The Twelfth Man 2019

Photo courtesy of Jeremy Lonsdale 14 15 Forty years ago I didn’t have a favoured viewing spot; I liked to wander round various vantage points. Early on it would be the popular bank, once I’d bought my scorecard and Yorkshire Post from Arthur Smith. Seats here have always been plain benches with no back-rest - less of a prob- lem when you’re young and supple. But the view across the ground, even twenty rows back, was superb and a wonderful vista across to the moors and forests beyond. Behind was the gigantic Tetley’s Bitter bar running all the way from the gates almost to the small scoreboard in the corner. Today, it is truncated somewhat but still has the same effect later in the day once the beer takes hold of the more volu- ble sections of the crowd. Mostly, the barracking of opposing play- ers (and occasionally Yorkshire’s own) is good-natured but sadly, not always so. There have been occasional ugly episodes over the years including once, an allegation of racism. But largely, these are holidaying crowds with children and for the most part, it’s a happy atmosphere. The west stand on the opposite side is a capacious seating area, fabled for the splintery wooden benches (with seat-backs here, though) made of extremely long planks. Here you have the weird sensation of the seats bowing and flexing as spectators take their seats; these undulations continue whenever the equilibrium is dis- turbed as folk come and go. The view of play is another well-elevat- ed one with the backs of boarding houses as a backdrop on two sides. Not many remain in business now, but the Boundary Hotel on North Marine Road with its own elevated viewing area on a flat-roofed ex- tension is always packed with the same spectators year-on-year. I’ve heard it said that hoteliers have an arrangement with the Scarbor- ough club to obtain the fixtures a few days prior to public release by the ECB and call their regu- lars offering the chance to make bookings on a priority basis. Forty years ago the ground resounded at 5.30pm to the sound of gongs in each hotel, summoning guests to their ‘high teas’. Now, I doubt you’ll find many offering evening meals but I’ve seen at least one that still thinks hot and cold running water merits a mention on its outside name-board. Also on the west side are the mar- quees that create the Festival feel; in one, a jazz band playing at lunch and tea-time; in the other the inev- itable corporate hospitality. Here one can glimpse civic gold chains mingling with what passes for high fashion in a North Yorkshire sea- side town, high heels sinking into springy turf, men in suits loung- ing in striped deck-chairs, waiters retrieving glasses before they are trodden on; the buzz of noise that grows louder as the day wears on. I rarely ventured onto the north stand, finding its steeply raked rows too close together and lacking an easy view of the main scoreboard. But it is very popu- lar, especially with those who like to bare their torsos to the sun. It does give a view behind the bowl- er’s arm, and so does the Trafalgar Square enclosure at the opposite end. Forty years ago you had to pay a supplement to sit in there on splendid roll-back metal benches. It was also full of very old people; very, very intent on their cricket; and very, very, very quiet. Today, my wife and I form part of the old people and Trafalgar Square is our favoured spot. We join the queue of stalwarts in the narrow ginnel behind the stand waiting for the gates to open at 9.30 to claim our desired seats. Every so often someone saunters up to the turnstile just as the queue starts to move but they are given short shrift by those at the head of the line, having to absorb some barbed comments as they slink to the back. The old metal benches are long gone, replaced today by plastic bucket seats but, not being of the tip-up variety, you would be well advised to come armed with wipes to remove seagull droppings. Ah… the seagulls. They wheel about all “ If I stood on the cistern of the lavatory of the top floor of our ‘digs’ and looked through the gap of the open frosted- glass window I could just about see across to the pavilion. I didn’t know much of cricket then, but it looked interesting.