It was a warm, sunny afternoon, in the countryside not far from Leeds, and Geoffrey Boycott, opening batsman for Yorkshire and England, was taking a stroll.
He found himself walking along a quiet lane, a line of trees to one side and, behind a hedge on the other, a silky green meadow, where a horse was grazing. It looked up as Boycott passed by and snorted.
A few yards up the lane, Boycott heard a voice behind him.
‘Ay up. Tha’s Geoff Boycott, in’t thee? Call tha'sen a batsman?’
Boycott looked round quickly but there was no-one there. Just the horse, which was now at the hedge and looking over, chewing on a long piece of grass. Boycott shrugged and was about to move on when the voice boomed out again.
‘Is thee deaf, as well as daft. Tha can’t bat for toffee.’
Annoyed now, Boycott shouted back. ‘Who’s there? Come out where I can see thee, tha bastard!’
‘Deaf, daft and blind,’ said the horse – for it was he. ‘No wonder tha was out fust ball yesterday.’
Boycott was so stung by the criticism that any surprise he felt at its being aimed by a horse disappeared.
‘It were a fluke, were that. There were a crack in t’pitch, and any road it should a bin called a no-ball.’
‘Rubbish. My old mam could a blocked that wi ‘er rolling-pin. And I’d’ve ’it for six.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Prove it.’
‘You’re on.’
And so it came to pass that after a brief net at Headingley, where it demonstrated phenomenal technique, the horse found itself preparing to open the batting with Geoffrey Boycott against Lancashire.
They strapped two pairs of pads onto it and hunted around for something it could use as a helmet.
‘Don’t fret thi’sen with that,’ said the horse. ‘’Elmets is for them southern nancy boys. I’ll ‘ave a box, though. Got a spare bucket?’
They arrived in the middle amid a storm of applause, which subsided into an expectant silence, disturbed only by a strange clanking sound from the horse. Boycott's head felt oddly cold.
‘Right,’ said Boycott, ‘you big-headed bugger. You can tek first ball.’
‘Middle and leg,’ the horse called out to the umpire.
‘Which leg?’ came the reply.
The horse placed its bat firmly between its teeth and settled down to await the first ball. It was very fast, but the horse stretched forward, down on one knee and stroked it sweetly through the covers for four. The second was faster but strayed down the leg side and was glanced down over the long leg boundary.
The bowler was enraged and sent down a huge bouncer but the horse was up on its hind legs to hook the ball for six. Two apoplectic no-balls followed, one swept to square leg and the second cracked through mid-wicket. The fourth legal ball was slower and the horse drove it fine of long on so hard that Boycott had to jump to get out of the way. The fifth was impudently swiped over the head of the slips and nearly decapitated third man.
The frustrated bowler wiped away sweat and his tears and attempted a desperate yorker, but the horse took a couple of arrogant steps down the wicket and drove the ball back over the bowler’s head for six.
The crowd was delirious, the fielders catatonic, and the bowler was helped off to lie in a darkened room. Boycott approached the horse and advised it to take a bit more time to get its eye in.
Boycott himself took guard and awaited his first delivery. He played a neat forward defensive stroke to the gap where gully should have been, called for a single and set off. The horse didn’t move.
‘Run, you pillock,’ he cried as he saw the ball being gathered. ‘Run.’
But the horse remained rooted to the spot and a desperate Boycott turned and hurtled back towards his crease only to see his stumps shattered by a grinning wicket-keeper. For a moment he wondered whether there was some way he might argue for mercy, but instead, disconsolately, he removed his gloves and turned towards the pavilion. As he passed the horse, more in sorrow than in anger, he spoke. It was barely more than a whisper.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why? Why didn’t you run?’
‘Run?’ said the horse. ‘If I could run, I’d be at Aintree. Not wasting my bloody time ‘ere.’
He found himself walking along a quiet lane, a line of trees to one side and, behind a hedge on the other, a silky green meadow, where a horse was grazing. It looked up as Boycott passed by and snorted.
A few yards up the lane, Boycott heard a voice behind him.
‘Ay up. Tha’s Geoff Boycott, in’t thee? Call tha'sen a batsman?’
Boycott looked round quickly but there was no-one there. Just the horse, which was now at the hedge and looking over, chewing on a long piece of grass. Boycott shrugged and was about to move on when the voice boomed out again.
‘Is thee deaf, as well as daft. Tha can’t bat for toffee.’
Annoyed now, Boycott shouted back. ‘Who’s there? Come out where I can see thee, tha bastard!’
‘Deaf, daft and blind,’ said the horse – for it was he. ‘No wonder tha was out fust ball yesterday.’
Boycott was so stung by the criticism that any surprise he felt at its being aimed by a horse disappeared.
‘It were a fluke, were that. There were a crack in t’pitch, and any road it should a bin called a no-ball.’
‘Rubbish. My old mam could a blocked that wi ‘er rolling-pin. And I’d’ve ’it for six.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Prove it.’
‘You’re on.’
And so it came to pass that after a brief net at Headingley, where it demonstrated phenomenal technique, the horse found itself preparing to open the batting with Geoffrey Boycott against Lancashire.
They strapped two pairs of pads onto it and hunted around for something it could use as a helmet.
‘Don’t fret thi’sen with that,’ said the horse. ‘’Elmets is for them southern nancy boys. I’ll ‘ave a box, though. Got a spare bucket?’
They arrived in the middle amid a storm of applause, which subsided into an expectant silence, disturbed only by a strange clanking sound from the horse. Boycott's head felt oddly cold.
‘Right,’ said Boycott, ‘you big-headed bugger. You can tek first ball.’
‘Middle and leg,’ the horse called out to the umpire.
‘Which leg?’ came the reply.
The horse placed its bat firmly between its teeth and settled down to await the first ball. It was very fast, but the horse stretched forward, down on one knee and stroked it sweetly through the covers for four. The second was faster but strayed down the leg side and was glanced down over the long leg boundary.
The bowler was enraged and sent down a huge bouncer but the horse was up on its hind legs to hook the ball for six. Two apoplectic no-balls followed, one swept to square leg and the second cracked through mid-wicket. The fourth legal ball was slower and the horse drove it fine of long on so hard that Boycott had to jump to get out of the way. The fifth was impudently swiped over the head of the slips and nearly decapitated third man.
The frustrated bowler wiped away sweat and his tears and attempted a desperate yorker, but the horse took a couple of arrogant steps down the wicket and drove the ball back over the bowler’s head for six.
The crowd was delirious, the fielders catatonic, and the bowler was helped off to lie in a darkened room. Boycott approached the horse and advised it to take a bit more time to get its eye in.
Boycott himself took guard and awaited his first delivery. He played a neat forward defensive stroke to the gap where gully should have been, called for a single and set off. The horse didn’t move.
‘Run, you pillock,’ he cried as he saw the ball being gathered. ‘Run.’
But the horse remained rooted to the spot and a desperate Boycott turned and hurtled back towards his crease only to see his stumps shattered by a grinning wicket-keeper. For a moment he wondered whether there was some way he might argue for mercy, but instead, disconsolately, he removed his gloves and turned towards the pavilion. As he passed the horse, more in sorrow than in anger, he spoke. It was barely more than a whisper.
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why? Why didn’t you run?’
‘Run?’ said the horse. ‘If I could run, I’d be at Aintree. Not wasting my bloody time ‘ere.’
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