Snow Stopped Play

My Dad, Gordon Meredith Merchant, was a great cricketer. But I doubt you’ll have heard of him. Oh, I know there are hundreds, probably millions, come to think of it, of people who say that either they or some relation of theirs could have been a megastar at some sport if only the fates hadn’t conspired against them. But in Dad’s case, there’s some truth in it, and quite apart from the fact that I know he was a deeply truthful person.

He was one of the youngest people ever to captain his school eleven, and there are still some precious old yellowing dog-eared school magazines (though thank heavens they can be put on line now) that speak of G M Merchant’s prowess at the crease, his sneaky seam bowling, and some of the almost unnatural catches he took. The local county cricket side was already interested in him, but he wanted to further his education, too. He was not as gifted academically as he was at cricket, but still bright, and a hard worker, and he was accepted at a university with a strong cricket tradition.

That was when the first thing went wrong. His Dad, the grandpa I never knew, was badly injured in a fall at work. Dad immediately applied to a local university instead. As the only child who could now be considered an adult, he felt absolutely duty bound to stand by Grandma and his two younger siblings. He even said it might be a blessing in disguise as the county side were still very interested in him and as he said at the time, “No disrespect to university cricket, but I can get in some proper matches.”

But with the loss of a major wage coming in, the family’s financial circumstances were straitened, and he got a part time job at the local convenience store. He also decided – and I don’t think that was entirely with a heavy heart – to abandon his degree in English Literature and train as a PE teacher instead.

There had been a long legal battle about Grandpa’s industrial accident and as such things often do, it dragged on and on. Dad was already teaching at his own old school before it was finally agreed that they were owed a pretty hefty compensation payout. Sadly, it didn’t make Grandpa able to do his old job and go for long walks and do so many things he loved any more, but it did finally take the financial burden off the family.

Dad didn’t give up his job, which he loved, but began to take his cricket far more seriously again, and was one of the stars of the local league side. He could tell something very interesting was going on when the manager, a kind but not demonstrative man, ran into the dressing room, clapped him on the shoulders, and said, “Gordon, there are going to be a couple of county selectors at the match on Sunday! I always thought it was a crying shame how you missed out before, though you did the right thing by your family and I’m never going to criticise anyone for that.”

At first Dad thought that his “belly gripes” as he called them, the day before the Match (which as he said, he thought of with a capital letter) were just nerves and nothing to worry about. But early the next morning an ambulance with its siren wailing pulled up outside the family home and rushed him to hospital with a burst appendix.

He had always tried to understand how frustrating and heart-breaking it was for his father not to have his old strength, but now he learnt all about it first hand. For months after he could barely walk up the road, let alone wield a cricket bat. He consoled himself with the thought that unlike his Dad, he would be his old self again.

And he was, and all his old skills were still there. But time was passing. While many sportspeople can carry on at their peak for decades, there’s generally a limit to the time when they can make their debut. He had married my Mum by then – she was also a teacher at the school, and people who didn’t know them very well said it was a bit of a marriage of convenience though of course they were very fond of each other. People who knew them properly knew better.

There was a different manager of the league team then, but he was just as pleased when he told Dad that the selectors were coming along. “And surely you or your family won’t end up in the hospital this time,” he said, “Though I hope to high heaven that’s not tempting fate.”

Well, I suppose you could say it was and it wasn’t. There was not so much as a broken fingernail or a rumble of heartburn. But there was snow. Although it was June, with the sun rising in what seemed like the middle of the night. A blanket of snow, the kind that manages to be both slushy and icy at the same time, blanketed the ground and carried on falling. “It wasn’t unique,” Dad told me, “I think there have even been test matches where snow has stopped play.” But Test Match grounds have decent covers on the pitch, and test matches last five days, or can, and it need be no more than an interesting statistic or quiz question. The little league ground was another matter, and the match was only a one day one. The selectors took themselves off to an alternative venue. “I knew in my heart I wouldn’t have another chance then,” he said.

And that was that as concerns Dad’s cricketing career. Or at any rate, his professional one. He wasn’t just protesting too much when he said it didn’t ruin his life and there were more important things than cricket. He was devoted to Mum and to me, his only child. He was doing a job he loved and excelled at. “I’ve been a lucky man, Susie,” he said to me on the last birthday he celebrated. I know he cherished hopes of me turning out to be a great cricketer – and he’d always been a passionate advocate of the woman’s game, establishing the first girls’ side in the local league. But when he realised I barely knew one end of a bat from the other and never would, he was absolutely fine about it. “Who knows,” he said, “It may skip a generation. And if it doesn’t, that’s fine.” He did live long enough to hold his first grandchild, my daughter Rachel in his arms. Yes, it was for Rachel Heyhoe-Flint, the pioneering woman cricketer, but as I determinedly told myself, it was a pretty name anyway, and I would adore her and be proud of her no matter where her talents lay.

But it’s turned out that Rachel DOES have a great deal of talent. She’s eleven now, a well-rounded and delightful young lady who loves questionable music (but I suppose the preceding generation always says that about the next one’s musical taste!) and her spaniel Posy (whom she really does look after herself, despite my cynicism on the subject when we adopted Posy) and the Harry Potter books, but who has already decided that she’s going to be a cricketer. I hope I’ve struck the right note in talking to her about her grandpa. I want her to be proud of him (and she most certainly is) and to know that it would be entirely mutual, but I share dad’s own idea that we should never try to impose our own ambitions on our children. She didn’t need any imposing.

And today a famous former test cricketer is going to be the guest of honour at the final of the local under 15s girls’ cup. Like her grandpa before him, she’s the youngest player on the team, though she’s not the captain, and I think that’s a wise decision. In time, perhaps.

I had some misgivings this morning that the match would certainly be rain interrupted. It’s the kind of July day that is having an identity crisis and thinks it’s January. Posy has made it quite plain that she’s not remotely interested in taking a walk today and I certainly don’t intend trying to persuade her.

“Mum, it’s snowing!” It’s hard to quite gauge the tone of Rachel’s voice. She’s still not grown out of being excited by the snow, and snow in summer has an oddness value that makes it all the more alluring. But snow on the day when the famous former test cricketer was going to watch the final of the local under 15 girls’ cup? And it’s intensifying. This is turning into the kind of snow that looks a bit like magnolia blossom – except more often we say that magnolia blossom reminds us of snow. And it’s freezing, too. I’ve put the heating on for the first time since April. The forecast – not that they saw this coming yesterday, though okay, they did say something about unusually cold temperatures! – is anything but optimistic. “Rachel,” I say, gently, “You do know what this will almost certainly mean, don’t you?”

She nods. “And I suppose it sucks.” Normally I don’t like her using that expression, but I let it pass. She draws a deep breath and smiles a plucky smile she rescues from the jaws of a grimace. “Oh well. And I know in my heart that I will have another chance.”

And the odd thing is, of course I could be mistaken, but I don’t quite recall recounting dad’s exact words to her ……!