The Gentleman’s Game, or cricket as it is known by most people, is a bat and ball sport whose rich history can be traced back to the aristocracy of medieval England. Unlike the bourgeois origins of say rugby and football, these gentlemanly beginnings have resulted in sporting traditions most would consider quaint and antiquated. For example, did you know matches are played over a leisurely pace of five days with frequent tea breaks in between? Or that players must wear all-white and will slip woollen sweaters over their polo shirts when they get nippy? A batsman will not even be given ‘out’ unless the umpire is politely asked, “How is that?” by the fielding team.
Adherence to these cricketing traditions is woven within the sport’s aristocratic fabric of courtesy and sportsmanship. To all but the most casual players they are more important than winning. A victorious team that fails to clap a batsman’s hundred will undoubtedly forgo the customary end-of-match celebrations of champagne and parsnip soup.
Among the many leagues across the globe, there was no stricter adherer to the traditional values of cricket than the Welsh County Cricket Association (WCCA), the oldest and most esteemed amateur cricket competition in the whole of Wales. And for over a century, it had been an unbroken tradition for the WCCA board of directors to hold their first meeting of the New Year at the prestigious Benedict Hall Estate.
The noon (sharp) meeting was conducted in the mahogany-panelled drawing room with views of the lush gardens and meandering woods beyond. It was a slow affair and over canapes, whiskey, and cigars the male board members would discuss other trivialities before the bangers and mash of the meeting would begin. For hours they would tickle each other with lewd and boorish commoner jokes, offer compliments of recent marriages and births, and exchange hushed condolences of bereavements. Only when the garden lights flickered through the terrace doors and the chandeliers lit did the men turn their conversation to official cricket business.
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While the exact ins and outs of the discussions never left the walls of Benedict Hall, the ramifications of the board’s decisions were always felt in the upcoming cricket season. It was a rarity – if not unprecedented – that a non-board member would be invited to attend, so when Terrence Ponce had been called personally by Teddy Forthwittle, the WCCA president, he had been honoured but slightly surprised.
“Mister Terrence Ponce, you may enter now,” the moustachioed butler announced, holding open the ornate doors and looking down at the seated visitor.
The man rose from his seat. A brown goatee framed his pink lips, matching the stains on his wrinkled, untucked shirt that hung loosely on his tall, slender frame. His tousled hair was streaked with grey, and stubble shaded his cheeks. He smiled cheerfully. “Ponce,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“Ponce,” the man repeated, buttoning his suit jacket with a burp, “the name is Ponce. Thank you for your assistance man-help. Your demeanour has been bland but agreeable.”
“Of course,” the butler’s thin lips pinched into a smile. “They will see you now…Mister Ponce.”
