Saturday 1 May : 1st XI v Eastbourne (League)

The first game of the league season ends in victory for the Bensons by 76 runs. Any hopes Eastbourne have of Brighton slipping on an early season banana skin are dashed by the whirlwind blown in from Eastern Province and down the hill from the Pavilion End.

Deon Carolus, fresh from his second brush with HM Immigration Officers at Heathrow, took just four balls to make the impact we all hoped he would. The delivery too quick for the Eastbourne number one. A scud missile thudding in to his pads, prompting the slip cordon to appeal for Robbo’s first victim as keeper. Umpire Cyril Fletcher adjudged the unfortunate fellow LBW.

The drama of the day plays out to the lilting sunshine of a May Day Bank Holiday weekend finally arriving. Early start on a Saturday morning. Driving down from London rain becomes drizzle at Crawley. Passing through Pycombe heavy mist has descended. This means sea fret at the Nevill. Warm-up with touch rugby. Wakeford does a passable imitation of Brian O’ Driscoll. No injuries. Skipper keen for us to take this seriously. He loses the toss. Eastbourne insert us.

As we hobble to 128 all out this seems like a worthy forfeit of bonus points by the oppositon. Grammer and Cornford open the Benson’s account. Grammer is solid and worthy. He eschews his trademark get-out shots, the hook and the compulsive cut. Cornford, fresh from his night-shift with a big red Scammell, works hard. Perhaps contemplating a backdraft that got away he latches on to one heading towards Portslade and scoops it skywards. The fielder at square leg finally pockets one of the Sussex League’s most valuable wickets at deep version of his original position.

Randawha slopes in. Same unruffled calm as last week. Same results, for a while. Then disaster. This propels the bedraggled form of Wakeford to the crease. A few trademark flicks off his legs accompany the sun breaking through from the fret. Is the tempo of the afternoon’s batting changing from staccato to samba? No. Wakeford, like a new born foal, quickly finds his feet only to fall as suddenly. Striding to the crease is Greenfield, his beneficiary’s lifebelt pushing firmly on the acrylic of his new ‘vokins@home’ club jersey. It’s a tawdry knock. One inside edge, one outside. The attempt to dominate Hacker on a pitch created for the East Sussex seamer is premature. In the changing room Grubby’s bat invokes his ire. Captain Spencer, freshly mulleted, joins the fray. Hacker, forearms pumping lightly as though picking at a freshly tossed salad, serves some more innocuities. Sadly the feline nature of these servings undoes the skipper who drills a length ball to cover point. An indoor shot for an outdoor game.

Ades, all Aussie stoicism, finds his first task is to berate the unassuming Grammer for a soft dismissal. In hindsight the latter’s 48 is the knock of the day. Laraesque will become an overused adjective as the man from Trinidad echoes through cricket history. No need to use that adjective when describing the ginger opener’s phlegmatic approach to the game. A valuable innings. A thing of value does not have to have be a thing of beauty. Uncomplicated hitting from Robinson and crease occupation from Spink take the innings to the penultimate over. Spink tries to steal a single off its final ball. Carolus, too trusting in his ignorance of his partner’s reputation as a runner between the wickets, is the hapless victim of circumstance. Bensons 129 all out. One pissed off opening bowler.

So the ‘Bourne face the music of Carolus and Wood. Both openers snaffle three wickets. Carolus is quick and keen. Woody is Woody. Cornford, replacing Deon from the Pavilion end, burgles the final four wickets with his trademark accuracy. Eastbourne are thrashed. A curious decision to bowl first has backfired. Victory, for those who weren’t in nappies during the nineties, is even sweeter. Whither the Bourne? Who cares. Whither the Bensons? The Prodigal.

Fireworks on the Seafront marking the opening of the Brighton Festival coincide with the skipper’s tumble in to a Stella induced coma. The young lad from Port Elizabeth wears a reflective gaze. What memories do the next four months hold?