SPECTATOR SPORT

THIS is the weekend of the Badminton horse trials, and I am inexorably reminded of a cricket match I played in one afternoon in west London. Let us call it the Ballad of Piers and Elvis. My team, the mighty Tewin Irregulars, were playing against our deadly rivals, the Nicky Bird XI, though on this occasion he only had X. I was stalling like mad because we were even worse off, with a mere seven. 'Soon,' I kept saying. 'Soon.'

I shall not forget the expression on Bird's face when the remaining four arrived. `God,' he said, praying rather than blas- pheming. 'Oh God!' For our captain arrived flanked by two men — tall, lithe, athletic and quite terrifyingly black. The fourth member of the party was a gangling ex-public schoolboy called Piers.

We batted first, and made a few runs. Then came the moment Bird had been dreading. We bowled and one of the black lads was also quite terrifyingly quick. His name was Elvis, he came from Brixton, he fielded in wraparound shades. Being the wicket-keeper, I was in a position to empathise with the Duke of Wellington: I hoped he frightened the enemy because, by God, he terrified me.

`Do you bowl, Piers?'

`Wouldn't mind turning my arm over.'

So Piers came on as first change, much to the relief of Bird's men. Short-lived relief: by God, Piers was even quicker than Elvis. He bowled just short of length, spearing them up in the general direction of the

A great team thing

Simon Barnes

batsman's testicles. Soon opposing batsmen were taking guard slightly beyond the square leg umpire.

In the last over, the ninth wicket fell and we duly celebrated victory. But we had reckoned without Bird, the Douglas Jar- dine of the village green. He produced a new batter. We had observed her practising in a nearby net, a stocky lady of notable competence. She came out to see off the last over and force a draw.

`Do you think I should pitch it up a bit?' Piers asked.

`Fast and straight,' I counselled sportingly.

The ball leapt from just short of a length; the batter, in fending it away from her ovaries, parried a catch to short leg. Did Elvis catch it? Perhaps. But never mind, whoever did the deed, it was a sweet victo- ry. Elvis and Piers, from wonderfully opposed backgrounds, revelled in a shared mastery. The female batter received the commiseration of her recently adopted side. The post-match session was boozy and prolonged. In parenthesis, I should add that one of our fast bowlers subsequently had the great misfortune to go to jail after a problemette with drugs. No, not Elvis, since you ask.

Thus we had a great team thing going on that long-ago afternoon. A team is a won- derful thing. It breaks down the barriers of individuality, of social caste, of race, of gen- der. All this, of course, counts double when you win and reinforce the bonds in beer. Is it not passing brave to be in a team, and ride in triumph through Kew?

Braver still to ride in triumph through Badminton. For the sport of eventing is the greatest team event in sport. I don't mean those rather artificial occasions when four riders are a team and share the points. I am talking about the real thing: the team of two, rider and horse.

This is the team of teams, the team that breaks down not trivial barriers like class and colour, but the barrier between species. As no other sport can, eventing examines and tests the species boundary, and allows both halves of the partnership to trespass on the far side. I know, I have been there, and it is a greater drug than anything else commercially available. Rather more expensive too.

Cricket is good, even if it is not quite the real thing. And it even comes close to the horse world in its limitless possibilities for sentimentality. Ah, the drug-dealers flicker to and fro, to and fro — oh my Piers and my Elvis long ago!