showed his deep love for the game, which he first encountered in his native Limerick. In this article first published in the Evening Press in 1990, he laments the passing of another cricket season with the playing of the traditional closing senior game, the Wiggins Teape Final, contested in that year by Clontarf and Old Belvedere. Karl died in 2004 and spent a lot of time in Clontarf right up to the time of his death.
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An early awakening and instantly a schoolboy-like realisation that this is special day. Shuffle to the telephone, dial to listen, not to speak; “early morning fog patches and clouds will soon disperse, light winds on Dublin Bay…” Enough said, enough to be grateful for this encouraging assurance. A substantial breakfast, in instinctive anticipation, perhaps, of the social demands of the evening. And then it’s time to travel the few miles to Malahide, this week the National Tidy Town winner, today its cricket club the venue for the Wiggins Teape League Final, the last senior match of the season. Clontarf and Old Belvedere the opponents.
The car park’s nearly full but not quite. Sufficient room to edge into a place under the trees and beside the wall which divides the cricket club from the grounds of the Malahide Demense. “A windscreen was broken there a few weeks ago” a passing acquaintance says, happily hoping for some big hitting with a pinch of personal disaster thrown in for good measure. But this is a long boundary, and we take the chance.
The crowd is milling about – as usual a cross-section varying from the very young to the very old, men and women, boys and girls, and toddlers tottering in the footsteps of cricketing fathers (and, these days, of cricketing mothers as well). The scorers are already in the box, their eyrie accessible only by ladder, the better to concentrate. The captains emerge, the coin is tossed, Brendan Bergin wins the call for Clontarf, and Old Belvedere will bat first.
The sun has not quite succeeded in breaking through despite the weather forecasters’ promise. But the heat is there, and through the haze, across the parkland, the bulk of Malahide Castle stands like some English country pile wherein resides Lord Blandings or the latest love object of Bertie Wooster’s affections, protected by harridan-like aunts or big game hunting uncles. The cricket field itself shimmers in the mid-morning light, scorched –grass outfield embracing the playing track itself, perfectly manicured and looking as faultless as if it had been produced by computer technology. The umpires go out, the Clontarf men take their place in the field, Peter O’Reilly and Johnny McGrath plod slowly to the crease, the fielders crouch in unison as Brain McNeice comes in to bowl, the play begins.
The Malahide ground, with the Castle still in view
The locals in the know take their customary places – beside the boundary wall adjacent to the castle grounds, diagonally across from the entrance to the club. Here the wall is higher, the spot more sheltered; but on this day, others want to make the most of the last of the summer, and choose more airy vantage points around the boundary. As on every weekend since the season opened in April, friendships are renewed as people tire of sitting and meet as they stroll the perimeter, as much a part of the game as the battle being enacted on the playing pitch.
Naturally, the supporters of the two clubs involved are here in great numbers. But Leinster’s other clubs are well represented, among them the men and women from YMCA and CYM, the defeated semi-finalists and from Malahide, the club which always hosts this particular final, as well as a goodly number of non-aligned, all drawn together in the communion of cricket. In the boundary sun sit many of the great players of former years, each, no doubt remembering his own Saint Crispin’s Day in cricket, just as now the players on the field will vividly recall this battle in time to come. Old men forget? Don’t you believe it when it comes to cricket, where epic games of yesteryear evoke as many memories and passions as do those of the present time.
The match progresses, and Old Belvedere are doing well. Here and there, small boys bat and bowl, and inevitably hinder our view of the play. Asking them to move away brings on guilty feeling; kids should never be discouraged from any form of sport-how many future stars are deterred by officious adults? We console ourselves that we have asked them nicely.
On the field, O’Reilly (that rarest of cricketers, a fast bowler turned opening batsman) departs the scene five short of his half-century, victim of an incredible sprinting and diving catch in the deep by Deryck Vincent. The new man, Anto Canavan (“I like this fella’s footwork” somebody confides, as reverential and admiring as if discussing Nureyev) smartly knocks up another 45, but before he can reach his fifty is brilliantly run out by Vincent, who shatters the stumps from some twenty metres with the unfailing accuracy of a Jockey Wilson.
Old Belvedere make 201 for 4 off the statutory 50 overs and it’s time for lunch. Time for the cricketing families and their friends to haul out picnic baskets and flasks, time for the already steady bar sales to head higher up the graph, time for Clontarf to wonder if this is a total beyond their reach and for their opponents to worry if they have enough runs on the board. And time for anticipation of Clontarf’s response. Vincent and Peter Prendergast go out to open the innings. O’Reilly, back in his original role of opening bowler, looks impressively fast. Vincent, small and neat and dapper, is blessed with lightning-fast feet and reflexes to match. Prendergast, his partner, composed and assured, is happy to play Dr. Watson to Sherlock Holmes.
Vincent reaches his fifty in next to no time. Around the boundary, beside the score box outside the clubhouse, the Clontarf supporters begin to breath more easily, there is, after all, plenty more batting to follow. Suddenly, it seems, Vincent, diminutive bundle of sheer expertise, flashing blade despatching fours and sixes – is on 82, exactly 50 runs ahead of his partner. When he reaches his century, O’Reilly is the first to congratulate him.
Soon, Vincent’s on 121, Prendergast 67, Clontarf need only four to win, with eleven overs to spare. Prendergast, with wonderful sportsmanship, plays out a maiden over, leaving the winning of the match to his partner. And Vincent takes it, crashing his sixteenth boundary past mid-off, for a ten wicket victory.
Speeches and presentations over, victor and vanquished, their supporters and the happy band of brothers and sisters who have watched this last match of the season linger on. The early lengthening shadows of autumn, the russet leaves of the surrounding trees, the slight nip in the evening air, the field itself, now about to begin its winter hibernation, remind us of the long wait until next we watch cricket, for us the converted, the game of life. But in the gloaming the kids play on and we rejoice in the knowledge that it will be ever thus:
“On the green they watched their sons
Playing ‘til too dark to see
As their fathers watched them once
While bat and beetle flew
On the warm air webbed with dew”
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