Sunday 17th v Dodgers (40 overs) Won
Wednesday 27th v National Archives Won by 20 runs
Marble Hall Park
On a muggy, overcast evening in Twickenham, the intrepid Green Sox sought to make it an impressive two wins from two games in their 2015 season.
The 5.45pm set meeting time was wilfully ignored in time honoured Green Sox fashion, even by the captain himself, who later blamed a new strand of ‘bike fascists’ at Waterloo station for delaying him. Ironically, the trains were running on time and somewhere Mussolini was rolling in his unmarked grave.
The early arrivals, including debutant Ravinder Athwal, a former county level ‘superstar’ (his own words) were soon joined by the seasoned veterans. However the impeccably attired George Clarkson was delayed after tie straightening incident held up his departure from central London. ‘Faller overer’ of the year 2014, Luke Stroman, was conspicuous in his absence, possibly unwilling to relive the ankle shattering moments and aggressive body line bowling from the equivalent fixture in 2014. Or maybe he had car trouble. Nobody really knows, but despite being one man down, the Sox line up boasted a groin-grabbingly exciting array of talent ready to face down Khartik and Khartik 2 (K2 as he was inappropriately known, sadly not a mountain)
The Archives themselves were two down, so borrowed some of the Sox’s fabled fielders as they strode out, eager to obliterate all that stood before them. In hindsight, they might have done better just to field with two men down.
The opening partnership of Captain De Glossop and Niall Sellar marched to the crease, hoping to face down the early powerful bowling of the Khartik double act. And they did it with aplomb. An array of smart singles, bountiful boundaries and late leaves saw them soak up the pressure and throw it right back in the archives’ dumbstruck faces. The runs soon racked up as the Sox raced towards a commanding total posting near on 50 from 5 overs. With the Khartik double act reduced to a mediocre buddy comedy, the first change bowlers continued to be punished as the Sox marched towards their first retirement.
A lethargic fielding performance was widely punished, epitomised by De Glossop’s nonchalant loft over stand in fielder Murphy’s head, whose back pedalling and ultimately fruitless attempt at a catch, saw it squirm from betwixt his fingers and crash to the floor. I totally didn’t mean it either.
It was enough to see the Sox captain march away to the boundary unbeaten, bringing in new boy Rav to, in his own words, ‘bring the pain’ to the Archives’ team. After facing down a reasonably tight over from the Archives’ first spinner, the arms opened and runs rained down.
Sellar soon followed the Captain to the promised land of retirement ushering in the returning Ben Formela. He approached the crease with a grace that underlined his entire performance. As the clearly dependable Athwal continued to grind out ones and twos, Formela kicked into gear, caressing the ball around the ground in an effortless manner. The Archives’ field stood dumbfounded, as if weighed down by the prospect of impending departmental spending cuts from this majority Conservative Government, unable to react in any meaningful way.
Former captain Howe followed the retiring Formela and no longer encumbered by the weighty shackles of leadership relaxed into a hard hitting, hard running innings which saw him fall over only once as he thought about a third run before completing his second.
The second change bowlers from the Archives saw their wicket keeper come Wednesday evening off spinner, ‘Davie Boy Smith’, throw an array of meaty pies towards the glutinous and grateful Green Sox. Absolute trash, WIDE wides, all gleefully punished. An utter disgrace to his namesake.
Rav continued to plug away until, after another sterling dropped catch effort by substitute fielder Sellar, was finally caught for a tidy debut total of 19. Mike Salmon was next in as the Archive’s switched back to K1 and K2 in an effort to reign in the free-scoring Sox.
It wasn’t to be for the Archives’ as Khartik’s rage and some shoddy wicket keeping saw some pure power balls roar through the ‘keepers legs and straight to the boundary. He took Salmon’s wicket, but the Archive’s lost their head as at least two no balls flew to the boundary, giving unbeknownst to the Sox, some vital extras.
Ashton joined Howe in the middle, to face the last of Khartik, and Murphy Superior soon followed Howe’s retirement. Khartik switched to spin in an effort to reign in the extras, but Ashton gritted out a few key runs as the twenty overs passed. The Sox posted 161-1, with 4 retirements – pretty shit hot.
An energised Sox team took to the field, and with an aggressive field placement sought to, in Rav’s own words ‘shit up’ the opposition’s psyche.
Clarkson and Andy Burnha…I mean Murphy minor, opened the bowling with an array of accurate and full deliveries on the artificial surface. The first wicket soon came as the Archives opener forced one from Murphy into the gleeful outstretched arms of the charging Formela. Safe and secure, he embraced the ball to his bosom, as if it were his own child. The he realised it was just a ball and he lashed it into the air in careless euphoria. Parenting at its’ best.
K2 came out to the crease as The Archives began to settle into a rhythm and soon saw their first retirement, as opener Liam trotted off to the boundary, his wicket intact. However the Sox didn’t have to wait long for the next wicket to come as another ball, this time from Clarkson, found its way into the hands of Formela. The inappropriately named K2 slumped off to his team mates, downcast and beaten. Two down.
Khartik 1 came to the crease ready to grab the game by the scruff of the neck, but was nearly punished by the metronomic Clarkson as he moved his bat just outside of off stump, missing the ball by a whisker – and then quietly forced his heart out of his throat and back to its regular chest cavity.
The first change saw Murphy Superior come into the attack. He walked forward aggressively, and in tribute to Dave Grocott who couldn’t be with us, threw one of the widest wides of the game. Everyone gets one though, don’t they? The bowling tightened up but Khartik started to show his quality, powerfully swotting one for six out towards the boundaries. The captain came in for an over, putting the hammer down in an attempt to wrestle back control of the game as we approached the mid-way point of the Archive’s innings.
After shrugging off an early back complaint, Formela entered the attack as the Sox sought to dry up the Archive’s runs. Khartik immediately delivered a ‘fuck you’ six to the boundary and retired on 30.
The Archives brought in a tricky left hander to the crease and the Sox reacted with more elaborate field placings as he knocked a few decent shots down his leg side.
Following an effort to get the other man on strike, Murphy Superior put one into the feet, which the batsman loosely dug out, floating gently to ‘Big Hands’ Formela. 3 wickets, 3 catches. It was an unprecedented show of safe hands, defying all (shit) Green Sox stereotypes.
De Glossop rejoined the attack as a brief shower threatened to bring proceedings to a premature close. But the light rain just lit a fire under the Sox, now more determined to finish the game and to do it in style. A tight over soon followed, followed by a wicket from the captain. Stumps and dreams were shattered (metaphorically), whilst all others looked on in quiet awe.
Athwal joined the attack as he and Formela sought to close out the game. However the Archives weren’t down and out just yet. The left handed batsman continued to cause issues, with the Sox seemingly unable to get a grip of his shots down the leg side, and in more atypical Greensox fasion, falling over when chasing down his drives to the boundary. They needed 18 from 2 overs, but in the face of the indefatigable spirit of the Green Sox, they actually needed a miracle.
For all their effort, they could only squeeze out a few measly singles from the remaining overs, and Captain De Glossop shut them down with the last few balls.
The Green Sox were victorious. The came to this beautifully adorned park as men, they left as cricketing Gods eagerly looking forward to the Sunday grudge match with Homerton. An unquenchable thirst for victory was only partly sated in the nearby pub as we regaled each other with tales of bravado, grit and plotted the victories to come.
Man of the Match: Ben Formela
Sunday 31st v Homerton (25 overs) Lost by 45 runs
Millfields Cricket Pitch, Clapton
Homerton is one of the first games you look for when the fixtures come out. They’re a real club who play in a real league and have real artless knuckledraggers who tease us when we don’t do so good, and bully us when we do. As such, we have very little in common with the shits, although we do share the same captain. And come to think of it our two-time Players’ Player of the Year, top all-time run scorer (662), and former truculent wood-curator, Nicholas Piercey joined them over the winter on a Bosman, despite us nurturing him through the ranks and loving him like a first-born son.
So this was a pwopa big game, but not so pwopa that spirits weren’t easily diminished by a splash of weather early doors: The Green Sox is a team well known to be happier stroking its balls under the covers at home than in the rain. Besides, we’d had a game a few days before and it’s hard to be passionate twice a week.
Still, the Skipper said play, so we did. He then said field, so we did, but none too well. Despite Agent Piercey triggering the Homerton opener in the first over (and getting out for 4 and dropping Ben Formela not once not thrice but twice), then Chris Jones and Ben Murphy finding swerve like a bat curving around thick woodland chicanes, their circumferenced middle-order swiper came in and tonked a ton. Not that we didn’t have chances. Not that we didn’t have four chances in fact. The most memorable featuring Joe Bason under a high-looper, a catch he would have taken nine times out of a hundred, and without being too harsh, a ‘catch’ that probably cost us the match.
With Jake Boulton on dayboo, our two world-class leg spinners bowled in tandem to squeeze the rate in the middle overs in spite of the dicey conditions, and all the while the metronome George Clarkson bowled on with figures more miserly a DfT Fast Stream MEC offer.
At the half way stage with almost 200 runs on the board you had to admit that the game was finely balanced in Homerton’s favour. Now I’m not a believer in luck but I do believe that you need it, and sometimes when you are in the position we were in you need your openers to roll up their sleeves and show their teeth. Niall Sellar looked cool out in the cold for a time but once Ned accounted for him and Lozzer de Glozzer, the Green Sox’s cows had come home to roost.
Form finder Formela found a former formula and steadied the ship with Gloveman Steve Howe, who ran between the wickets with all the self-belief of a St James’ Park squirrel fresh off a line of cocaine. Their 50 partnership threatened briefly to poke its head into a winning position like a sweaty labourer appearing at the top of the ladder into a loft conversion just in time to see the lady of the house accidentally drop her bath towel. But it was not to be. Formela lost his off stump, Howzer was caught trying to be a hero, Luke Stroman was never seen ever again, and despite some career best batting at No.11 from Ben Murphy, the game was up.
In the context of the 2015 season it was a poor performance. A performance so flat that photos of it were shown at a plasterers’ conference to appreciative nods. Nevertheless, as subsequent results have shown this team has got more grit than a Normanton street corner. They have got their feet on the ground and if they stay that way they will go places.
Behind us smoulders the wreckage; ahead of us rolls a long open road of possibility.
Thursday 4th v Marauders Won by 3 wickets
Belair Park. Sunny. Smells like team spirit. Team-age fanclub. I’m just a team-age dirt bag baby. Amateur team takes big cock in college dorm.
The Sox arrived at Belair park full of the joys of spring. Their steps were sprung and their dander was goosed. The Marauders awaited – foes vanquished before – but success was always at the margins of the possible. Aspiration, inequality, hardworking parents. Political buzzwords, sure. But all represented within the Sox line up. Ashton, Doherty, Formela. Alongside sloth, gluttony and coveting wives, the Sox yin to their yang. Agnew, Agnew, Jones.
Cricket announced its arrival with fanfare. Sox bowled. Sweltered in the heat. Blinded by the lights. Milton opened. Wicket! Miserly, but lucky not to concede wides as the ball thundered into the batter’s pads. ‘Fuck off mate’. Partnered by Boulton. Drop it on a good length, let the pitch do the work. Tidy. Jones was first change. The back-up, the fall back. Always the bridesmaid. Or doesn’t even go. But tighter than tight, closer than close. Wicket! Clarkson’s on. More expensive than Andrew’s cab fare home. And no maidens. Like Andrew’s cab. Bason. Over, sideways and under. Joe rubbed his lamp – wicket! De Glossop to finish. Criminally under bowled. Took a maiden home, that’s in the bank.
Batting followed bowling. Lawrence biffed and bashed, prodded and nurdled. He charged the bowler, swing miss out. Formela. Oh! Glanced, cut, dabbed, bobbed and weaved. Committing murder on the dance floor. 27 not out, leaving utterly spent sox scattered along the boundary, turning Japanese and dying in each other’s arms. Sixes. They hit fucking sixes. Howe came in and stroked the ball around a bit, feeling for it outside the off stump, flicking it off his legs. Then he put his gloves on and started to bat. Scored 17. Good effort. Andrew Ashton put down his little black book – the DfT staff directory as everyone else knows it – and bounced to the crease. Lusty blows. Agnew, fresh faced and fit as a fiddle after two years out. Just wanted to play. Why won’t you let him play Ashton? Did he drink all your pink champagne? Did he? Agnew run out without a chance to wield his weapon in anger. He rolled the dice. Snake eyes. Ashton’s dragon shat in his dungeon. The less said about the innings of Jones, Doherty and Bason, the better. Clarkson’s twig.
Sox win. Drinks follow. Sox lose. Drinks follow. The Pavilion terrace, midnight. ‘Sir, I say sir, booze sir. Booze, chop chop. Scotch? Scotch? Scotch please. That’s it, be a good lad. We won’t leave you know. Not until we are thoroughly satisfied. Oh you don’t have any? Come on, we’re all adults here. We all know the score, we all know how this works. Slip him a pony Ashton. If not, push him down the apples and pears and we’ll fill ourselves up. Oi oi!’
Sunday 14th v National Archives (40 0vers) Won by 82 runs
Those consulting the Green Sox vault in 100 years’ time (who these people might be and why they might feel it necessary to consult said vault is a question for another time) will learn that De Glossop and his men ran out comfortable winners against The National Archives. However, the fact that the match could so easily have been over within an hour of the start is not something the figures will record.
And by that I mean the Green Sox could have lost. Embarrassingly.
The situation looked at best unpromising five overs in, with Sellar, Howe and de Glossop all dismissed (the latter twice) and Formela doing his utmost to compare the West Dulwich turf with Sabina Park circa 1998. Whatever he was saying out in the middle, it apparently had no effect on Rav Athwal, who was featuring in only his second Green Sox match, and was therefore free of the mental scarring that facing lively fast-medium bowling twice a season has inflicted on his older, more careworn team-mates.
He ducked. He weaved. He unfurled a spanking cover drive. And then he started peppering the boundary. By drinks he was on 75 out of a total of little more than 100, and a maiden Sox century seemed a genuine possibility. That he proceeded to his ton without further alarm was remarkable, all the more so given his post-match revelation that he had never reached three figures before.
Still, it would be churlish to say that he played a lone hand. Having witnessed the top order try and fail to play sensible cricket, Messrs Clarkson, Milton and Boulton positively cavorted their way to 108 runs between them, engaging in the sort of wanton strokeplay that most denizens of SE21 would happily see banned. There were straight sixes, swept sixes, flying bats and even an attempted reverse sweep. Somehow, from the depths of 7/3 the Green Sox had managed to post an intimidating score of 250+.
What followed was probably the most professional bowling and fielding display of the past two seasons. Bowling at pace, Graham Milton exploited the various demons in the pitch expertly, maintaining a probing line and ultimately gaining his reward with three wickets in four balls, two of which were caught acrobatically in the slips. At the other end Chris “The Sultan” Jones was no less impressive, swinging the ball like a man who has strategically placed a set of car keys in every fruit bowl in southeast London. If he went wicketless on the day, the chances are that the evening offered some form of consolation.
After the seamers had been taken off, the spinners were introduced and both proved equally effective. Rumour has it that Joe Bason spent the winter working on a new mystery ball. Whatever the case, he bowled excellently, completing a miserly spell by pouching a tricky caught and bowled offered by the opposition’s most dangerous batsman. At the other end, Jake Boulton wheeled away with no little skill, combining flight and guile to dangerous effect. He picked up three well-deserved wickets, his first for the club. In the end, only an irritating last wicket stand threatened to take the gloss off the performance. Fortunately, Green Sox’ premier/only three-dimensional cricketer Steve Howe was on hand to deliver the final wicket with only his second legitimate ball of the season.
All in all, an excellent team performance. Man of the match was Rav for his outstanding hundred, complemented by three solid outfield catches. On another day, however, any one of the three all-rounders, Milton, Clarkson and Boulton, could conceivably have taken the plaudits. All that was left was for the team to repair to the terrace of Belair House, where the skipper was to be heard discoursing at length on the Spirit of Cricket. He knows, better perhaps than anyone else, that it remains a nebulous concept.
Wednesday 24th v LT Dinosaurs Lost
Civil Service Sports Ground, Chiswick
You see! Chiswick really isn’t very far. It’s not. It’s 22 minutes on a train from Vauxhall. And it’s really nice. Whilst I admit, slightly disappointingly, it hasn’t got a Chicken Cottage or a Cash Converters, what it does have is a River, 122 pubs, beautiful sunsets, and arguably the nicest cricket ground the Sox get to play at.
With the weather being particularly clement that day, and having a prime excuse to hand (having one fewer players than the recommended daily allowance) we approached the game feeling pressure-free.
Our favourite Luxembourger having cunningly and correctly decreed that we should field, we cheerfully threw ourselves towards the ball, keeping those fours to twos and twos to singles. Most of us stood in actual recognizable field positions with names and everything. We even moved around a bit for different batsmen and bowlers. And we produced one of the most positive displays in the field this far thus season. Mr. Howe continued to make us miss Mickey Pearce even less. Catches were taken, no doubt remembered by those that made them and those that served them up.
Milton, de Buxton, Clark and all the Murphies kept the tube strikers down to a very chaseable 117. Special mention should be given to George (who took 14 wickets) and Graham (who bowled four overs that were stingier than the TfL Grant after the imminent Spending Review).
The Sox strode out to bat brimming with confidence. Captain de Glossop was dismissed rather early on by an eagle-eyed umpire who, in a creditable and manly display of equanimity and moral rectitude worthy of the finest traditions of the game, was reluctantly left no choice but to give him out plum LDGBW.
Formela and Stroman both began to steady the ship, but then the underground chaps started catching out more people than a ‘There is Currently a Good Service On All Lines’ sign in the morning. With Stroman needing to leave early anyway, and Formela realising that scoring more than 14 yet again would leave him in perilous danger of a showing-off fine, they kindly stepped aside.
Then the Sox middle order came into its own. Clarkson proved that all games that involve hitting a ball with a stick are basically the same and Howe, relieved from the burden of leadership this season, continued to score for fun. Both retired on vast scores.
I enjoyed my short trip to the middle very much, and felt that I ran quite well with Mr. Milton, hopefully helping him along to his very respectable 16.
The LU catchathon continued unabated. But it didn’t matter. When Bowler Murphy Jr walked back towards us we knew we only needed about 3 more to win with 89 overs to play.
And we knew where we were going to get them from. Howe and Clarkson had been scoring for fun earlier in the day, and were still in our armoury. One at a time they confidently, purposefully, came out of retirement to keep Murphy Sr company and push us effortlessly over the line.
Then they didn’t and we all went to the pub.
Shoulda woulda coulda.
Still, the sunset was stunning and the beers were cold. When we’re old, I imagine these are the ones we’ll remember.
And at least we were able to console ourselves with the fact there was another game at Belair the next day that we were almost certainly going to win…
Thursday 25th v Thomas Guy CC Lost heavily
On a hot, sweaty midsummer evening in Belair;
The Sox gathered to face a team of chaps from goodness knows where.
Whilst pulling on whites they discussed the last game – a victory so near attainable; But quickly rounded on ‘that Lambeth lady’ and her declaration of ‘cricket – playable’.
The team questioned her judgement, dedication and sense of duty; At one point the insults even got a bit fruity.
It was in the outfield of Belair Park’s seventh best pitch; That the sox had identified a bit of a hitch.
Clarkson got excited thinking it might be a Time Team excavation; But further inspection offered little explanation.
Was it sewage works, a sandpit, moles with great intention?
Or had Ashton widened the scope of the Northern Line extension?
Whatever it was, all thoughts to a clear conclusion did amount; There was absolutely no way that this match was going to count.
With an obstacle like that so close to the wicket;
The Sox couldn’t be expected to play their quality brand of cricket.
‘Null and void’ the game was declared;
The Sox’ opposition from a whipping being graciously spared.
To make doubly sure that the game wouldn’t be counted later;
The oppo kindly agreed they couldn’t be bothered noting Greensox’ bowling data.
So with pressure off and the game declared ‘a bit of fun’; Both teams walked out into the blazing sun.
But with the chance to achieve a proper victory squandered; The minds of the GreenSox quickly wandered.
Teachers Sellar, Milton and Boulton’s thoughts turned to the long summer; When that last school bell rang how they would do their runner.
No kids, no assemblies, no ‘please Sir, what’s the point of learning?’; For six long weeks’ holiday these boys were yearning.
Andy Burnham took the opportunity to go over his briefing line by line; For later he was to do battle on Question Time.
Formela pontificated how those posh girls clad in hunter welly boot; Were spoiling and ruining the Glastonbury of his yoot.
Real cricketer Rav was cross, ‘what’s the point of playing for fun?’; ‘I’m not even going to bother trying for another ton’.
Clarkson was concerned, he was putting his ‘Most Resplendently Attired 2012’ credentials to the test;
With a game the previous night would the Sox notice his whites weren’t freshly pressed?
Salmon was also annoyed – he’d hoped that showing his boss his great skill with the bat;
Might help in his upcoming salary increase chat.
For LDG captaincy was weighing heavy – he was doing lots of thinking; Player selection, dodgy pitches…should he call the White House manager to negotiate more drinking?
There was only one thing on the mind of Big Joe Base;
He wanted to take hold of the Spitfire and set about the run-chase.
Jonesey pondered much baser issues of protection;
In this strong sun was factor 50 enough for his fair complexion?
After a pleasant evening in the sun everyone decided they’d done their bit; And it was time to grab a beer and go and sit.
That evening the White House seemed once again to be struggling; Correlation between beers advertised and actually available was, as usual, befuddling.
With chicken burgers off, and beef patties served between French bread; ‘Stuff this, I’ll have the charcuterie board!’ Ashton haughtily said.
With no match to discuss and the Sox’ scorebook showing too many empty lines; Events moved rapidly on to the fines.
Post-match entertainment came next, each player had the chance of a go; Format was similar to a Royal Variety show.
Clarkson did a trick with a bat, bag, and grip – he elicited many cheers; Jonesy did some sweet talking and got the bar maid to help carry the beers.
Ben FO tried some acrobatic tumbling most professional; But was upset that everyone missed the spectacle.
Although not a proper match, there was still felt need for some accolade; It was right that some respect should be paid.
Everyone agreed that Man of the (non) Match would be Jake;
He was applauded for bowling a ripping spell and that one-handed take.
Thursday 2nd v Slazengers Won by a good margin
This Green Sox match started like any other; with fewer than 11 men actually there and the captain, our glorious leader LDG, winning the toss. He elected to bat on a dry turning wicket that could only deteriate thus helping the Sox’s reunited world class spin attack.
This observer arrived late; dodging the bouncer shanking inhabitants of this part of town I cycled straight past the pitch thinking that the cricket being played was a little too high class. Having noticed it was Niall neatly tucking away their nifty opening bowler I scrambled to the relative safety of the cage.
Niall quickly and effieciently got to 27; hitting 5 boundaries on his way. Again the skipper ran off embarressed. Nothing to be ashamed of; he’d got us to 32-1 off 5. Niall’s retirement brought together Howe and Formela. A slow partnership ensued; some thought too slow. Howe, with the strain of captaincy off his back, picked and plotted his way to an innings of 21. A man in great form who perhaps knew what was still in the shed. Formela, as ever, made it look easy; clipping off his hip and driving fluently. Not a care in the world; he’s not due back at work for another 54 weeks.
Dom Roberts. Dom Roberts was in the shed and Steve Howe knew it. Roberts The King hit a swash- buckling 24 in just 11 balls including one mighty 6 off a slower ball that was timed to perfection. The innings was a game changer and won him the MotM. Tommy D and D Hannigan saw us through the the final over; the latter with a red-inker on debut.
139 to defend. The Slazengers had talked a good game but could they get there. They certainly weren’t going to be running 3s. Milton opened the attack and caused them trouble but was quickly whipped off for Jones who had cunjured up a plan to bowl at the stumps. He had a wicket by his sixth ball.
LDG replaced Boulton from the other end and kept it tight. De Glossop bowls a famously heavy ball. A ball that starts straight and gets straighter. He pinned their cocky skipper down and got him on 23, just 2 off retirement. It was the wicket the Green Sox wanted. Milton came back and got the gob-shite keeper for 6.
As LDG kept it ruthlessly tight at his end, Base ‘he-doesn’t-drop-it-off-his-own-bowling’ Bason was getting wickets for fun at the other end. Boulton replaced LDG and bowled the ball of the century to claim his only wicket of the match. Base then replicated the celebration from the ball of the last century having got his second with a googley.
The game was over after a consumate performance from The Sox. Still time though for Dom to drop a catch, Jake to get a wicket off a no ball and Howe to miss a stumping. Not to mention Formela’s final over.
The annual post-match race was far from consumate. A shambles from false-start to finish. Somebody claimed a victory.
Wednesday 9th v Tilburg Regents Lost
Monday 20th v Dodgers Lost by 3 wickets
Thursday 23rd v TFL Pirates Lost by 40 runs
Wednesday 29th v Tilburg Regents Lost
Sunday 23rd v Marauders Won by 28 runs
Thursday 27th v Superstars Lost by 12 runs