To bat or not to bat, that is the question.

Whether 'tis nobler in my mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of hungover Woodpeckers,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And, by opposing, make them field when it’s a bit hot?

Here, Shakespeare may not have been speaking directly about Patrick’s mind on a summer’s Sunday morning, but he could well have been. As we know he (Patrick, not William) more often chooses to insert, the braver of the two decisions according to Hamlet’s famous soliloquy.

But when there are only 5 Peckers at start time and a full compliment of oppo eager and ready, there is n’owt to do but bat.

The late-arriving stragglers were given a thousand natural shocks at seeing a pair-of-padded-up-Potter-and-Pug shadow-driving on the Brook outfield.

Runky, Dog & Pheasant, Brook. A nicer sight than the shadow-batting.

And so to bat: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

Brook looked strong and their opening pair bowled very well, but We needn’t have worried. Potter, with a newly arrived Darty thrust up the order, took to the task manfully and saw off the first four overs with little incident. Potter’s clip off his legs in the fifth from the bowling of W. Owen (bowling in a cap) was a thing of beauty, and soon both had made it into double figures.

A horrible fingering

“He’s a Pom.” Poor Piggy.

Ade was castled by a good one from Wilfred Cap-on, which snorted off the helpful Brook wicket. Karl with a K strode the crease, now with a full XI Peckers behind him and Henners coming in next.

Darty clattered an on drive into the pavilion for a DLF maximum and at 50-1 we were all feeling quite good. Darty then suffered an awful fingering from Chef.

I think we all know what happens next. So did Hamlet:

When Darty shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause: there's the respect

That makes calamity of so long a Peckers tail;

For who would bear the edges and catches to mid wicket,

The openers’ wrong, the next man's contumely,

The pangs of a despised LBW decision, the non-strikers’ delay,

The insolence of Pug, running Motty out like that,

That grunt and sweat of a middle order, trying to find their thigh pads,

Square leg umpires, panick’d to be replac’d

With a bare bodkin?

In a heartbeat, 50-1 is 88-7.

Enter, Snax. When this happens, things tend to go up a level. A talented batsman, in my humble opinion, he manages to convince opponents that they should bring the buffet on, which they did. Harpley and Ward obliged with some cream cakes and eclairs, and some wides. We scored over 60 runs from this point, but only 30 off the bat. More wides, big wides and lots of scampered byes. It was messy but effective. Pug, clearly reeling from his recent murderous exploits, chipped one to mid off and brought Chef into the game. Here for a good time, not a long time, Chef’s professional eyes widen’d and too full advantage of the buffet on offer. 4, 6, 4, 2, caught.

It was enough to convince the opening bowler to come back on and end the madness. “We like to be in the pub by 6” admitted Trevor, the Brook Chairman, Secretary and, crucially, umpire on the day. He could have given a dozen more wides, but he’s more sensible than that.

Snax was facing when Williams came back on. After facing off a couple of good, sharp, short balls, he stepped down the pitch and drove the snorting youngster straight back past him for four runs. A glorious shot and one the bowler didn’t take to kindly. Back to his mark, picking it up and walking it ten paces back, he immediately earned himself the new nickname, ‘Full Run Wanker’. He steamed in to Snax. He’s a lovely chap and wore the new nickname with a smile.

The next ball came down with some gravy on it, a yard faster at least. Snax, unruffl’d, clipped FRW off his legs to the mid-wicket boundary to uproarious applause from the pavilion. Shot of the season by a stretch and worthy of the great Hanif Mohammed. The best was yet to come.

FRW was now bowling very quickly and a stray wide-ish delivery sailed through the slip cordon and up the hill. Runky must have been backing up quite considerably because Snax was somehow able to scamper back for two byes. As the throw came in from the boundary, Snax was leaping into his dive for the line, the throw was off line and clattered into wicketkeeper’s helmet for a bonus 5! Absolutely village scenes. A dusty Snax on the floor rubbing his leg, FRW snorting, fielders laughing, umpires unsure what to signal. Mirth.

In the next over Wilfred Cap-On clean bowled Snax for his Peckers top score of 16. Tea.

Woodpeckers 155 all out (extras 43).

An indefensible 155, seemed defendable. It was warm, a bit sticky and the Brook wicket is helpful. We had a good bowling unit and only a few ales had been taken. A professional fielding performance, no chances dropped, and we could win it. Alas.

Thus finding oneself under a skier does make cowards of us all;

And thus the native hue of red leather

Is sicklied o'er with the ball dropping to the ground,

And enterprises of great pith and moment.

POB acted on this need for vigour and in an attacking, almost Bazball-esque move stuck himself at silly mid off second ball of the innings, after the first one had popped up a bit. The second ball was a half volley, and P De Lange smoked at it low and hard right at POBs waiting right ankle. He didn’t recoil, he didn’t have time, he stopped a four but very possibly shattered his ankle. Carried off and given ice, we’d lost our Hamlet in the first over.

POB’s ice anklet was a little deflated at the loss. Shorts.

After the early drama Pug and Motty both bowled gamely, but with little in the way of menace. The years had not been kind.

Decisions were needed. But without POB we adapted into a sort of autonomous collective, an anarcho-syndicalist commune taking turns to act as a sort of executive-officer-for-the-week. Henners was in role and Runky was installed from the Hill End. An inspired move as it turned out.

A succession of Brook batters, all too used to facing darty League off-breaks, failed to grasp just how slowly one could bowl the cricket ball.

First it was De Lange, then Owen, then Thomas, Soars and finally, Ward. All almost identical dismissals, playing three or four shots physically, and many more in their heads.

Poetry to watch.

Runky finished his 8 over taking five wickets for 36.

The only other highlight in a frankly abject fielding performance, which saw us drop all seven catches, and take none, was Chubby taking a wicket on his return to Brook.

Brook 157-6. Pub.

With this regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of action.—Soft you now!

The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons

Be all my sins remember'd.

We hastily repair’d to the Dog & Pheasant, which is where all wanted to be anyway. It’s a glorious setting and the Brook mob are such good opposition, we could have sat there all night talking about the game and our season. They really are a great bunch for us - strong cricketers who enjoy there game for what it is, and love a beer afterwards. Trevor admitted that “that was the most entertaining game of cricket I’ve seen all season”. We’ll take that.