T20 at Old Trafford is Fine, or, How to Have a Delicious Afternoon in Sale

The thing about remembering your Halcyon days is that you need to have a few that aren’t filled with glory and excitement to compare them with. How can you know you’re at the peak if you’ve never experienced a trough, or at least a very flat plateau? Fortunately for those who need contrast to rank their experiences, sport regularly offers the spectator days so unremarkable which, unless you’ve put yourself in a position where you have to write about them, fade from memory the instant you step foot onto the train home. This was one of those.

I had been very excited for a T20 double-header at Old Trafford, but the Mancunian weather and a dismal Derbyshire performance conspired to both literally and figuratively dampen that feeling. The late morning’s Lancs women game against Essex was reduced to a combined 13 overs played intermittently across several hours. Arriving into the city to intense rain and a miserable forecast, I opted to skip this opening match to explore Manchester and Sale. As the weather looked to improve later in the day, after a few hours I made my way to a grey and dark ground for the men’s game between top-of-the-table Lancashire and last-placed Derbyshire.

A predictably one-sided contest ensued. There are some games that really are just two teams going through the motions. The league topping all-stars know very well that they will be coming away with a convincing victory, while the also-rans embrace their role as lambs to the slaughter. Today was no different. Lancashire comfortably accumulated 178 runs without anyone seeming to break a sweat or pull off a noteworthy innings. Derbyshire’s fielders followed after balls headed to the boundary with all the enthusiasm of condemned men walking to the gallows. Their run chase was similarly sedate, with no visible effort by anyone to take control and make a meaningful effort to reach what seemed like an achievable target. Ross Whiteley and Mohammad Ghazanfar, partnered for the final few overs of the match, seemed content just to hit singles and leave balls until they were put out of their misery. By the last ball, the required run rate had hit 264. A depressing sense of inevitability hung over the whole affair, much like the clouds that periodically

reminded us of their presence with light rain that wasn’t quite enough to give us a reprieve and bring an early end to this charade. As this plays out, Lancashire’s mascot, Lanky the giraffe looks on. Whoever stitched his expression into a baleful leer has unintentionally given him a deeply unsettling aspect. The aggressive gestures he makes in an effort to gee up the crowd look more like an attempt by a Serengeti Satanist to summon a demon.

The weather has kept many people away from the ground today. Perhaps due to their limited numbers, the crowd didn’t offer much in the way of insight into the Lancastrian character or the health of cricket in one of its historic English centres. I did observe, to my chagrin, that perhaps the ECB may have some justification in stating that The Hundred could be a gateway for young people to get into other cricket formats as there were many kids and teens sporting Manchester Originals gear. That being said, T20 was supposed to perform the same function and, if kids now think of this truncated version of the game as being ‘long form’, then how will they cope with the concept of a match that lasts a full day let alone four? On the strength of today’s offering, I fear many of these youngsters may not return anyway. It seems ironic that they’ve come to watch a tournament called the Vitality Blast in which the away team seems to consist largely of the living dead.

It would feel unfair to draw definitive conclusions about this prestigious venue on the strength of today’s offering. I’ll be back again on a day when the weather gods look more favourably on the north-west and the Lancashire faithful are out in force.

With that in mind, instead of the usual ramblings, I’ll briefly offer a couple of recommendations on how you can make sure you’re well fed and watered should you be heading to the ground anytime soon. As many may be aware from having seen TV footage of fans stood on the platforms trying to get a glimpse of the field of play, Old Trafford is located right next to the tram stop of the same name. A few stops to the south-west, you’ll reach Sale, a pleasant suburb of Manchester where you’ll find plenty of bars and restaurants. If you’re in need of lunch before you head to the ground, you’ll find few more delicious spots than Dosa Kingss (the second ‘s’ is intentional, although the reason for its existence is unknown to me) on Northenden Road. The perfectly spiced Paneer 65 and the sweet, multi-textured samosa chaat are the perfect accompaniment to the main event, the dosa. These are exquisite, deeply satisfying, and delightfully flavoursome. I would eat them every day if I could. They were enough to make me seriously consider a move to Sale. Those looking for liquid refreshment should head for Hops & Boogie, where a wide selection of drinks and great music await. The friendly staff are happy to provide tasters of the many beers on offer to help make up uncertain minds.

So there you have it. This was fine. Not great, but pretty good. You can’t have a terrible day watching cricket with a friend, but it might not be part of the highlights reel that flashes before your eyes on your deathbed. At one point during this match, a large middle-aged man sat behind me farted very loudly. He remarked to his friend, ‘Better out than in’. In many ways, that sums up how I feel about both this game and this piece. They had to happen. The match to ensure that completion of the North Group’s fixture list and the article because I guess this is sort of my job now. Like the fart, if they hadn’t happened there might have been issues. Fortunately, neither the fart, nor the match, stank. Not sure I can say the same for these 1,046 words.