On the 26 September 2019 I stood bereft on a damp outfield watching Marcus Trescothick, cap in hand, leaving the field for the very last time. An emotional crowd aware that a departing wave saw the end of a 26 year playing career that had embedded itself in the very fabric of the Somerset stands. Not only was there no fairy tale end but Somerset had to once again watch as the trophy, fingertip width from their grasp, was presented to a jubilant Essex and to add insult to injury it looked likely that the quality of the pitch would be called into question. This, I thought, was as difficult a day to stomach as I was likely to have to face in my Somerset support.
A year later I stood, not on the outfield, but at the entrance to the ground where the tightly locked gates loomed like those belonging to Miss Havisham’s mansion and the game inside felt like a forbidden pursuit belonging to a very different world; one of preclusion and artificial design; the shouts from the players losing their resonance in the echo of the empty stadium. Like all forms of entertainment, cricket across the globe had been severely compromised by a pandemic that was sweeping the world. Somerset’s many supporters were unable to enter the ground; the media limited in number. The miserable end to the 2019 season felt like inconsequential flimflam in comparison, a lot more was missing than just Marcus or silverware.
Fast forward to the early Spring season of 2021 and sadly cricket was still shrouded in COVID restrictions and continuing to keep members from attending the ground. On the 15 May, allowed to enter as Press, I made my first visit to Somerset CCC since the retirement of my hero. It was a damp squib of an unfinished game against Surrey. Day one and four had no play at all and I was there for day three, which was a stunted one, but despite both the weather and game forecast, I was desperate to return to the ground I had missed so terribly. I loved it of course and couldn’t stop smiling, the view of the Quantocks was as I remembered and all the excitement of the rituals in play was still there (with added COVID breaks), but it was tinged with a real sense of how wrong it felt. I’m probably not alone in loving championship cricket for the slow pace of the game and for the freedom it gives you to wander through the stands, watching from various viewpoints, stopping to talk to the man with the dog, the woman with her Somerset kit, the young lad practicing his shots against the family stand. None of this was there because the heartbeat of the club wasn’t there; the fans weren’t there. With the players understandably kept at a distance and the catering facilities almost non-existent, it felt soulless and I understood in part what it must have felt in 2020 for the players in their bubbles.
It was only when I came back again on the 6 June that there was at last some sense of normality. The crowd was back – granted they had to book in advance and there were no walk-up tickets, but they were at last allowed in. And for me, Somerset’s COVID safe media centre had become a marquee that saw us closer to the action and the crowd than ever before. I sat at the front of the Press area soaking up the atmosphere as Abell and Bartlett batted Hampshire out of the game and it felt a very different venue to the one in 2019. I don’t suppose it will ever be the same again but, I cannot exaggerate how fabulous it feels to be back and now there is a wonderful picture of Trescothick with the names of all the loyal supporters that donated their 2020 membership to help the club survive a lost season. A perfect tribute to a man that gave so much to his county but also proof that we can survive without him. There are worse things to stomach than Marcus never playing again -but not many!