The gentlemen of the village green

Long before T20 cricket became popular on the international scene, I played this format every Wednesday evening against the backdrop of Welsh mountains, gasworks, factories and dairy farms.

I was the overseas professional at my local cricket club and these T20 Leagues were a weekly highlight throughout my many years of pro-ing in England and Wales. It never occurred to me then that these humble beginnings in the failing light of a British summer would spawn a form of cricket that has grown to the point where an Australian cricketer would be allowed to miss an international game to represent a club franchise.

I recall now the wise words of a gentle man I once came across in mid-Wales whose love for cricket knew no bounds. He predicted this with the sage wisdom that was so typical of so many of those beautiful folk who walked round the boundary in village cricket and knew more about the game than us young turks dared to admit.

So it was with some sadness that I heard of this splendid man's passing recently. His name is David Gwilliam, but that in itself may be an irrelevance to all but those who were touched personally by his grace and humour. What I hope to capture today is the essence of so many of those good men who do endless laps of unpretentious cricket fields throughout Britain, the life and soul of cricket for those of us who took the time to sip from their cup.

If you've played village cricket in England, you will know your own David Gwilliam-type character and in these words, may they come to life again. These are the good men who transcended the game itself. My best memories of being a League Pro in the UK owe everything to men like him who reminded me, time and again, even under pressure, that the game itself was greater than the match that was there to be won or lost. There were times, too many times, when their quiet wisdom and pursed lips with a sad smile shamed me when I lost sight of the wood for the trees.

David's knowledge of cricket was equally profound to his grounding in history and classical literature. He was the first to buy the opposition team, often comprised of miners, farmers and a dose of corner store proprietors a pint after a game. His great love, in addition to his wife Anwen, was village cricket. What is often missed in these fond recollections is the immense role these good ladies played in allowing their husbands to share two loves without it being a mutually exclusive thing. It is a quality I hoped for in my own wife and truly I too have been blessed in this respect.

Wonderful stories abound about people just like David. One of his good friends, Tim Brailsford, the current vice-chancellor of Bond University, cricket tragic and a hell of a decent man himself, regaled me with some heart-warming anecdotes that are just so typical of men like David who left the game infinitely richer for their participation. When Tim was speaking, eyes sparkling with humour and ever-so-slightly moist with nostalgia, I could not help but think of so many of those similar characters who befriended, advised, cajoled and comforted this lad from Brisbane who trod on their hallowed fields with nary an inkling of what being a true cricketing gentleman really meant. Alas, till it was too late! I never thanked them all.

One glorious Welsh summer in a game against Llanfihangel, David had been sent out to deep point and because the boundary was short he had taken to sitting halfway up the bank and watching the red kites. During a lull in proceedings, there was a long hop and the ball duly came in David's direction at some speed. His left hand outstretched and to everyone's amazement he took one of the most remarkable catches. However this set off an unholy row because the opposition claimed that David was not on the field of play. To calm an increasingly volatile situation, David volunteered that the best interests of the game were to be served with the benefit of the doubt to the batsman.

David's professional non-cricketing career took him around the globe. Cricket was a constant. In a social game with Monash University in Melbourne, David opened against a brash young quick. After the first few whizzed past the off stump, he was hit on the pads to an almighty Australian yell. As the umpire said "missing leg" and after the usual verbal barrage from the bowler, David responded politely that was as close as the Wallabies would get to the Welsh rugby team (who at the time were a very good side). Notwithstanding, the pair of antagonists shared a beer after the game and became lifelong friends.

One of David's last games was against Aberystwyth. It was obvious to all that there was a major thunderstorm closing in. However the opposition insisted on play. Rather reluctantly, David wandered out to face the new ball. After the first two had gone past at head height, the third came at him and hit him in the face spilling his glasses with blood splattering towards both gully and short leg. David was not mortally wounded and batted on. It would have been inconceivable that first slip would have piped up with something as crass as "knock his bloody head off" to the laughter of ten other cowards and cads.

On this occasion, Iwan Roberts, the Aberystwyth captain said, "David, on this pitch if we are going to bowl like this and you are going to bat like that then I insist that you wear a helmet", and he duly went off and got him one! Like many others in those heady days of articulate banter, creams and greens, and the occasional pint, David and his ilk embodied the Corinthian spirit that ultra-competitive cricket sadly cannot co-exist with. For David and his cohort, a game of cricket was there to be won, but never at the expense of gentlemanly and civilised behavior.

Another old friend who took me into his home like a prodigal son, David Price of Luctonians CC in Herefordshire has taken his leave of us too in recent months. I'm now approaching the age when many of my cricket mentors are tucking their bat under their arms and walking gracefully into the twilight, ready for a pint and a kind word in that cozy clubhouse in the sky.

May these words speak for more than one good man of village cricket for they will all be dearly missed in some village green, on some hillside, in the fading shadows of an elm tree that forever remembers them fondly, long after the barman has called out one last time "last drinks, gentlemen".