Brutal World.

So Croft goes, amid that abstracted, high-contrast, impulse-loaded, contra-sense that a) given the standards of the modern day, he had to… but also b) ain’t it a shame, the unpeeling of the romance, the murder of the righteous, the strangulation of the dream. Would that all that undeniable love for county and country had been converted into runs.

It wasn’t; or it wasn’t enough, or early enough. Or it wasn’t remotely, in 50 over and County Champs cricket – not recently, not so you’d notice.

The figures – painful ones for us Glammy supporters – are out there. I’m not searching through them again; too painful, too embarrassing, too brutally evidential of (one argument goes) undeniable failure.

One argument does say the Glamorgan gaffer presided over a shockingly uncompetitive period… period. Forget the wider debate or the responsibility for developing homegrown talent. Forget that. Croft was indulged waaay longer than your average football manager. His Long Term Plan for a Wonderfully Welsh Glamorgan side wasn’t working; so he goes.

A few, (not many, I think) will hold to the contrary, allegedly-truly more generous Long Term Plan, whereby patience and support for an honourable, long-term servant of the club persists. The seductive notion being that ultimately loyalty, that authentic hywl, might or should prevail. But nah. Not these days.

I remember the euphoria around the Croft retirement/appointment period. I was there when he hauled himself up the steps for the last time, his son alongside, to the Glammy dressing-room. It felt a tad staged, to be honest, but there was still a proper lump of Crofty-lurv in the air. I stood and cheered.

His succession to Coach was similarly notably wrapped in quasi-nostalgic goodwill. (Remember that?) But – as David Coleman might have said – goodwill don’t pay the rent.

The promise of real development through coupling white-ball superstars (Ingram, Steyn, Tait, etc) with wide-eyed Welsh Bois never came through for him. There were nearish misses in T20 Blast in particular but too much humiliation of late. We got to a place where the sympathy for a proper Welsh Bloke could not hold back the cruel questions; rightly so.

It’s tough all around when a patently genuine Club Legend is being undermined… but yaknow it’s his job to sort things and there’s inevitably a timescale on that.

The level of trauma (performance-wise) at Glamorgan has been such that my newish mucker, the brilliant ESPN Correspondent George Dobell has not simply questioned their quality but proposed something more powerfully challenging – the outright squishing of the club. He favours a re-boot, under a Welsh national flag, because Glammy have proved, essentially, (he says) to be non-viable. (I have, for brevity, maybe bastardised his argument but you get the point: Glam are seen by some to be a poor, inadequate, unworthy member of the County Clubs club).

Croft – and Hugh Morris – have presided over this. A few days ago, the latter relinquished his Director of Cricket, but not his CEO role. Today marks a further, significant step on. It feels to me both dramatic and appropriate.

I know Hugh Morris a little and find him impressive; tough, focused, loyal, committed, shrewd.

Croft I barely know, having been in a cohort of coaches for a workshop or two under him, and at club outreach evenings which he hosted: never truly in his company.

The man’s contribution over time deserves a certain level of respect so I am not going to repeat the one or two negative things I’ve heard about him, nor where they came from. What I will do is note to the universe that if I had to choose just the one of the two men to carry Glam forward it would be Morris.

Perhaps that’s indiscreet, perhaps it’s unnecessary? (Perhaps I’ll edit it out later).

Given the raw material available to him, it may be that Croft had to be a Pied Piper Plus – to have something deeply inspiring about him. I suspect, unfortunately, he hasn’t had enough of that magic: would Nye Donald have left if he did? Again, maybe that’s a tad harsh. But it’s a brutal world, eh?

 

A post-script.

Where to next?  Following what we can probably assume to be Hugh Morris’s difficult and therefore courageous decision to relieve Croft of his duties, where do Glammy go? Is the retention of Matthew Maynard as Batting Consultant a) erroneous b) smart c) a sign that the Welsh Connection (as it were) remains a force – a value? How far away from appointing TWO key figures – Director of Cricket and Head Coach – are the county?  We can’t know.

Personally I have no doubt that Morris will be looking to retain what we might/he might call Glamorgan’s soul. For him, despite that medium-aggressive business savvy-thing, the development of Welsh talent is more than just a marketing tool; it’s a full-on mission.

This of course doesn’t mean that he won’t be heavily conscious that Glam must now enter a period where they are competitive, where the leadership is authentically top-level. Meaning there is less or no room for sentiment.

But the need for two helmsmen (helmspeople?) may provide an opportunity here. Could he be bold enough to take it, I wonder, by bringing in a genuinely international class Director of Cricket, with Mark O’Leary – curently of Cardiff MCCU – beneath, running day-to-day coaching affairs?

(O’Leary is an ECB Level 4 Masters Coach from the same cohort as the likes of Dizzy Gillespie: he is a personable Coming Man, with verve, ingenuity, great ideas around coaching).

If this sounds a crazy-dangerous notion then consider the following scenario: essentially a triumvirate of senior staff, with a Brilliant New Guy as D of C, plus Maynard chuntering and cajoling and – importantly – at O’Leary’s shoulder).

I make this proposition for a couple of reasons.

1. I know O’Leary reasonably well and feel pret-ty convinced he may be a star in the making – that Glammy should get him into their system.

2. That there is plainly a way for him to be developed under the wings of a cool, authoritative Director of Cricket – particularly if the nuggetty Maynard remains an influence. Longer-term (only actually a year or two down the track), O’Leary might then be an utterly outstanding fit for Head Coach.

Sub-clause XXII. (I get that there are dangers around this).  Yes, O’Leary is Welsh. No, I’m not daft enough to either campaign on the issue,or pretend that going thissaway would be straightforward, for Hugh Morris.  But hey, this morning’s conversational hare… sorted. 👊🏻

Crazy, I know.

Lunchtime in Wales. The twittersphere tells me Rashid Khan can’t play tonight for Sussex – a plus.

But given the Sharks (I kinda resent calling them that but let’s go with the faux I mean flow, eh?) have maybe the most fangtastic attack in the tournament in any case, the chances for a Middlesex win at Hove prolonging Glammy’s season remain slim, yes? Sussex still have Archer, Jordan and Mills and are therefore odds-on to endstop Eoin Morgan’s campaign with another emphatic disappointment.

Or are they?

T20 does have scope for that turn-on-a-tanneresque, wtf-acious, well I ne-ver in a-all my born days jolt. It’s arguably predicated on thrills and dramatic holy cows; lurid ones, inflatable ones – ones with a microphone or megaphone. Meaning it’s a rush. 

Me, I’m in a flush. Because if you didn’t know it, my lot – our lot – Glamorgan are scrambling. They must win tonight and hope Sussex lose.

Sussex are at home to the worst team in the division. Glam have Surrey at Sophia Gardens. There may even be a weather issue, possibly, in Cardiff, which could scupper that 2 points imperative. It’s feeling cruel and ecstatic and BIG, all this. We love it and it’s almost unbearable.

If you’re like me you start wondering fatally aloud and quite probably pontificating to people in bars, or caffs or kitchens. Trying to un-mist those memories around How, Exactly It Came To This.

We blame shot selection, rank amateurism, villageism, inexperience and the coach. We know we are right even when at our most nailed-on preposterous but our love of An Opinion drives us on. Our hunches become Mona Lisas; unshiftable and mighty and true; stars in the firmament of revelation.

This is the essence of supporting stuff: knowing that our professionals haven’t got a clue.

It’s ingloriously bastardly. It’s hilarious – it drives the coaches, players and opposition mad. The utter cobblers we come out with.

Ah but it’s rejuvenating and self-validating and joyfully daft, too. It’s the essential matrix – and you bloody coaches and CEOs and players better remember this! – without which public sport itself is dead. Fans mithering or bawling or making extraordinarily, brilliantly astute contributions. It’s the game.

Hey before I get into that pre-pre-game period – where it’s too early to get hyper and too late for calm – let me leave you with the wildest daftest contribution my own allegedly-plainly free-wheelingly absurdist cerebellum came up with the other day. During that massacre at Hove.

Staggering-but-true there was a moment in that Sussex v Glam game where the visitors were if not cruising then on that most delicious cusp. Chasing a reasonable lump, Donald and Meschede had gone in and made a magnificent start. Donald (I think) got out, bringing Ingram in. But Glam had been going at something close to 12 an over. And Ingram is almost god.

In my infinite but delusional, inexperienced, unreliable wisdom I was certain that the spectacular South African could play within himself for ten overs and still score at more than the required rate, thus guiding Glam to an uncomplicated but tremendously significant win. Instead, he crashed one to the fielder.

I tweeted something to the effect that Ingram – Glam’s rock and leader and inspiration – had arguably thrown away the campaign; right there. In a flashy, unnecessary moment. (To be fair I was careful not to accuse the man of anything but you get the drift).

I kinda love Colin Ingram but I still (secretly until now) believe he was wrong… and that my own intuit-o-cobblers was right. He’s so good he could have picked and cut and nurdled or watchfully-downwardly boomed his way to the win. He could: I believe that.

And that, my friends, is both a confession of sorts and a statement of my vain, inviolable prerogative – and yours. Over a season where eight zillion more obvious errors or misjudgements patently out-rank this embarrassing hunch of mine, we reach the last, fatal knockings with me wondering on this. Crazy, I know.

 

Come ON Glam!

 

 

#Kingram at ease with his Kingdom.

Dart back from an All Stars Cricket event at Eastern Leisure Centre, supported by Minister for Health and Social Services, Vaughan Gething. (More on this later). Traffic against us but we manage to get to Sophia Gardens in the nick of.

Glammy to bat, Essex open with left arm spin. Quietish first over, 6 from it.

Change of pace claims a wicket in the next – Meschede slapping Quinn rather carelessly to midwicket. However, this feels relatively non-traumatic… as the man incoming is Ingram.

However, when Donald holes out to the same bowler from one that may have stopped a touch in the pitch (and Glamorgan are 8 for 2 after 2) our nonchalance around this is challenged, somewhat. The crowd, on another delightful evening, shuffle quietly.

Ingram, predictably, lifts things. He races to 25 and, joined by Carlson, does that uniquely T20 dynamic transformation-thing. The South African is unplayable in a way that might really be pretty demoralising (already) for the Essex attack.

He is controlling at least as much as he is exploding.  He goes through 44 off 18 balls, claiming 30 off Quinn in the 6th. At the end of the power play Glamorgan sit at 71 for 2.

Carlson is caught at deep midwicket off a slight miscue, bringing some respite for the visitors; 93 for 3. The youngster had taken 11 out of the partnership’s 75. Cooke is in. Imagine he’ll be looking to lean on his bat, in the main.

We are hearing in the Media Centre that Ingram needs 15 off 6 to beat his own ridicu-record. It feels like a formality: spoiler, he doesn’t.

Cooke, perhaps sensing that he’s a comparative irrelevance, flips Bopara to deep fine leg. There’s an argument that he might have been better simply repeatedly dropping a one to get Kingram back in and maintain the momentum: this argument is strengthened when Bopara nails Selman first ball, l.b.w. and things inevitably have stalled.

113 for 5 and Wagg must face the hat-trick ball. He survives.

Essex have mixed things up and looked decent enough in the field. But Ingram has eased his way to 89, come the end of the 14th. You feel like another irresistible burst is a -coming and then… caught in the deep, off Bopara.

125 for 6, with no meaningful contribution from anyone else in the Glam line-up; this could peter out disappointingly, we fear. Wagg and Salter must produce.

Ingram (and possibly the coaches) might be forgiven for offering icy stares and swear-words all round as the innings does indeed threaten to disappear.

Extraordinarily, after 16 overs, with Salter leaving us, Ingram is the only player to breach the boundary. Killer stat, right there. A nailed-on 200 is drifting to a likely 160 as we reach 138 for 7 off 17.

Bopara, numberless, is back. Smith slashes him wide of mid-off for a much-needed four, then cuts him square for another. Follows that with a contemptuous wallop through cow corner – having picked a very slow slower ball early. Some encouragement as Glam reach 155 for 7 by the end of the 18th. Quinn will bowl the penultimate over, from the River End.

Wagg absolutely clonks him to leg, first ball – middled and massive. He’ll be looking for 20 from the over: he exceeds that by six.

Seems inadequate to talk of ebbs and flows in T20: more like raging floods and desperate micro-calms.

Late on, from nowhere, Wagg and Smith invent the second partnership this innings desperately cried-out for. 198 for 7, we finish, with both Wagg and Smith undefeated – on 53 and 22 respectively. Strangely unbalanced, that; unaccountable, somehow.

Wheater and Chopra are the openers for Essex. They have an early dig, with Hogan responding by bowling full, full, with mixed success. 23 for 0 off 2.

Smith, from the River End, slaps a couple into the deck. Wheater connects with one off a decent length to swish him through midwicket for four, but carts the next to deep square, where he is easily caught. Walter joins Chopra and we sit at 30 for 1 after 3.

Walter is six foot nine, apparently, in old money – the language of the Media Centre. In that same illuminating tongue one of us personifies him eloquently as ‘looking like a bloody monster’. (A confession, at this point: it was me).

Van der Guten replaces Hogan, running away from us but there is no further joy for Glamorgan. Hogan, in fact, has changed ends and now charges in from the tree-lined Taff. He concedes a four through midwicket but then beats Walter with a quick one outside off. Good over – 6 from it.

Van der Gugten is a touch short of luck, barrelling in and spearing for the sticks but only finding a scruffy edge past the vacant leg-slip area. Hogan has a gentle word. Last ball also squirts past the keeper’s left hand, mind. 61 for 1 off 6.

Meschede is on and immediately makes an impact, Walter being snaffled superbly at mid-on. Shadows beginning to bloom under the lights.

Ingram is in for the eighth. No real sign of spin but he bundles through relatively unscathed.

Meschede is running in with some urgency. When he drops a tad short Salter makes a good stop at backward point.  Decent spell for Glam.

Salter is in, from underneath us in the Media Centre. Looks to me that he’s really been looking to extract a wee bit more, of late; he stays flattish, quickish, understandably so, with his off-spin but there are revs on the ball. He may be a tad unfortunate that the pitch here tends to offer little in the way of assistance.

Wagg follows, losing some pace, bowling some gentle comeandhaveagoifyouthinkyou’rehardenough cutters. Smith changes ends, with things feeling ver-ry even: required rate 10 (give or take), score now 112 for 2 off 12.

Chopra has medium-quietly gone to 50 for the visitors, as dusk falls. Wagg, returning,  has his wily head on again- successfully so – until his final delivery clears the the square leg boundary.

Magic Man Ingram again stirs the relative peace, bowling ten Doeschate for 28. We welcome in Bopara, knowing that he’s, as they say, ‘well capable’.

VDG claims what may be the key wicket of Chopra, who skies one, in trying to clear his arms: Cooke pockets it watchfully. Chopra’s 54 came off 41 balls.

The evening has gone from dusky to batty. We are back with Ingram, with Zaidi and Bopara coiled. Runs come but not decisively, you feel.

VDG will bowl the 17th. Bopara steers him rather beautifully over mid-off – six. Glam need a wicket.

Zaidi does everything to offer one, firstly by swinging wildly across something which nearly cleans him out, secondly by lofting to long-on, and the grateful Smith. This will surely be close. Hogan.

Peach of a yorker then six over mid-on. Storms and calms. Much tactical rearrangement. Another good yorker. Then too much width – it’s slashed away through third man. 167 for 5, 32 off 2 needed.

Wagg in again from the river. Around the wicket. a poor full-toss gets clattered over long-on. Six. Forgiven when Harmer finds backward point next delivery. 175 for 6 at the end of a good over. Hogan has 24 to play with.

The endgame. Two boundaries, meaning 16 off 4. Becomes 14 off 3 – Bopara facing. Six! Dot ball! Dot ball to finish, Glamorgan winning by 6 runs.

Hogan has closed it out again. He may not be the biggest threat in the division but the fella is impressively, sometimes imperiously cool at the death; genuinely rate him for that. Another win for Glammy – four in four – and that Finals Day Mad Day Out may yet streak towards us – possibly literally.