Lavant CC vs Walberton CC — Sunday 26th July 2026

A Prologue from the Club

The committee is delighted — and a little alarmed — to announce the return of that titan of the bodice-ripper, JK Bowling. The weeks since her last commission have been unkind: her biographical sequel “Brooker Rises Again” flopped (“all run-up and no delivery,” sniffed one critic), and her leading man was last seen fleeing to France, where he lies low tending his vine and refusing all comment on his uncommon length. But talent will out. Hungry, unbowed and rather behind on her rent, Ms Bowling returns to chronicle a Sunday of the highest quality — Lavant against the mighty Walberton, beneath a swelteringly amorous sun. Over to her.

The renown of the Club and its beautiful ground grows ever more irresistible, and fresh faces continue to flock to Lavant — three of them debuting this week. First, Luke Rogers: a dashing, flame-haired opener whose devious spin sets bosoms aflame the moment he strides to the crease. Then Justin Espezel, fearless in the field and dangerous in the middle order, sporting shorts so short and so gloriously seventies that Björn Borg himself would have blushed. And finally young George Mac, the mullet-haired junior pretender and a fast bowler of real promise — bags of energy, fearless with ball in hand, and the undisputed champion of the tea table, which he demolished with the boundless appetite of a growing lad.

With the captaincy rotation in full force, it fell this week to Willy Mac to take the reins, expectations running high even as Walberton swept in with all the bristling swagger of a side that fancied itself rotten. The skipper’s first duty was the toss. He lost. An excellent start! Lavant took the field, Walberton to bat. Our number was completed by Max, arriving fresh — if that is the word — from two hours’ sleep after a night of considerable exertion. He was, as ever, the very peak of condition, radiating a faintly alcoholic bouquet that mingled headily with the changing room’s already legendary perfume. But eleven men we had, glistening and game.

With our legendary keeper struck down in his prime, the wicket-keeping conundrum rumbled on. Common parlance insists that where there’s a Will there’s a way — and Lavant were blessed with two Wills to share the gloves, so surely a way would be found. Willy Mac went first, lowering his ample thighs into the crouch to the considerable amusement of his team-mates. The skipper, meanwhile, craved raw pace, and led with two very different beasts: Justin M, all rippling muscle and glistening sweat, and Will “T-Rex” T — a fearsome apex predator, blessed like the great tyrant lizard with a devastating strike and gloriously short little arms. Justin struck with the very first ball, quick and swinging, off-stump sent tumbling. The tone was set. Both spells were sharp and probing: Justin a miserly 1 for 7 from four, the T-Rex 0 for 22 from five.

If Justin and the T-Rex were the starters, the main course was served by Luke and Tam, our veteran overseas all-rounder. Tam was relentless and devious, mixing his pace with a connoisseur’s cunning. The first breakthrough came just before drinks — a quicker ball pushed slyly past the legs of the left-handed number three, at which point Willy Mac found it unexpectedly nestled in his gloves and reverse-flicked it back for a stumping so smart the whole parish gasped. A turning point. At drinks the gloves passed to Will T, much to the relief of Willy Mac, his thighs brining, his shirt soaked through, his hands bruised and throbbing. Refreshed, Lavant returned, and the wickets kept tumbling: Walberton’s well-set number two carved one hard to square leg, where Luke took it chest-high with nonchalant confidence — a fabulous take, a catch of pure experience.

Luke’s own bowling, turning his arm over for the first time in years, produced absolute seeds — the ball turning and spitting off the parched surface. On another day he’d have had a clutch of wickets, the batsmen under-edging past their stumps time and again. The burnt outfield was merciless, lightning-fast, yet he stuck to his task and completed an excellent maiden spell in Lavant colours.

And what of our lothario Max, after his nocturnal excesses? Basking in the sun, gently sweating out his sins, he was tossed the ball. Six foot nine of dishevelled beauty, all endless arms and legs and ripped trousers — on any other man a shambles, but Max carried it off with the languid aplomb of a fallen aristocrat. On two hours’ sleep, a bottle of Lucozade and no small quantity of whinging, he bowled a masterclass of leg spin: seven overs, two for 20. Exceptional — the more so given he remained, by any reasonable estimation, five times over the limit to drive. Oh, to be young again. And there on the boundary beamed Chris, the true and original Big Pig, swelling with a father’s pride: pride in the boy’s craft with ball in hand, and no less, one suspects, in his flourishing prowess after dark. The apple falls not far from the tree.

And so to the denouement. To bowl the death overs stepped Willy Mac alongside the young pretender George Mac — father and son in tandem, a first game together, and a moment of rare and tender significance. George steamed in from the pavilion end all youthful exuberance, his magnificent hair streaming; his old man laboured in beside him, panting, muttering, muscles screaming. It was the elder Mac who struck first, clean bowling Walberton’s quality number five, two more following quickly after, before the T-Rex snapped up a smart catch behind the stumps: four for 19 from five. And George, growing in confidence with every ball, then lived the dream — clean bowling the number eleven to the biggest cheer of the day, the whole ground rising as one. A proudest-Dad moment, and tears in Willy Mac’s eyes: partly from the emotion, partly from the sheer agony of a day spent both keeping and bowling, rather too much for his ageing frame. Superb, George. Walberton all out for 143 — and now a tricky chase beckoned against a well-drilled, quality attack that would yield nothing cheaply.

But first, the main event. Tea. That most sacred element of any Lavant home game, without which no fixture is complete. George led the team off, grinning ear to ear, and the side retired to the dappled shade of the tree-lined ground to fall upon a fabulous spread, prepared with loving care by Justin M with generous contributions from the T-Rex’s abundant allotment. The scones were a triumph; Justin, it transpired, a baking dark horse of hidden and delectable talents. Players, families, children and local spectators gathered beneath the trees to share the feast — community spirit in full and happy bloom.

Stomachs full and spirits soaring, it was back to business, a target of 143 shimmering on the horizon. And so to the chase. Justin M strode out to open with Luke Rogers, all handsome swagger and pumped chest. Walberton’s opening bowlers were tight and miserly, but the pair battled and ran hard, Luke an absolute class act — stroking the ball to all parts, an artist at his easel. The runs were hard-won, but a solid platform was laid until Justin fell in the thirteenth to a fearsome inswinging yorker. 34 for 1. In came Chris Mac — one muscle-bound, brooding hero making way for another — his brute strength blending in perfect harmony with Luke’s artistry.

Chris’s innings was short and brutal, terrifying bowlers and fielders alike: twelve fearsome runs took the team past 50 before he was undone by Walberton’s young quick. Rob perished valiantly in the same over to yet another inswinging yorker — a pedigree attack, giving nothing away, 59 for 3 from seventeen. Then Justin E swaggered out for his debut, oozing pro-tennis vibes, and duly brought the chaos with sneaky running and dubious calling — all part of the plan — before departing to a smart catch rarely seen on a Sunday. Big Pig came to settle the ship, and settle it he did, running well alongside the steadfast Luke, who by now was digging and scratching his way to Australia, much to the curator’s dismay. So deep was his trench that one feared he’d strike magma — yet ever the gentleman, he downed tools, climbed over the top and led his team on. Both perished at 81, Luke departing for a superb, hard-earned 38.

With 60 still required and ten overs left, nerves jangled, and the skipper called for the cavalry — the finishers, the playboys, those silken-shouldered rogues cellared like fine wine for precisely such peril. Step forward Max: bags for life beneath his eyes, clothes drenched in ninety-proof sweat, the rake of the night before called upon to perform again. Beside him the ever-dependable, ever-limping Tam, every team’s first pick in a crisis. Surely 60 from the last ten was a bridge too far, even for these two battle-scarred lovers of the lost cause? The cork eased from the bottle with a slow and pregnant pop — game on.

What followed was astonishing. A handsome crowd had gathered, and — despite much dubious mental arithmetic — most spent each over frantically recalculating the required rate. They needn’t have bothered. Max and Tam devoured the deficit. What an odd and glorious couple they made: Max, six foot nine of languid limb, towering like a lighthouse over his partner; Tam, small and compact and quite lost from view whenever the big man ambled down for a mid-pitch conference — the long and the short of it, and a sight to warm the hardest heart. Boundaries flowed, including one towering straight six from Max that near enough achieved orbit, paired with scurried singles and pointedly turned-down twos from Tam, doubtless conserving himself for the raw power to come. Walberton threw everything at them; they were simply too good. Tam eventually fell, run out for a fine 23, but by then the job was as good as done.

Will T strode out to accompany Max — and here calamity nearly struck, the little T-Rex vanishing entirely into one of Luke’s trenches. A ladder was fetched, the hero hauled blinking to the surface, and battle resumed. Then it was done: the win secured by four wickets, Max unbeaten and imperious on 33, the 60 knocked off with a swagger in the thirty-third over. What a finale — a victory of rare and lingering satisfaction against a superb Walberton side, who deserve every compliment for their skill, grace and good humour throughout. Worthy local rivals, and a pleasure to share a field with.

And so to the plaudits. Three debutants, all superb; the team, top to bottom, heroic. This was a game that might so easily have slipped away, but for the sheer backbone and bottle of these gallant men.

The Champagne Moment. Some may cry favouritism — and let them — for nothing stirred the heart quite like young George bowling the death overs and clean bowling the number eleven. His first wicket in adult cricket, with his beaming father at mid-on to see it: a life moment if ever there was one. Tick.

The Man of the Match is a thornier affair. There was the superb new-ball spell from Justin M and the T-Rex that set the whole day up; there was Luke’s debut 38, hewn from the hardest conditions; there was Willy Mac’s 4 for 19. Yet for me the verdict names two: Tam and Max — two wickets apiece, then a match-winning stand of nerve and swagger when the game hung in the balance. The long and the short of it, the veteran and the rake — inseparable in triumph, and joint Men of the Match.

And so we take our leave. A wonderful day for Club and village alike, everyone gathered beneath the summer sun to savour the spectacle and the warm hospitality for which Lavant is so justly renowned. New faces, fresh blood, yet the same beating heart and the very same spirit as ever. Lavant CC is healthy, happy and quite wonderful. Until next time — keep your whites crisp, your calling honest, and your trenches shallow. Goodnight.