WARE snatched a last-over victory from the very jaws of defeat yesterday, toppling the Leyton Orient Supporters’ XI in a match as tense as any Brisbane Road nail-biter.

Under darkening skies and after a cheeky early shower, Skipper Peter “Iron Nerve” Devonshire used his bowlers like a wily Orient manager shuffling the pack — all eleven having a crack at the visitors’ stubborn bats. The O’s men, led by the immovable “Jumpers,” opened with a partnership north of fifty that had shades of Orient’s famous 1934 FA Cup run — hard to break down and not shy of a flourish.

Carl’s debut overs and Maci’s ever-improving spell kept Ware in the hunt, with Jack and Jamie nabbing the only wickets amid a keeping display from Risby that would have had the Brisbane Road crowd howling. The Orient lads posted a formidable 181.

In reply, Ben Compton — batting with the confidence of Orient’s own Wilkie Low in full stride — retired on 50, ably backed by Jack’s dashing 46, Kev’s 33, and Alex’s chipper 25. The O’s bowlers, crafty as any old Third Division South defence, clawed back wickets and had Ware twitching like an Orient fan in the 89th minute.

But cometh the hour, cometh the skipper. Devonshire, ice-cool, sealed the win with two wickets to spare in the very last over, sending Ware’s faithful into raptures that would not have been out of place on the East End terraces.

A match for the scrapbook — and a reminder that against Orient, in football or cricket, you never count your runs until the pavilion bell rings.

Ware CC vs The Hertford Club – An Affair of Sun, Runs, and Remarkably Civilised Behaviour

Picture it, if you will: Widford in all its bucolic glory, a sun so dazzling it could have been specially commissioned for the occasion, and an opposition so well-turned-out and splendid that one half expected them to take to the field accompanied by a string quartet.

Ware batted first, and, in a moment that will doubtless echo down the corridors of local sporting history, the father-and-son act of Steve and George Price took centre stage. Like a cricketing Ant and Dec (if Ant and Dec were related and one of them could actually bat), they got us off to a rollicking start. George, brimming with youthful vim, proceeded to upstage his paterfamilias by thundering to a retire-on-50 innings, the cricketing equivalent of pinching your dad’s wallet and buying champagne for everyone.

The baton was then seized by Kev, Henry, and Liam, who smote, clobbered, and generally gave the ball a series of experiences it will be discussing with its therapist for weeks to come. Not to be outdone, Sam and Carl weighed in with their own contributions, Maci batted with admirable aplomb, and Roger darted about as though auditioning for a part in Chariots of Fire. At the end of this orgy of willow and leather, Ware had amassed a rather smug 240.

Early in Hertford’s reply, wickets began to tumble like slightly tipsy bridesmaids on a dance floor, and Ware began to dream of an early bath and perhaps a light sherry before sundown. But Hertford, clearly unaware of the script, dug in heroically. All three Tyrers chipped in like a well-drilled vaudeville act, and even Pricey himself decided to show he was equally at home on their scorecard. They eventually posted an admirable 175, which in the circumstances was rather like turning up late to a party and still managing to charm everyone.

By stumps, the sun had baked us all to a healthy shade of “lobster in denial”, the tea had been consumed with the sort of gusto normally reserved for free bar canapés, and Julian, as ever, proved himself the very model of a perfect host – part Jeeves, part benevolent innkeeper, entirely indispensable.

In short: a day to remind us why cricket is the greatest excuse humanity has yet invented for sitting in the sunshine with friends, drinking tea, and occasionally chasing a small red ball.
Highlights, a first wicket for Sam (and excellent fielding), another super spell by Maci and an excellent knock by George