SOMETHING greatly improbable has happened to Charlie Walker, the Demon Donkey Dropper of Eryholme. After ten years batting No 11, and only there because there wasn’t a 12, tail-end Charlie has been upped to open the innings.

It’s the most unlikely promotion since a Ugandan army corporal called Idi Amin proclaimed himself Field Marshal (and one or two other things as well.)

“It’s three games now, no one else wanted to do it,” insists Charlie, the rich essence of grass roots sport. He will be 78 in October.

Last Saturday they played at Middleton Tyas, Darlington and District League Division C, the cows lying down behind the wooden fence. You know what they say about recumbent cows, of course.

Eryholme bowl, a chance for the Demon to add to the 3,257 league and cup wickets – perhaps an all-time cricket record – claimed for the club since his debut in 1961.

Once he took 6-1 but that was a friendly and, he insists, doesn’t count. Though he’s not the skipper, they ask Charlie to go out for the toss, as well.

Middleton Tyas is a mile east of Scotch Corner, Eryholme on the south bank of the Tees, a few miles nearer the North Sea. Charlie lives in the village, is also secretary, groundsman and chief recruiting officer, worries annually about the club’s future but is determined to carry on.

Three new families have recently arrived in Eryholme, each with cricket connections but none now willing to give up Saturday afternoons.

It’s reminiscent of the parable of the rich man’s feast in which – it will be recalled – all with one consent begin to make excuse.

He’s a lovely man, short and generally chirpy, though not over fond of the changing game. Forty overs is too much in Division C, he says, not least because of the number of wides.

“We played Aldbrough the other week. We had 23 wides and they had 36. That’s another six overs. No wonder it finishes late.”

Nor is he much in favour of the now-familiar drinks break half way through the innings. “Terrible,” says Charlie, “what would they be like if they had to work?”

The ground adjoins Middleton Lodge, the hotel where half the nation’s nuptials now take place, and has the same owner.

Though the column has laid its head in the village these past 30 years, it’s the first cricket match I’ve seen there since 1991.

Back then Middleton Tyas had played Nottinghamshire, club officials Fred Stead and Bernie Raine having got chatting to former England wicketkeeper Bruce French at one of his testimonial dinners and persuaded him to send a side.

“Mind, we’d had a few beers,” said Fred.

The deal was a guaranteed £1,000 for the benefit fund, a road map of North Yorkshire and as many Nottingham lace handkerchiefs as they could sell at £3 a go (or, possibly, a blow.)

Notts fielded four England men: French, Randall, Broad the Elder – by then appropriately named – and Saxelby. The home side borrowed several overseas pro’s from the NYSD and the locally formidable Mark and Clive Layfield, from Richmond.

The resultant column’s still dusty on the pavilion wall, next to a faded photograph of a Victorian side wearing stripey blazers and miserable expressions, both considered de rigeur at the time.

Road map notwithstanding, Notts had become tangled. “Even the villagers didn’t know where the cricket ground is,” said the beneficiary. Probably they still don’t.

Tyas attracted 63 sponsors, begged 150 tons of top soil for the wicket and a tent for the beer. Randall hit 18 off the first over but contrived to be out in the next, Broad went for a duck and didn’t mean to at all.

When the hosts batted, the umpires seemed most reluctant to raise a finger. “It’s like a Billy Hardy fight,” someone said, “you have to knock them over to win.”

Tyas won off the last ball in a rain-affected match, most of the crowd watching through a flap in the beer tent. Bruce French got his grand, Middleton Tyas a windfall, too. It was a mutual benefit.

Last Saturday it’s 20 degrees, and thus the coldest for weeks, the skies slightly threatening. The Demon’s first over goes for 15.

His action’s extraordinary – “deceptive,” says Tyas batsman Marcus Burnett – his almost apologetic run-up akin to a sinner approaching the Pearly Gates in the sure and certain expectation of being consigned to the nether regions.

“They still think they can hit me into yonder wood,” says Charlie, “and they still get quite cross when they’re out.”

Someone asks Marcus if Charlie moves it. “Only in a forward direction,” he says.

Though Tyas lose an early wicket, Matt Hutchinson and Sean Paramore put on almost 200 before another falls and Matt’s joined by the agreeable Burnett.

When the new man’s stumped for 35, haymaking in the final over, Matt’s reached an unbeaten 178, the highest score that anyone can remember for the club.

He’s 31, has been playing since he was 13, hit his maiden century two weeks previously. The comparison’s inevitably made with London buses, and in Middleton Tyas that’s about as many as we have all day.

Charlie finishes on 1-62, the genie temporarily in the bottle but still devil, don’t doubt it, in the Demon.

Tyas have closed on 298-3, a total made yet more formidable because on a tree-encircled ground – sight screens considered unsightly – Charlie insists there’s difficulty in picking up the ball. “These days I can hardly see it, never mind hit it.”

His sciatic neve’s playing up, too. “It takes me a week to recover and then I go and play cricket again.”

Perhaps confusing the arcane laws of football with those no-less esoterically governing cricket, the cows have changed ends at half-time. You know what they say about the size of the bovine brain.

The Demon opens with Colin Harker, declines batting gloves – “cricketers never used to wear them” – but wears two sweaters for insulation.

Suspecting that he may no longer be able to smite the ball into the middle of the nearest wedding reception, Tyas tight circle the 77-year-old opener. Much tighter, come to think, they’d be able to join hands and play ring-a-roses instead.

The home side are also much more vocal in the field. While Eryholme have gone pretty quietly about their business, Tyas are active encouragers and clap like – well – the clappers.

As befits a man who still actively runs a grass cutting business – farms turkeys, too – Charlie wanders out to do a bit of gardening between balls. He’s also remarkably sharp between the wickets, if perhaps a little puffed if they run two.

Some things take a little longer, as (apparently) is said of other forms of exercise among the elderly.

It’s the 20th over, 68 on the board, before Charlie’s finally out, his 15 including a couple of fours, the sporting opposition applauding him back to the hutch. Soon afterwards, proceedings end at 111-2, Colin Harker 45.

It’s 6.30pm and it’s tipping down; lying, the cows were right all along.