Finals Day: Kent Frolic in T20 Festivities

Parade down Pershore Road and soon you’ll glimpse it: a luminous, towering ‘e’ stands alone in the overcast sky. A clump of colour greets you in costumes dug out from the back of the wardrobes from a blurry, forgotten past. Dragons and dolphins seek to outdrink the cowboys and the captains - the right sort of buffoonery that makes one discount the misery and monotony of the past year and a bit.

There was a rather southern feel to the afternoon with all four prevailing counties’ venue cities lying below, erm, Croydon (that’s the south’s equivalent of Watford, right?). Anyhow, the north was nowhere to be seen, save for the Birmingham Bears (and Phoenix) shirts scattered around the convivial Brummie arena. Atop the order of play to whet the thirsty appetites was a Hampshire and Somerset semi-final bout underneath shifting grey clouds as the yellow sun tried its best to nudge through.

And so the morning crowd settled into their seats. Overpriced, insipid Carling in hand itching for the day that lay in front of them. Up flew the pyrotechnics with a raucous crack as if God himself had whipped the warm air; it dropped a foggy haze that revealed Craig Overton galloping like a gazelle towards the wicket. A drivable cherry pushed to mid-on by James Vince for a cheeky single; the games were afoot, Edgbaston was alive.

But Vince would be walking dolefully back to cricket’s equivalent of a dugout after feathering one behind to Tom Banton. 8-2 from the first 14 balls welcomed a healthy fix of fire from the flamethrowers that scorched the eyebrows of those in the closest rows. The domestic veteran arm of Josh Davey was slinging the world at the Hampshire top-order but Joe Weatherley threw the anchor out of the sinking vessel. With a swift waft of his Keeley bat the pearly-white ball soared to the Toblerone boundary. His fifty arrived off just 38 deliveries.

A late flurry of fireworks from the unswerving, undaunted Weatherley was aided by some zestful batting from Chris Wood at the opposing crease. Davey had his fourth scalp with a mean yorker that sent the red bails into the troposphere but Weatherley was still in the mood, still in the groove as a couple more sixes upped his knock to 71. He would depart for that as Hampshire posted 150. Game on.

So out strode the openers. Banton was removed for six. Trouble to the left, trouble to the right, Somerset were under the cosh. 15-1 became 35-5 in the space of 21 balls. A guttural raw from the sun-kissed Hampshire fans echoed around the coliseum. They were confident. Surely there was no fabricated Hollywood comeback in sight.

But this is why we adore sport. Nothing is assured, especially on Finals Day. Tom Abell was not defeated. Far from it, in fact, as the adept middle-order batsman assuaged his county’s tenseness with a fine fifty. An array of sumptuous strokes, a heavenly aerial drive over extra-cover the pick of a lavish bunch. Raise the bat and then sky one to deep mid-wicket. 48 required off 21 deliveries. Enter the fray: Ben Green.

Wood was in utter bewilderment at seeing the ball barrel towards the boundary as Hampshire crumble under their own pretension. Green settles for a single. He is 35* off a mere 17 but it’s Davey who wins it for the west-country, clipping a four to seal a famous, glorious victory. A match of genuine thrill, it was Somerset who emerged from the murky darkness to advance to the final. Right, catch your breath, it’s time for another beer.

Ah, yes. The ol’ mascot race. Sneak back into position for a menagerie. Kent’s offer would be very last, but there was no foreshadowing. With a Second World War radar tribute slapped on the shirt’s front, the Spitfires were a blitz. A toss won by Sam Billings, he opted for a bat on a wicket that had showed signs of early difficulty.

And that continued. The imposing figure of Zak Crawley partnered alongside the in-form Daniel Bell-Drummond. A big heave for four and Crawley and Kent were away. But then he was heading back. Dancing down the track with too mighty a smote he missed the ball as it crashed into the stumps. Bell-Drummond was in a different sort of mood. Slaps and drives, hooks and flicks, the ball persistently rushed to the rope as he brought up his 50 off just 29 balls. Tymal Mills’ rapid bowling halted the progression but the opener lingered until he fell for 82.

There’s always that special, whimsical feeling of watching the immortal Darren Stevens bat. A man who wouldn't look out of place at your local, caressing their most budget pint of bitter on a shady-looking stall. Here he was smacking Ravi Bopara for four. There he was scooping Chris Jordan for another. Mesmerising as ever, timeless as always, he propped the final score up to 168-8.

8.40 an over was the requirement. Some Joe Denly leg-spin twirlers faced Luke Wright and Phil Salt. Soon the latter was gone and soon too was Wright. Sussex languishing, their day in the midlands looked short-lived as they slipped to 80-5. George Garton had been struck with IPL fever and it showed. An imperious knock brought an element of fear into Kentish minds but they were undaunted. Freddie Klaasen and Matt Milnes electric — much like the crowd at this later stage — they combined for seven wickets. Kent win by 21 runs.

And now for the main course. Kent again win the toss. Kent again choose to bat. Why wouldn't they having won nine of their twelve Vitality Blast matches when batting first this year. A further burst of flame from the fireboxes beckoned the arrival of the finalists. More sparklers sent towards the heavens; that same drifting smoke again revealed Crawley, this time flicking one off his navy pads that raced along the immaculate lawn for four runs.

The now inebriated crowd, drowned in alcohol, were cheering on every ball. No matter their allegiance, most were here for the fun of the sport. And what’s not enrapturing about witnessing the mighty Denly jaunt down the wicket to meet his first delivery with a herculean swipe that sent the white object airborne. Abell — bolting towards the seats with eyes glued to the projectile — clung on faultlessly. Kent were in a spot of bother.

The September night sky rolled in. Here the stands were full for the duration, with that beaming white noise fizzing around the Hollies Stand. Yet this game was to be Jordan Cox’s. The fledgling 20-year old whose rise through Kent’s youth academy is testament to his own generational dexterity. He would lose his colleague Stevens through a lazy run-out - the radiant stumps projecting a fun fair feel around cricket’s Maracanã. The total was rising steadily. Another leg-side Cox maximum, he hoists his bat up high amongst the lights. Four, four. Cox had desolated Davey’s figures - now it was Somerset who were dismayed. 168 runs required.

Drift, spin, dip. Denly’s and Kent’s second ball of the innings saw Banton stumped. In a zeptosecond the bails were off. Billings was crafty behind the batter. ‘OUT’ it read on the garish scoreboard, up went the huge roar. Simmer down, folks. This one’s far from its own conclusion. Smeed and Abell were at the crease. Slowly, silkily, surely, a partnership of 58 ensued before the thinning tether snapped in two. Qais Ahmed in ecstasy, Kent were one step closer to their first trophy in 13 years.

But no, what’s this? An extra life for Smeed. Cox plucked the ball by the boundary but Bell-Drummond is already on the floor, touching Cox and touching the rope. What does it all mean? No one offered a degree of credence but, after some age, the decision was overturned: six runs for Somerset. It were as if Cox took upon every outfield position himself. He’d remove Smeed in the far distance before the almighty play.

A punishable Stevens delivery was whacked into the deep. Like a great white leaping out of the ocean to catch its prey, Cox sprung into six territory to slap the ball back into play and into Milnes’ hands. The crowd positively aghast, Cox was beside himself. It was a phenomenal moment.

It was his knock and his catches that made this Kent’s day. 32 needed off the final ball, Marchant de Lange swatted one for six but the Spitfires care not an ounce. They are champions. Cue more explosions illuminating the black Birmingham cosmos. This team of extreme experience and eloquent youthfulness were equitable heroes for all who carried the gleaming white horse of Kent on their shirts, flags or cups. Rejoice in the moment, their rule of T20 superiority may well have been re-established. Billings raises the red ribboned trophy, Kent had annexed Edgbaston.