Few will begrudge County Championship winners Nottinghamshire

Photographs by Gary Calton for The Observer

As an early autumn walks the land, the cricketers who call this treasured place home do not feel the chill. “Champions of England”, the cry went up, after Nottinghamshire collected their seventh victory from the 14 matches that cricketers are permitted to cram in between weeks devoted to the fairground attractions which desecrate a familiar landscape.

A green field, a red ball, and men in whites. It’s not like offering sixpence for the moon. When Notts won the first of their seven championships in 1907, on William Clarke’s meadow by the river crossing, that was the game.

When they won the most recent of those titles, in 2010, the game had tilted towards showbiz. In the past 15 years the colours have become more gaudy, the antics more brazen. Still, it’s what the game’s governors wanted, and now there are bundles of notes to count.

There are ghosts in Nottingham, as anywhere. George Gunn, Reg Simpson, Harold Larwood, Bill Voce, and the inimitable Derek Randall, with his red nose and baggy pants. How would they fit in today?

Garfield Sobers, the greatest cricketer living or dead, spent seven summers by the Trent. Clive Rice and Richard Hadlee, two more distinguished overseas players, grabbed the club by the collar four decades ago, before the deluge. The clearest Nottingham voice of all put it emphatically in his book about a randy gamekeeper, the one domestic servants were not supposed to read: “The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins.”

We can raise three cheers, though. Hip! Haseeb Hameed, in his second season as captain, contributed four centuries, the last of which on Thursday propelled Notts towards 300 runs against Warwickshire, and a second batting bonus point that tied a ribbon to the pennant.

Ten years ago this month Hameed declared his first-class credentials as an 18-year-old out of Bolton School, with 91 hard-earned runs for Lancashire against Surrey. The following year he topped 1,000 and was selected for the tour of India, where he became the youngest debutant to open the batting for England. A broken finger sustained in the third Test of that series snapped the thread that held the promise of a golden career. There followed three barren summers at Old Trafford, which brought a single century, and when he was released in 2019 his future lay in the balance.

Notts, relegated from the First Division that year after 10 crushing defeats, took a punt on the young man whose professional life had evaporated. Now, were he minded, he could sing: “I’m the king of the castle, and you’re a dirty great rascal.”

He won’t, of course. But others have noted, even if he hasn’t, that Lancashire are in the boondocks, struggling in the Second Division, and more interested in putting on pop concerts than turning out a decent cricket team.

It is unlikely that Hameed will add to his 10 Test caps. A poor tour of Australia four winters ago, when he should not have been picked, cooked his goose and the selectors will look elsewhere. Yet he is a more rounded cricketer than he was then, and a better batsman than some – well, one – who have been indulged.

Hip, hip! Peter Moores, turfed out of the England coach’s job twice, has now coached three championship-winning teams. He wrote his name at Sussex, underlined it at Lancashire, and is now the proud claimant of a unique record, for no other coach has taken three counties to the mountaintop.

Unseated by England a second time 10 years ago, after a miserable time at the helm, Moores may feel vindicated. He refused to bite when Kevin Pietersen aired criticism of his work in public. Unlike Pietersen he has never felt the need to lead the applause for himself.

Hip, hip, hooray! Take a bow, Trent Bridge. It is looking a bit odd this year, as the pavilion peeps behind sheets of canvas, awaiting the restoration that will complete a transformation of the ground which began 30 years ago. The old dressing rooms were antiquated, and soon a new shed will emerge.

Let’s hope the new pavilion enhances one of the game’s most traditional homes. No cricket lover needs to be told Trent Bridge is the friendliest ground, but we shall say it anyway. Few will begrudge Notts their success. It’s a great club. They have done well to deny Surrey a fourth consecutive title. The brown-hatters, it must be admitted, possess the stronger group of players – though as Notts won at the Oval two weeks ago in a real pip-squeaker they are champions on merit.

Josh Tongue, their Test bowler, took eight wickets in that match. He was missing this week, “rested” in accordance with England’s wishes, so the wicket-taking duties were shared by Brett Hutton, Dillon Pennington and Mohammad Abbas. A first-innings 374 was too good for Warwickshire, whose efforts with the bat left Notts with 18 runs to mop up. Hameed, as ordained, drove the winning runs to the cover boundary.

It has not gone unnoticed that Notts have hoovered up talent developed by other clubs. Tongue and Pennington, like Joe Clarke and Jack Haynes, were recruited from Worcestershire. Ben Slater came from Derbyshire, and Ben Duckett, an occasional performer on account of his England commitments, began at Northamptonshire.

Abbas, a fine and willing bowler, joined this year from Hampshire, and Kyle Verreynne, the stumper, is a South African. That county map in the pavilion, which reveals which parish the old Notts players came from, will have to be amended.

Another summer has rolled by, and it was not without flavour. The Test series with India, which ended in a just outcome of two wins each, will be recalled years from now. The horrible Hundred, with its cheerleaders, will not. Does anybody know who won it?

Dickie Bird, a grand old man of English cricket, left us this week at the age of 92; another reminder of the old game. It was not necessarily a better game in every regard. There was always a bit of boring cricket, and there are many fine players today.

Wayne Madsen of Derbyshire, sprightly at 41, made 198 this week for Derbyshire at Canterbury. There’s a pro for the ages. Leicestershire and Glamorgan, unfashionable clubs, won promotion. That’s good news.

There are sound men and women in all parts.

Let’s stand with Gatsby, on his blue lawn, hoping against hope as he contemplated the “orgastic” future he was denied. “And one fine morning...”