I entered this into the Wisden Cricket Writing Competition which at this stage feels like the only way I’m going to get my name into those hallowed pages!

Old Trafford In The Rain

There’s something very right about the scene.
A fond familiarity that’s borne
of annual pilgrimage.

My first memory of visiting Old Trafford is drowned out by the noise of the old train line and the disappointment of an early Kevin Pietersen wicket at the hands of Umar Gul. We switched allegiances to Trent Bridge for a few years after that, then to Edgbaston for convenience sake, but eventually we were drawn back to the North West and a newly rotated ground which sat under the same heavy Lancastrian skies.

The grass, so green,
still somehow shines in spite of clouds whose mournful
tears are powerless to wash away
the hope, the faith, we’ll get to see some play.

As the train pulls into the station the news ripples down the carriage. Phones emerge and the mood turns from anticipation to confusion to anger. They’ve pulled out of the match. Covid in the team camp. The game’s off. After the turmoil of the past year and a half, this was supposed to be a return to normality, familiarity, but the pandemic wasn’t done dashing our hopes just yet. A gloomy coffee in a Manchester station café as the reality sinks in. We won’t see any cricket today.

A pair of wagtails dance across the lea
their piebald pattern drawing watchful eyes
as they make their inspection, then they flee
their counterparts – same colours, different size.

We sat half way up the vast temporary stand as Eoin Morgan thrashed the Afghanistan bowlers into the crowd a record number of times, driving his team towards that famous Sunday afternoon at Lords. As entertaining as it was, I didn’t notice the birds that day, and I found myself missing the slower rhythms of Test Cricket. We sat in almost the same seats a few years later as Zac Crawley took on the Australians in much the same way. The Wagtails kept a watchful distance this time, as the colour of the ball made little difference to the pace of the game.

The umpires strut across the field, we wait
for news of their decision and our fate.

I arrive early, and take my seat clad in full waterproofs. The rain is still falling but the outfield is awash with activity. The pigeons eat their fill on the summer-worn pitches. Dad messages to say his train is delayed. So is the match, I reply, then I sit, and I wait, and I watch. The old desert monks of the 4th century had a word for this – Prosoche, the art of attention. They’d have enjoyed Test Cricket. The clock ticks slowly on, and as we sit quietly together my mind is filled with recollections of past glories and frustrations here. Eventually, well into the afternoon, the umpire calls play, and this match joins the others in my memory of this sacred place.

Old Trafford in the rain. My dad and me.
There’s truly nowhere else I’d rather be

(Rich Clarkson, October 2024)