Raised in a tepee on the edge of Roundhay Park before becoming owner of the largest collection of crystal healing stones in North West Europe, New Age Batting coach, Kevin Sharp, fights a losing battle to Feng Shui the Yorkshire players towards a psychological, physical and spiritual equilibrium that will stop them collapsing like a deck of cards as soon as the ball starts to reverse swing.

Possessing wisdom seldom found in a Hull Kingston Rovers fan, Kevin attempts to motivate his charges with a series of post-it note proverbs. With the new season fast approaching, here’s a message for slow left armer David Wainwright I found accidently discarded in the hopper of the groundsman’s largest mower.

Ey up,

An atmosphere of nervous anticipation has hung over St. Michaels Lane indoor cricket school for the past few weeks. Young Skywalker has been away with England Lions in the UAE, and, as always happens when he’s on International duty, the Jedi Council of Moxon, White, Oldham, Sharp and Dews are concerned he’s been lured by the Dark Side, worried that “bowl underarm, he will” when he gets back.

As his return neared, corridors have been paced, anxious frowns etched ever deeper onto foreheads and afternoon nets conducted under the mournful wail of a panpipe version of Love will tear us apart Kevin Sharp bought last time we were playing at Hove. The strain of waiting had been almost unbearable; the thought of what damage was being done to our prize asset making sleep filled nights a distant memory.

Even so, the sight of a highly emotional Steve Oldham racing past Adil’s family at Leeds/Bradford airport’s arrival lounge to greet his young prodigy must have been a tad embarrassing. The last thing someone needs after a seven hour flight is having to prove you’ve not lost your flipper by bowling against the door of a Bureau Du Change, particularly whilst your mum tries to wipe the remains of an in-flight meal from the corner of your mouth with a hankie.

Such is the life of an international sportsman.

Still, he’s back with us now is the lad; will be till the new season, thanks to England not picking him for the tour of Bangladesh. Bit of a puzzler that one, you’d of thought this was the ideal time to give him a go. Instead they’ve decide to take another offie with Swann and Pietersen. Another surprise that; no offense to James Tredwell, but I’d of had him down for winning Best Breakthrough Act at the Latin Grammy’s before he beat Adil to a Test cap.

It’s that kind of career management from England that’s got the Jedi council on edge wondering what effect it’s had on the only best leg-spinner in county cricket. The answer came when they got him back to the indoor nets, where their worst fears were confirmed when Adil bowled six deliveries then started wandering off, muttering under his breath that “Mr Alistair always sends me to the naughty step after the first over”.

As the entire Yorkshire coaching staff went into meltdown I don’t think any of them noticed Adil giving me a sly wink on his way back to the dressing rooms. Say what you like about county cricket, but if there’s one thing it teaches you, it’s how to get out of net practice…

Si’thee later,

Len

Ey up,

As Michael Vaughan’s quest for a ‘Complete’ English Team continues, it reminds me of something I found discarded near his spot in the dressing room last season…

God speed this to you, Andy Flower, God speed.

Si’thee later,

Len

Chapter Two – Man about the House

The relief at finding work for another county seemed to give Martin a renewed love of life and the removing of redundancy’s oppressive weight from his shoulders had led to him readily agreeing to finish chores around the house he’d been putting off for years. He re-painted the guttering, finished installing a small sauna in their conservatory and after what seemed like a lifetime of pestering, finally agreed to get rid of his old smelly bowling boots.

They’d jokingly turned it into a ceremony by buying a small model boat made of wood, placing the worn out footwear inside and setting it alight in their back garden.

“Just like the Vikings did when they burnt their shoes”, Martin had said inaccurately.

They held hands and looked out over the beauty of the Yorkshire Dales that formed the backdrop to their home, blissfully unaware that the thick acrid smoke emanating from fifteen years of feet sweat was flouting off down the street and would soon cause the closure of a local infants school.

…

The following morning would see his first day in the job, time to impress a new set of players, ones for whom he would be responsible. But that night was for her, she was to be treated to dinner at a fancy local restaurant, one where the plastic table cloths were wiped down between each new group of dinners. For her, it was a dream come true.

The driving March rain thundered against the taxi windows as they sped away through the village and past the now cordoned off school. As she gazed at his face, momentarily illuminated by the red flashing light atop the Government Decontamination Service van parked nearby, she wondered what joys the night would bring.

…

It had been a wonderful evening, full of tears and laughter. Tears when Martin had seen the bill, laughter when the extra weight added during an off-season had left him stuck half-way out the toilet windows in a bid to avoid paying it. Yet he remained in a buoyant mood, winking at her knowing even as he argued with the maître d’ over what they’d had for starters. It seemed he was in a mood to continue the party when they got home.

…

“I know it’s late, and I know my legs will feel it tomorrow on the cross county run,” he’d said as soon as they got through the door, “but I can’t resist, I’ve been thinking about this all night”.

Her anticipation grew as his arm curved round her body, only to pull back holding two leather leads that had been hanging on the hallway wall behind her.

“I’m just taking the dogs for a walk. No point waiting up, I’ll be jiggered when I get back”.

A quick whistle saw Milly and Bollie bounding through the hall and into his loving arms. A broad smile beamed at her as he grabbed an umbrella on his way out.

“I’ll not be getting wet tonight”, he said.

‘Neither will I’, she thought, as the door slammed behind him.

Michael Vaughan (current hairline not pictured)

Ey up,

The chosen one is to return. He will walk amongst us once again. We will bask in his aura of Ashes winning luminosity and he will collect rent from academy lads occupying his extensive property portfolio.  All will be as it was – except we won’t have to wince in embarrassment at his fielding.

He will identify overseas talent for us to sign – good luck sweet Prince, Rana Naved has set the bar high. He will teach Andy Gale the secrets of captaincy: when to set a silly mid-on for maximum confusion in the Sky Sports commentary box, how to distance yourself from unsuccessful selection decisions and the art of passive-aggressive sledging. He will pass on his experience to the Yorkshire squad, in particular Joe Root, Michael’s representative on earth.

All these things he will do for us. Until the day scientists can build a realistic cyborg containing his cricketing brain, and programmed to play one of his perfect 20 or 30 run cameo’s on infinite loop, there is nothing more we can ask.

He will walk amongst us once again*

Si’thee later,

Len

*Mentoring will be conducted via telephone; Michael Vaughan plc is not contractually obliged to make personal appearances at Headingley.

Mini Cooper. Brian Close and Ray Illingworth not pictured.

Ey up,

The pre-season is upon us. The Official YCCC Calendar 2010 on the wall of my cubby-hole at Headingley has been flipped over to March and its picture of Brian Close standing at short leg whilst Ray Illingworth plays chicken by driving a Mini Copper directly at him, reminds us of preparations from summers past. Happy days. Happy, health and safety free, don’t tell the players but we’re not insured for any of this, days.

It feels like Headingley is waking up from hibernation, as the sights and sounds of spring return. The rumble of the mower over the outfield, the helter-skelter rush of highly tuned athletes dashing to throw up in the toilets after the first training run of the year, the dawn chorus of birds collecting together on the Rugby Stand roof, seemingly chirping out the refrain, “What the hell are they building at the Kirkstall Lane End? I can’t wait to crap on it”.

Most of the squad are back assembled with us now: those who wintered in Australia, those who toured with the England Lions, those who stayed at home desperately trying to explain to wives and girlfriends that cricketers are nothing like John Terry and Ashley Cole.

Ajmal and Tim of course, are still safe in the loving arms of the coaching set-up which has done so much to fast-track Adil’s career over the past 12 months. No doubt somewhere in a dusty Bangladesh nets area AJ and Bressie are currently being put through their paces, having their actions tweaked so they bowl left handed off the wrong foot. Back they’ll come to us, with a bewildered look on their faces and a tag attached to their cricket coffins carrying the words, “Good news, they’ll never break down again”. DoubleM can then put an ambulance on stand-by for our first match of the season and the swear box can be moved next to Steve Oldham’s place in the dressing room ready to fund the pre-season tour of Barbados.

God bless you England, one way or another you keep us financially afloat. We remain as ever, your humble servants.

Si’thee later,

Len

With the 2010 season fast approaching, Last of the Summer Whine is delighted to announce we have been granted permission to serialise Captain Of Her Heart, the latest in Davina Masterson’s ever popular Martin Haggard: Willow Against Leather series of books for Mills & Boon.

Regular readers of this blog will know that Davina Masterson is of course the nome de plume of newly appointed Leicestershire captain, Matthew Hoggard.

Chapter One – A winter of discontent

It had been a troubled winter. The reality of Martin’s redundancy had hit them hard, coming as it did alongside a realisation that his fish-finger addiction was spiralling out of control.

The chance of a temporary respite from their worries had come in the form of an invitation to spend Christmas in Dubai with Frankie Flintlock’s family; but Martin was reluctant to miss his traditional Boxing Day Lamb Kofte from the local kebab shop, and the thought of an entire festive period filled with Frankie’s anecdote about watering the Downing Street garden was too much for Sally to bear. Beside which, the couple’s last visit had found Martin and Frankie just 15 minutes tidal drift away from entering Iranian territorial waters before the Dubai coastguard had intercepted their pedalo.

No, this winter was to be spent at home, with Martin concentrating on job interviews to find a new club. That meant a rare chance for her to see him back in his suit, the expensive one, the one he wore to “our wedding and ‘good’ funerals, one’s that put on a decent buffet”.

Seeing him stood there, struggling with the buttons on his waistcoat, reminded her so much of the happiest day of her life. As did the tomato stains still visible on the tie that had joined him head first in his soup at the reception as he drunkenly snored through her father’s speech. An embarrassment put into perspective when Martin finally awoke the following afternoon.

“It’s for the best that bowl tipped sideways into your lap,” he’d said, “You’re only wearing that dress once. If it’d gone over me I’d of lost ten years good use from that suit”.

That was the magic of Martin. He always knew the right thing to say to make things better.

When Martin had finally left for his interview her thoughts turned again to their wedding reception. The friends, the relatives, the tears, the laugher, the sheer joy found on the faces of his team-mates as they left profiteroles flouting in the toilets. It was an unforgettable day for everyone, bar Martin himself who could never remember anything about it beyond his splitting hangover and the x-box steering wheel he’d bought himself as a wedding present.

As Sally reminisced, Martin was working hard to convince another implacable county committee of his credentials. But details of a long and successful International career barely registered on the rigid expressions facing him that day and detailed plans he laid out for how to improve performances and results in the coming summer failed to elicit any further response.

But Martin understood the world of county cricket, understood the politics, understood the men that wield power behind the scenes, understood how the allure of glamour and celebrity could turn their heads. He choose that moment to use his trump card.

“Of course, I played a lot with Frankie Flintlock and he’s quite pally with Phil ‘The Power’ Taylor. I could probably get a few autographs off Phil”.

An audible gasp followed that filled the room. Martin knew the job was his.

Chapter Two to follow…

Ey up,

It is with deep sadness that Last of the Summer Whine announces the demise of the ‘Andy Gale looks a bit like Bradley from Eastenders’ joke.

The ‘Andy Gale looks a bit like Bradley from EastEnders’ joke has been a regular contributor to Last of the Summer Whine ever since our inception three years ago, invoking in the readership a range of reactions from mild amusement to total bafflement.  Sadly the BBC’s decision to kill off the character of Bradley Whatever-his-name-is last Friday has rendered the ‘Andy Gale looks a bit like Bradley from EastEnders’ joke culturally obsolete. We mourn its loss.

In its place, Last of the Summer Whine will gradually reintroduce an old favourite, the ‘David Wainwright and Ryan Sidebottom look a bit like Ray Quinn and Leona Lewis’ joke. We know it’s not the same but please bear with us at this difficult time.

The ‘David Wainwright and Ryan Sidebottom look a bit like Ray Quinn and Leona Lewis’ joke. Welcome back old friend. Help us heal our pain.

Si’ thee later,

Len

Ey up,

Herschelle Gibbs has signed for Yorkshire, and not before time. Many of you will have seen Herschelle playing the kind of cavalier attacking innings as an opener for South Africa that wrestles initiative from opposition bowlers and takes full advantage of the powerplay overs.

This nonsense must stop.

Fortunately Yorkshire has exactly the kind of coaching set-up needed to teach him a decent defensive technique. So I look forward to watching him leave alone all deliveries that pitch outside off-stump, leading to a series of classically faultless thirty-something not outs.

Herscelle Gibbs, we will turn you into the new Geoffrey Boycott. This is our pledge to you.

Si’thee later,

Len