County Championship 2024. Division 1. Worcestershire v Somerset. 26^th, 27^th, 28^th and 29^th April. Kidderminster.

Jack Leach, (knee injury, Tom Abell (hamstring) and Craig Overton (rested) were unavailable.

Worcestershire. J.D. Libby, G.H. Roderick (w), Kashif Ali, R.P. Jones, A.J. Hose, B.L. D’Oliveira, J.O. Holder, M.J. Waite, J. Leach, B.J. Gibbon, A.W. Finch.

Somerset, M.T. Renshaw, S.R. Dickson, T.A. Lammonby, A.R.I. Umeed, T. Banton, J.E.K. Rew (w), L. Gregory (c), K.L. Aldridge, M. Pretorius, J.T. Ball, S. Bashir.

Overnight. Somerset 309 for 9 dec and 5 for 1. Worcestershire 451. Somerset trail by 137runs with nine second innings wickets standing.

Final day 29^th April – Watching cricket in April

The wind that blows across a cricket field in April bites with the teeth of a prairie dog which does not let go. No-one escapes. At Kidderminster, where the ground is open on all sides, the wind enjoys free reign to do as it pleases to whom it pleases, and it did as it pleased across most of the four days of this match. The girl serving burgers from a hot plate in the burger van was frozen. Matching their coats, the umpires wore white snoods which encased their necks and faces up to their ears. They looked like the invisible man from the 1958 television series with his face swathed in white bandages. To match their trousers, they wore black gloves. The stewards were bulked out with enough layers to have passed for an American police SWAT squad. Spectators, those brave enough, or lacking sufficient discretion to know better than to watch cricket in such weather, wore a mottled array of defences. They ranged from tightfitting, designer fashioned, windproof jackets zipped so tightly to the larynx that if the cold did not get the occupant a lack of oxygen would, to anoraks and scarves so battered by a winter without apparent end that they seemed on the point of abject surrender. Not that their owners would dream of letting them surrender, for the next match was only three days away.

Worcestershire supporters seemed better prepared than your correspondent for the icy onslaught, for he had only the clothes he had brought with him from Somerset. Some sported bright and bulky green and yellow knitted hats with WCCC emblazoned across their fronts. Hats pointed and bent over like those worn by garden gnomes. One, who sat in the small wooden shelter behind me, had his neck wrapped around innumerable times by a seemingly endless knitted scarf in the same colours. So long was it, it must have taken him the whole winter to put it on. He also seemed to be wearing more layers than did George Mallory when he attempted to climb Everest in the days before specialist mountaineering clothing. Unlike Mallory, he survived. He was too the only spectator I heard complain when the umpires took the players off for bad light at the end of the day, the other hardy souls still in the ground, bolting for the exit.

By contrast, your correspondent had prepared to watch England’s summer game and came dressed accordingly plus light anorak and Somerset scarf. As a further precaution I had taken my large blue Somerset umbrella in expectation of some summer rain. As to my sartorial choices, they fell into the winter-battered category with my anorak in need of its spring wash but prevented from having it by cricket in April being more persistent than the Kidderminster wind. My proudly owned woollen Somerset scarf seemed somehow inadequate when set against the gargantuan Worcestershire one festooning the neck of the spectator behind me.

I can also report that my (battered) white wide-brimmed hat with the wyvern crest on the forehead was the only one in the ground as I battled the wind to keep it on. I did see a smarter maroon version on a head on one of the days, and on all four days a rather older maroon version on the head of a Somerset supporter previously seen inhabiting a bench on Gimblett’s Hill, now stationed in front of the small Kidderminster mobile bar and apparently dressed for high summer. I can report that all three hats remained firmly fixed to their respective heads throughout as did a small array of maroon baseball caps.

The entire crowd formed a scattered kaleidoscope of winter grey, blue, green and black clothing, topped with maroon or yellow and green scarves and hats plus the one white wyvern hat in search of high summer. The grey matched the blanket of low, sometimes glowering, cloud which rolled across the sky like some giant conveyor belt virtually the whole day long. At its height, the crowd numbered about 300, up from about 150 on the third day, perhaps encouraged by Worcestershire’s offer of free entry on the final day. At precisely eleven o’clock, into this scene, which might have passed for a sporting event in one of H.G. Wells’ dystopian science fiction novels, marched the umpires dressed like his invisible man and 13 players dressed as if it were high summer. How many layers of thermals they wore under their summer whites I cannot say. They took their positions as if nothing was amiss and, against all common sense, began to play cricket.

The cricketing question of the day was simple. Would Somerset be able to bat long enough to prevent Worcestershire winning the match. Somerset’s history of top order collapses in recent years worried their supporters more than the marauding wind, light at first but which picked up with a vengeance through the day. Worcestershire supporters, their county newly promoted, perhaps saw an opportunity for an unlikely victory against an established first division club. The two sets of emotions combined to produce tension from the start. Somerset had already lost the wicket of Sean Dickson the night before and were still 137 runs behind. At the wicket were Matt Renshaw, Australian Test cricketer with a Somerset pedigree as an opening bat and, night watching for Tom Lammonby, Jake Ball, a man without a first-class fifty to his name. Were it not for the fact that Renshaw is a left-hander and Ball a right-hander, spectators could have been forgiven for mixing the two up. Ball played with assurance. Renshaw constantly struggled, but somehow, in a gritty, determined performance, managed to protect his wicket. With Renshaw still on nought, Ball went into double figures with square and on drives for two and an off drive for four, all off Joe Leach and twice took singles to retain the strike.

Renshaw was walking down the pitch to play Jason Holder, suggesting movement, although I could not confirm this from my seat at deep backward point. Even so he edged a defensive stroke low to Adam Hose at slip where Hose dropped his third catch of the match. Groans and sighs of relief mixed. Perhaps players hands are not immune to the teeth of the winter wind. When Renshaw finally found the boundary, it was from a low edge off Holder which safely passed outside the third of three slips. And all the while, Ball held the crease, hooking Leach for two and driving Matthew Waite for two and four to reach 20 with Renshaw still gritting it out on four.

With Worcestershire pressing for a win and Somerset having no such prospect, it was curious, especially after the dropped catch, to see Worcestershire reducing their slip ‘cordon’ to one before the first hour was out and replacing it with, at various times, a mixture of short midwickets and covers in the new way. It would be interesting to know if such field placings arise from analysis or theory and how, in terms of success, they compare with the slip, gully and short leg fielders of the recent past. Then, almost on the hour, an unimaginably long time for Ball to have batted, he essayed a drive off Waite. It flew off a barely moving bat as if it had been played by a top order batter and crossed the boundary between point and backward point to the right of my seat. When he was bowled by Adam Finch getting tangled up in a defensive stroke in the next over, he looked as surprised as those watching. He had though made 29 runs from 62 balls in his 69 minutes at the wicket. More importantly for Somerset, he had kept the Worcestershire bowlers out for the entire first hour and looked quite accomplished in doing it.

With Lammonby newly arrived, another of the modern game’s innovations introduced itself – gaps in the slip cordon. Lammonby was greeted by a first, second and fourth slip. It didn’t prevent him from opening his account with one of those smooth-flowing drives of his off Waite, this time straight for four. A clip to the backward square leg boundary followed as Somerset carefully ground their way forward. Renshaw was still batting as if his wicket was his most precious possession. Occasionally he would pass the strike to Lammonby with a carefully placed single and often looked uncomfortable against some endlessly persistent bowling. But, despite that persistence, Leach in particular looking threatening, he would not be budged. As the wind picked up its pace, the layer of cloud rolling across the sky, lower than it had been, looked as dystopian as the scene below. Against the cold that continued to bite, spectators’ shoulders hunched forward in protective mode and Renshaw’s bat continued to come forward in defence. After 30 overs and with lunch approaching, Somerset were 64 for 2. At that rate, and there was no sign of them attempting to accelerate, it would take them another 38 overs and beyond tea to pass Worcestershire’s score. It promised to be a long, gruelling afternoon as some faces began to turn red on their way to blue.

A spinner’s over or two before lunch is a longstanding tactic in cricket. In my experience it rarely works, although it might tell the captain whether there is any turn in the pitch. Worcestershire’s primary spinner and captain are one and the same, Brett D’Oliveira, grandson of an iconic grandfather. I remembered the twinkle I thought I saw in his grandfather’s eye in a duel with Brian Close at Taunton in 1977. As the grandson tossed the ball up in his first over. Renshaw, as if released from his self-imposed straitjacket, paddle swept him for a single. Lammonby, with a more orthodox stroke, returned the strike with another single. Renshaw paddle swept again. This time though he misjudged the bounce or turn, and the sweep connected only with the top edge before floating towards backward short leg like a bubble from a child’s bubble blower. Kashif Ali, at short leg, had time to skip across and take the catch. Renshaw had made 12 in over two hours, leaving Somerset on 66 for 3 still 76 adrift with four hours of cricket still to be played if the match ran its course. Eyes would normally roll at such a stroke in such a situation, but most Somerset supporters I spoke to concentrated on Renshaw’s vigil and the fact that it had kept Worcestershire at bay for a third of the day. “Come on Worcester lads!” boomed a newly animated voice wrapped in a yellow and green scarf. It was followed by one of those tense silences which marks a tight match in the balance, but Somerset reached lunch on 68 for 3, 75 behind with a minimum of 68 overs left in the day.

A detached observer, had they been open to laying bets, and who knew their cricket would have placed their money on a draw. There seemed little life in the pitch, Worcestershire had scored 451 on it and there was no sign of deterioration. If Somerset could bat themselves into a lead with sufficient wickets in hand, the pressure would ease on their batters. But cricket supporters are not detached watchers, and as I braved the wind to walk along the boundary during the interval, the faces of many supporters from both sides were taut with tension, the one fearing and the other hoping for a sudden collapse or an inspired bowling spell. The prospect of forecast rain arriving before the close added another complication to the hopes and fears. This the ground staff did nothing to assuage by bringing the covers to the middle during the lunch interval.

My perambulation took me to the small group of Somerset supporters who had congregated for the day near the mobile bar and there I stayed for the first 40 minutes of the afternoon, although the hot chocolate I bought from the nearby burger van did nothing to ward off the biting wind or raise by body temperature. The wind must have been biting everyone else in the ground too, but I saw no one leave. The chat, of course, extended beyond the lunch interval, but every time a ball was bowled all eyes were fixed firmly on the cricket for the match was at its tipping point. If Worcestershire were to win, they would have to take wickets in the upcoming overs. If Somerset were to save the game, they might have to avoid one of their legendary batting collapses. The seven wickets lost for 15 runs at The Oval would be terminal here.

Somerset’s safety was now in the hands of Lammonby and Andy Umeed, newly returned to the first team after some large scores for the second team. In ten overs they scored 15 runs and I doubt any of us watching missed a ball. Not so long ago, Somerset might have tried to hit their way out of trouble, develop a lead and save the match that way. This was a different, more traditional, approach. Wickets were all. If Worcestershire were to win, they would have to chisel out the Somerset batters like building blocks out of Ham Hill. It is an approach not without risk. If wickets did suddenly fall, Somerset would be desperately short of runs. But the solid, straight bat approach seems to be Umeed’s way and Lammonby, who began as a fast, free-scoring batter is fast developing a method for playing the other way too. He is also learning to change pace in an innings. If he succeeds, he will be formidable. He stood firm for Somerset here.

With Somerset still 55 behind with 57 overs left in the day and the bite in the wind becoming stronger, I returned to my seat, picked up my bag and retreated to join the man with the voluminous scarf in the shelter that Somerset supporters had named ‘the bike shed’. The best description I can give of the scene on the final afternoon is of those of us in it resembling a row of mountain goats sheltering in an open shelter on the north face of the Eiger.

In the middle, D’Oliveira and Leach were plugging away at Somerset. Singles and maidens were the order of the day, although occasionally there would be a crack of bat on ball and the ball would find its way to the boundary. When Holder replaced Leach, Umeed edged him to the boundary past three traditional slips, but the ball was running along the ground before it reached them. Waite replaced D’Oliveira and Umeed clipped him to long leg in front of the group by the mobile bar before bats and front legs returned to their routine of coming down the wicket in protection of the stumps. Lammonby reminded of what he is capable with an ephemeral late cut off Holder to take Somerset to 112 for 3 from 50 overs, 30 behind with 47 overs remaining. The stewards, swaddled in their layers, read the game better than the still tense faces and began stacking the plastic chairs which had been placed around the boundary.

At 119 for 3, Lammonby edged Waite low to second slip, but the ball evaded the probably frozen fingers and added four to the score. The fingers missed the ball when it was so near the ground no one around me was sure if it had carried but the player stayed down, usually a sign that a catch has gone down. In truth, the game was already dead, but the drop seemed to break the tension. Umeed, with a hook, and Lammonby, with another mouthwatering late cut, took ten runs from an over from Finch before Umeed drove the returning D’Oliveira through extra cover for four and Somerset reached tea on 141 for 3 from 61 overs, one run behind and an exodus from the ground began.

The classic end to what had become a dead draw followed. Jake Libby and Kashif Ali took up the bowling and completed their overs at lightning speed off the shortest of runs. “They were minus one on over rate at tea,” someone said. Lammonby and Umeed responded mainly with some desultory singles before coming to life, Umeed driving Kashif Ali through the off side for four and Lammonby clipping him over straight midwicket for six. Gibbon replaced Libby and Umeed pulled him for four more. Most of the few remaining spectators were by now checking the time and waiting for the inevitable end. Then, as so often happens with the relaxation of pressure in these situations, Umeed miscued and returned a catch to Gibbon. He walked off with 60, he and Lammonby having batted nearly three hours to make the match safe for Somerset. The small group of Somerset supporters huddled next to the mobile bar burst into applause in recognition of a crucial job well done.

The few still watching were hunched more than ever with the wind blowing harder and biting ever more deeply. With the match dying on its feet the sun mocked with a five-minute appearance through a small hole in the carpet of cloud, but having mocked, it disappeared again. Staying to the end seemed more about grim determination to see the day out than watching cricket that had ceased to have any edge. As Lammonby and Tom Banton blocked and singled their way towards an end which never seemed to come, the umpires stopped play to take a meter reading. Whether it was of temperature or light might have been a reasonable question, but the rolling carpet of cloud had risen higher, and the light was demonstrably good enough for play and so the players continued their frozen cricketing ballet under that endless stream of cloud. Then the umpires took another reading. “It’s not as dark as when they went off yesterday,” said the man in the voluminous scarf. But enough was enough it seemed, and the players and umpires trudged off at twenty minutes to five. “They could have played on,” said the disappointed man in the scarf, “my bus isn’t for another 40 minutes.” There is always another perspective where cricket is concerned.

And so ended cricket in April for another year. If Somerset’s band of travelling supporters, especially those few of us who had braved Canterbury, The Oval and Kidderminster, had learned nothing else, we had learned the true meaning of windchill. We had though, that bizarre seven wicket collapse at The Oval excepted, witnessed a Somerset top order stiffer than we had seen for some years. A team too that had not lost its ability to grit it out when the pressure was on. The matches at The Oval and Kidderminster could so easily have been lost without the nerve shown on their respective last days. The lack of bite in the bowling had been a concern, but the batting at least seemed capable of providing a base if the bowling could find some of the bite that supporters had endured from the wind the month long.

Result. Somerset 309 for 9 dec (T. Banton 92, M. Pretorius 49, A.R.I. Umeed 47, J.O. Holder 3-72) and 190 for 4 (T.A. Lammonby 81*, A.R.I. Umeed 60.).  Worcestershire 451 for 9 dec (G.H. Roderick 122, J.D. Libby 97, B.L. D’Oliveira 66, J.T. Ball 3-72). Match drawn. Worcestershire 15 points. Somerset 12 points.