Richard Clarke AKA The Grumbler
Let me introduce you to my childhood bat.
I rediscovered it a few years ago while clearing out my mother’s garden shed. Disappearing fast to dementia, she was going, literally kicking and screaming, into a care home. She passed in 2024.
My father had died nearly two decades earlier. When clearing out his effects, I found local newspaper clippings of his cricketing exploits. Though tatty and yellowing, their mere survival showed his pride. They brought to life the cricketer I never knew. You see, my dad was struck down with arthritis in his lat...
