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The scheme had begun, as so many terrible ideas did, with Gordon Tracy.
An argument over the correct definition of the word ‘football’ over comms during a rescue had started as an attempt to distract a group of trapped and frightened teenagers, but spiralled wildly out of control. About fifteen minutes into the argument, Gordon had made the ill-advised assertion that while the English might take credit for inventing the vast majority of popular sports, the former Thirteen Colonies could easily claim superiority at any of them. Lady Penelope had, of course, taken umbrage; and, somehow, she had found herself agreeing, in the heat of the moment, to a deceptively simple challenge: a battle for the honour of nations, on the cricket pitch at Creighton-Ward Manor.
She had, admittedly, had a moment’s–well, a few moments–worth of regret, the day after picking up the gauntlet he’d thrown down. The terms of the duel, as laid down by the ‘seconds’ (a reluctant Jonathan Tracy and an enthusiastic Dianne Simms), required that all players have a business or friendship connection to International Rescue–so she couldn’t simply bring in players from the English national team and call it a day. The initial, obvious, lineup had been herself, Parker, Kayo (who chose, wisely, to represent England over the Americas out of respect to her mother’s blood and her decade at a London boarding school), and Dianne (Scott’s Mancunian executive assistant at Tracy Aeronautics). But they’d agreed on six a side–which left two empty spaces, and no obvious candidates to fill them.
Di, however, had a solution, exploiting a loophole in the terms of engagement that she’d carefully not pointed out to John during the drafting process: nowhere in the the document did it actually say that the players had to be of the nationality they were representing–and nowhere did it say that the connection to IR couldn’t be a few degrees removed. So she’d brought in her old friend from university: Juliette Pontoin, from the New York office of the French embassy to the GDF, who at least knew the rules of cricket … and Juilette’s boyfriend, from the English embassy office, who was allegedly an excellent batsman and fast bowler.
Gordon had objected, of course. John had overruled him on the grounds that Di’s rules-lawyering was technically valid, adding that if they didn’t commit to teams quickly “this whole stupid thing is going to drag out forever” (a phrasing which made Penelope question his commitment to the honour of the cause).
So, here they stood, on a typical English summer’s day (in other words, under dull grey clouds), on Penelope’s carefully manicured lawn. The Yankee lineup was the five Tracy boys, plus Brains. And none of them had even bothered to wear white, the philistines.
“I still can’t believe you volunteered for this,” Scott said to Brains, as the latter carefully fitted his safety goggles. “Do you even know how to play?”
“I-I’m Indian. I know how to play b-better than you do.”
“You just hit the ball as far as possible, right? How hard can it be?”
“Those words?” Di paused her practice swing and pointed her bat at him. “Those words are going on your tombstone, Tracy.”
“Just remember who signs your paychecks, Simms.”
“You’ve never even looked at my paychecks.”
“... fair point.”
“Shouldn’t we be wearing safety gear?” Virgil tossed and caught the ball experimentally. “This thing feels heavy enough to give you a serious concussion.”
“Real men don’t wear helmets,” said Paul dryly.
Juilette rolled her eyes affectionately, stage-whispering. “He thinks he is indestructible.”
“A common affliction, in this social circle.” Penelope clapped her hands together. “Shall we start? Gordon, heads or tails?”
“Tails,” Gordon said instantly. “Wait, why?”
Penelope tossed the coin. It landed heads. “To decide who bats first. And I think we shall, if you don’t mind.”
Brains bowled for the Americans at first, on the grounds that he was the only one who actually could bowl overarm correctly. And he was a surprisingly sneaky off-spinner. It took Parker, first at the wicket, three balls before he actually made contact–and even then, he and Paul only got one run out of it.
Fortunately, Paul Metcalfe’s chérie amour hadn’t exaggerated his abilities–his first hit made it to the boundary, and he continued to rack up the runs well over a half-century with apparently little effort. Ironically, and irritatingly, the complication was Gordon. Brains, unused to this level of physical exertion, had to bow out as bowler after his arm started to hurt; and Gordon, deemed the most accurate underarm of the Tracys, got both him and Parker out one after another with (frankly absurdly lucky) leg-before-wicket violations.
“I still can't believe that's a rule,” Virgil said from his position as wicketkeeper.
“If it wasn’t,” Paul said, “people would just squat in front of the wickets and let themselves get hit, and they'd never get out. Unfortunately, it was a fair call.”
“You are an obnoxiously good sport, mon cheri,” Juliette said as she took the bat from him and stepped up across from Penelope, who had just replaced Parker a few balls before. “Come, Lady Penelope, let us show the gentlemen how it is done.”
(Parker muttered darkly that he suspected Gordon of deliberate body-line techniques, an accusation that all present graciously chose to ignore. Even though, Penelope reflected, it was probably true.)
Distressingly, Juliette's version of ‘how it is done’, was, apparently, getting out in her first over: she made the fatal mistake of stepping fully across the crease mid-swing and missing, and Virgil, who had actually been paying attention while the rules were being explained, caught the ball and knocked off the bails without hesitation.
“It’s all right, darling,” Paul said, valiantly restraining his laughter. “Better luck next time.”
“It is a dreadful English sport, anyway,” she replied cheerfully, kissing him on the cheek.
“H’it’s not pronounced ‘ow’s that, Master Alan,” Parker called from the sidelines, correcting the appeal the boy had cheered to the hypothetical umpire. “H’it’s ‘owzat.”
Alan looked helplessly at Virgil and Penelope. “That’s … not super useful feedback?”
“All right, Your Ladyship.” Gordon rubbed the ball against his shirt, wiggling his eyebrows. “You ready to head back to the nice comfy bench for a spot of tea?”
“I’m rather enjoying it out here, actually,” Penelope replied, in the most bored tone she could possibly muster. “If that's not too inconvenient for you.”
Gordon took a run up, then lobbed the ball down the pitch–at an absolutely perfect angle for Penelope to send it flying directly over John's head and over the boundary–and into a tree.
“Huh,” said Gordon, after a moment, for once at a loss for words.
“Nicely done, Milady.” Parker cleared his throat. “But I’m h’afraid that is, in fact, our only ball.”
Fortunately, Alan, given a boost into the tree by his eldest brother, was able to conduct a successful retrieval mission.
The youngest Tracy’s moment of triumph was followed up by another, less than half-an-hour later. Di and Penelope put in a decent showing between them; but Di was eventually bowled out by a recovered Brains, leaving Penelope and Kayo as the final batsmen for their side. And they were, in fact, doing rather well–until Alan successfully tagged Kayo out mid-run, ending the innings.
“You let him do that,” Penelope whispered to her in amusement as the teams prepared to switch.
“He’s thirteen. What kind of monster wouldn’t?”
“Gordon.”
“... yeah, you’re probably right.”
Scott, first Tracy to bat, swung and missed five balls in a row before finally huffing, muttering “screw it”, and hefting the bat over his shoulder in a decidedly un-cricket-like stance.
“This isn't baseball, Scott,” John objected.
“But is it allowed?”
“T-technically, yes,” Brains admitted. “It's j-just stupid.”
Paul shrugged as if to say your funeral, ran up, and bowled. Scott swung–and the ball soared straight over the boundary.
He was insufferably smug about his continued success with the technique, so there was a good deal of crowing from the English side when, two overs and thirty runs later, he nicked the ball straight into Di’s hands and was caught out.
“Simms, you're fired.”
“Marvellous. Didn't want to cover for you with Finance tomorrow anyway.”
“On second thought, maybe I should give you a raise.”
“Okay, seriously, do not hold it like that.” John jogged over to the other end of the pitch and guided Alan and his bat into the correct position.
“But Scott did!”
“Scott is twice your size and can actually lift the bat.”
“Viiiiirgil! He’s patronising me again!”
The interaction did little for Alan’s success as a batsman, but it did mean that, a couple of overs later, when John slipped and crashed into his own wicket, his littlest brother’s reaction to the out was rather less disappointed than it would have been otherwise.
Brains and Alan were playing extremely conservatively (in the former’s case, out of sensible caution; in the latter’s case, out of difficulty lifting the bat). This meant, naturally, that the outfielders got bored and started arguing.
“I still can’t believe you didn’t play proper test matches at school.”
“Because not all of us went to Winchester College, Metcalfe,” snarked Di. “You’re a posh boy, I’m from the North. We are not the same.”
“Begging your pardon, Miss Simms, but you can ‘ardly claim to be of the working classes,” Parker scoffed. “H’isn’t your father a lord?”
“It’s only a life peerage,” Di mumbled, a defence that did absolutely nothing to stop the Tracys from mocking her for the next ten minutes.
Eventually, even the careful combined efforts of the English side to go easy on the literal child in their midst were insufficient to prevent Alan from getting out, and Virgil took to the pitch. And, startlingly, he was good. Not spectacular, and lacking in showmanship–but he was consistently putting a few runs on the board every ball, as was Brains; and Penelope began to be genuinely concerned that the Americans might catch their lead after all.
But nothing lasted forever–and, eventually, Kayo caught one of his hits on the bounce and threw it straight through his wicket with a devastating crack, knocking the stumps over as well as the bails.
“Howzat?!” she shouted triumphantly (even though there was no umpire and it was extremely obvious that Virgil was out).
“See, that's ‘ow you say it,” Parker said with satisfaction.
Gordon was also a respectable batsman, much to Penelope’s annoyance–he was less consistent than Virgil, but with frequent moments of exasperating brilliance. He and Brains kept racking up runs steadily for half-an-hour–but it wasn’t quite enough. The allotted number of overs was completed; and the English lead still held.
“Well,” Gordon said reluctantly, as the players gathered around the pitch. “I guess you guys won. Good game, everyone.”
“Actually,” said Penelope, “it’s a draw.”
“–Wha? But you guys got like twenty more runs than us!”
“We agreed twenty overs a side,” Paul explained. “And Hiram and Gordon played to the end of that time without getting out. So, draw.”
Scott folded his arms. “That makes zero sense.”
“But we’ll take it!” Gordon offered his hand ceremoniously to Penelope, who shook it. “Jolly good show, old sports! Wot wot! Pip pip!”
“I think my ears just started bleeding,” Kayo muttered.
Penelope likewise winced, but decided it was easier to just … roll with it, as the Yanks would say. “How about we all go inside for a nice cup of tea? Parker, would you be a dear and put the kettle on?”
“Of course, milady.”