On a cloudy afternoon that promised uncertainty, one man brought clarity, courage, and control — the indomitable Will Tyrer. As Ware Cricket Club journeyed down the A1 to the familiar battlefield of Old Cholmeleians, it was under the steadfast leadership of Tyrer that hopes soared and victory felt inevitable.

Arriving to find a mysterious hosepipe near the wicket — clear evidence of a mischievously damp surface — Tyrer’s sharp cricketing instincts kicked in. With a single nod, he chose to field first. The decision wasn’t just tactical brilliance; it was prophecy.

Then came the rallying cry. Will Tyrer, voice resonating with purpose, summoned his troops to arms. Jack, responding like a knight answering his king, delivered a thunderous spell — four wickets for 25 — finally breaking his long-unrewarded duck in a blaze of glory.

But Tyrer wasn’t merely barking orders from the slips — he was everywhere. Fielding with courage, style, and unshakable composure, his every dive and throw sparked fire in the ranks. Inspired by his warrior spirit, Kev and Graeme charged in with fire in their bellies and steel in their eyes, each claiming three vital scalps. The result? Old Cs collapsed for under 60, overwhelmed by Ware’s unrelenting ferocity.

Now came the chase — a tricky wicket, uncertain bounce, and the pressure of expectation. But in walked Will Tyrer. Resolute. Unyielding. Leading the line like the titan he is, he absorbed pressure, calmed nerves, and carved out the pathway to victory.

Around him, brave soldiers rallied — Pringle with a solid 20, Hugh R with a steely 25 — both batting around their captain as if orbiting a blazing sun. And when the final runs were struck, it was clear: this was not just a six-wicket victory. It was a Tyrer Triumph.

The scoreboard will show a win for Ware. But those who witnessed it know the truth — it was a masterclass led by a maestro. A legend walked among us, and his name is Will Tyrer.

So there we were, darlings — the 31st of May, that most sacred of dates for English village cricket. A day when the sun shines, the birds sing, and the drinks fridge — because of course it does — decides to give up the ghost faster than a politician’s promise after polling day. Yes, that’s right: no cold drinks. In a heatwave. We were practically Victorian explorers out there, bravely fighting heatstroke with tepid squash.

And speaking of abandonment issues, we somehow managed to forget Jamie. Just... left him at home. Maybe we thought he was in someone’s kitbag. Maybe we thought he was already at the ground meditating on the outfield. Who knows? Ware IIs: famously as organised as a hedgehog on roller skates.

Anyway, fielding first, with Steve and Oscar opening the bowling — and they came in like caffeinated ninjas. Three wickets fell quicker than a government U-turn: Steve bagging 2 for 10 and Oscar chucking in 1 for 29, and that included the batsmen playing with all the discipline of toddlers at a jelly buffet.

But Hatfield, crafty devils that they are, came back with a blitzkrieg of 50 runs that had us wondering if our boundary ropes had been moved into the car park. Enter Phil — The Knee, freshly re-bionic, moving like the Six Million Dollar Man but bowling like a vintage metronome of doom. Stump to stump, bang on target, 3 for 21, and suddenly it was Ware on the warpath again.

Ben and John wrapped up the innings with some quality overs. Well — John’s first three balls had more drama than a GCSE theatre piece on climate change, but he recovered, bless him. Hatfield finished on 143, which is either a gettable target or the beginning of a long afternoon crying softly into your whites.

Then came the chase. And by chase, I mean slow-motion stampede through treacle. The bowling was tight. Tighter than Simon Cowell’s face after a Botox binge. Andy, still glowing from last week’s form like a man who'd discovered a new protein bar, bashed a few, but was cleanly removed by one that could’ve made the Pope swear.

Joel and Simon knuckled down with all the grit of blokes trying to assemble flat-pack furniture without swearing in front of the vicar. Joel nicked off eventually, and on came Sam — the People’s Champion — all patience and panache, stroking it around like he was painting the Sistine Chapel with a Gray-Nicolls.

But the hero — the Shakespearean protagonist of this saga — was Simon. Oh, Simon! Flicks off the pads! Drives through cover! A serene, undefeated 70 not out, running so much he had to legally reclassify his innings as cardio. Together with Sam (41 of the finest), they stacked up an unbeaten 100-run partnership. That’s right: one hundred runs and not a wicket lost between them. The cricketing equivalent of finishing a three-course meal without dropping food down your shirt.

Victory! The first win of the season! And not a single stretcher required.

Honourable mention — nay, knighthood-worthy service — to Sam for fetching