There comes a moment at every Wodehouse Society Convention when by tradition a portion of the American greensward becomes forever England. In October 2001 that privilege fell to the Merion Cricket Club sitting resplendent in the verdant acres outside Philadelphia. It was a perfect autumn morning, the sort for which the term 'Indian Summer' was devised. It was peaceful. It was warm. There was a cloudless sky. And once again the game of cricket was going back to reclaim its roots in America.

The Merion ground had, after all, once resounded to the exploits of the great Ranjitsinji, Jessop and Archie MacLaren along with the guile of the inventor of the 'googly', B.J.T.Bosanquet Esq. The fine pavilion buildings are decorated with bas-reliefs in terracotta of crossed bats and stumps. The ground has a turf as level and smooth as anything that Lord's can produce. It has to be. It is marked out as innumerable tennis courts. Cricket these days apparently only gets a look-in in the spring and at some time of the year referred to as 'The Fall'.

The wonderful nature of the turf brought the first problem of the day. At least one visitor from England, wanting to be properly attired, had brought his elderly cricket boots with him. Senior officials from the Merion Cricket Club gathered and inspected the footwear, and particularly the spikes on the sole. 'Are these golf shoes?', asked one. 'I don't think you will be allowed to play in those', said another. It was pointed out that these very same boots had played on the hallowed turf at Dulwich and had been worn during the historic victory against The Gentlemen of The Sherlock Holmes Society. Eventually the Merion officials withdrew into a private room within the pavilion to confer. They emerged some ten minutes later to rule that the boots were admissible.

The teams were then chosen. The captains were two of The Wodehouse Society Cricket Club Laws Committee and Patch Procurers. Alekh Bhurke, otherwise known as Gussie Fink-Nottle, was to captain The May Queens and Shamim Mohamed, otherwise known as Pongo Twistleton-Twistleton, was to captain The Green Swizzles. The teams were chosen and the toss made. Pongo won it and, taking his strategy very seriously, put The May Queens in.

At this point we should consider the rules under which these games are played. The teams should be mixed, referring to gender that is, rather than to the drinks after which they are named. No one may be out first ball. No one can be out until they have hit the ball at least once. Stumpings are not allowed and no LBW decisions were to be allowed. This seemed unfortunate as Murray Hedgcock, who had risen from his hospital bed back in England to write an explanation of the laws relating to the LBW rule for the occasion, had managed as succinct an outline as anyone could ever recall having read. So much so that some suggested that his single sheet of explanation, complete with appropriate Wodehouse references, should be put forward to the next meeting of the rules committee of the MCC on the grounds that it explained the situation much better than the existing formal laws.

It certainly made the lot of the umpires easier. Both were drawn from the select band of those who had travelled from London for the Convention. Tony Ring took the bowling end (to save time it had been deemed that bowling would take place from one end only and so remove the need for the field to change over), and Norman Murphy took square leg. Or rather he didn't. The aim of the umpires is to bring enlightenment and understanding to Americans keen to learn and participate in the game which Wodehouse so loved. But we have to report that Norman's behaviour as umpire was far from helpful. Instead of standing aloof at square leg and adjudicating at intervals he took up a position at silly point and crouched down with hands spread wide ready for any catch which came his way.

Tony Ring, for his part, added to the confusion. Despite two scorers having been appointed, one of them his wife Elaine, he kept score himself as well as fulfilling his umpiring duties. The arguments later on about what the correct scores might be were lengthy. He also added to the confusion of anyone who did not know him well by wearing a white umpire's coat borrowed from one of the players, whose medical outfit it had been. And so it was that Ring beamed down at the proceedings bearing the name 'Dr Roslyn Kushner' embroidered in red lettering on his breast pocket.

The game was played with normal bats and pads in keeping with the official Philosophy of The Wodehouse Society Cricket Club. 'Wodehouseans turning up in proper whites will instantly be rewarded with the envy and admiration of their peers,' it reads, 'regardless of how rotten their play.' The official match ball turned out to be orange, hollow and made of plastic. This reduced the possibility of accidents (the club said that their 'windows were feared for'), and also reduced the scoring. Played in the air it held up in a slow parabola before coming to a halt shortly after bouncing, and played along the ground it lacked the momentum to skim to the boundary. The wicket was a strip of matting. No bails were available but the ever resourceful Norman Murphy found some golf tees in his pocket and laid them atop the stumps. We can report that on only one occasion did a novice American batsman fling down his bat before running up the wicket. And on no occasion did anyone fling down the bat and make a dash in the direction of the fielder at point under the belief that running to first base was what was required.

The first run on the board was a wide. This set the pattern for the day. A well taken all-run four followed as fielders found the objectives of quite which end to throw the ball to hard to follow. Neil Midkiff proved an obdurate opening bat until he executed a monstrous, and uncharacteristic, heave and was bowled by Jean Tillson. The opening stand had put on 27 runs, the majority of them extras of many sorts.

Then John Fletcher, another veteran from the British contingent, came out to join Gussie Fink-Nottle at the crease. He was immediately bowled by Jean Tillson, who might have been thought to have been on a hat-trick at this stage had the first-ball rule not been employed. Fletcher then showed considerable tenacity and zest. So much so that in going for a short single he missed his footing on the matting surface and, emulating Steve Waugh in going for the run which brought him his century at the Oval Test this summer, found himself flung forward face-down in the crease. He made his ground but cut himself stylishly in the centre of his forehead. He retired during the next over for attention from the many volunteers eager to prove their ability with a sticking plaster.

At this point Howard Rockwell came on to bowl. And before your eyes a small byway of English fiction came to life. It was the wrong author for the occasion. But Conan Doyle once wrote a short cricketing story called 'Spedegue's Dropper'. It told the tale of one Spedegue who, in secret practice, devised a devilishly accurate style of bowling which sent the ball up in a high trajectory from which it descended vertically behind the batsman's back to land unerringly on top of the bails. Watching Rockwell's bowling action the story, which has always seemed an unlikely one, suddenly appeared to have more truth about it than any of us had previously thought.

Sadly Rockwell's accuracy was far short of a Spedegue and the May Queens' 50 came up shortly after Pongo had dropped his third chance of the day, this time a sharpish effort at a caught and bowled. There was a remarkable cameo innings from Ann Cotton. She took her guard and, in her words, gave the bowler, John Fahey, 'an Aunt Agatha stare'. She then played a stroke hitherto unknown in the history of cricket. It could only be described as a reverse forward defensive, and she was promptly bowled.

The May Queens' innings eventually came to an end with a run-out when to a rather uncricketing yell of: 'Take out his wicket', the stumps were flattened. The total score was either 69 or 70 depending on which of the several scorers you consulted. Gussie Fink-Nottle had contributed 15. Max Pokrivchak had contributed 12. Dail Hobbs remarked that 'batting was a lot easier than I thought it would be'. And wides turned out to be top scorer.

At this point, it being a quarter past twelve, a cricket tea was taken. This proved the turning point of the match. A guide as to what constituted 'A Proper Cricket Tea' which Tony Ring had provided was ignored. Cucumber sandwiches could be found. But most of the repast was of a sort which would not be recognised in the pavilions of Lower Slumber or High Dudgeon-In-The-Marsh. Enormous concoctions called club sandwiches which required small plastic swords to keep them intact were to the fore. Plates of papaya, water-melon and pineapple were everywhere. No one had heeded the Ring advocacy of 'a firm foundation of lettuce, adding perhaps a sliver of cheese or cucumber, a thin slice of ham or corned beef, a sliced tomato. One of these, of course, not all.'

The cricket tea was a feast, finished off with a wide array of cream and chocolate concoctions, many of which found their way on to the scorers' table. No one except, as it turned out, Gussie Fink-Nottle, had properly, as it were, inwardly digested the note which Murray Hedgcock had also provided in the guide to the proper cricket tea.

'The visitors,' he wrote, 'will traditionally be pressed to indulge freely and heavily (literally) in the most fattening and stomach-weighing fare, as well as being plied with endless drinks of whatever sort. So that when they eventually lumber on to the field to resume the match, the edge has been taken off their athleticism and a curious lethargy affects their play.' So it would turn out for The Green Swizzles.

Their innings began badly with John Fahey caught and bowled. This brought your author to the wicket with a belief that a few sharp singles would ginger things up. But the misplaced vigour only resulted in a lesson for those participating in the game on one of the most confusing episodes that a cricket match can produce. Perhaps it was the spikes on the boots. Perhaps it was the matting. But sharp twinges in the lower calf muscles and a pronounced limp resulted. A runner was called for. The mayhem of who was to run, and at what point, and to where, was considerable. Conversations started up about whether a 'runner' in cricket was similar to a 'pinch-hitter' in baseball. Sighs of relief were heard when a skied ball to deep mid-on brought the whole pantomime to an end.

Meanwhile another wicket had also fallen. And it provided the scoreline which would have probably most touched Wodehouse had he heard it. It was 'Rockwell, bowled Hobbs'. It conjured up Norman Rockwell, the cover artist of the Philadelphia-based Saturday Evening Post, which serialised so many of PGW's books in its, and his, heyday and Sir Jack Hobbs, the peerless Surrey and England batsman of the same era.

David Ruef was now at the wicket and some more sublime chaos followed. He succumbed to one of those epic opportunities for mayhem when one batsman runs while the other does not. This was followed by both batsmen finding themselves at the same end. They both ran to the other end. They both started to run back. Fielders found it hard to concentrate while keeling over with laughter. The ball started to be thrown to the wrong end. The wicketkeeper ran up and ran back. He dropped the ball and then threw it to the bowler, who wasn't looking. Eventually, and owing to no skill on anyone's part, Ruef was run out.

John Fletcher, recovered from his batting mishap, now came on to bowl and promptly missed his footing on the matting in his fervour. Down he went again. Bill Franklin meanwhile was finding that batting, even to a Californian, is sometimes harder than it looks. The bowling didn't help. Indeed the concept of bowling, rather than pitching, seemed to be lost on the Americans. It tended to come in one of two distinct styles. Either the ball was pitched from a high angle, as though throwing a dart. Or it was bowled slowly underarm, as though ten-pin bowling. Neither style is easy to hit, as Franklin was finding. Eventually he played on in an extravagant way.

Ros Kushner played a plucky little innings before being caught off the wily bowling of Neil Midkiff. Then Robert 'The Cow Creamer' Creamer strode out to the crease and made history. It was believed that no one with two hip replacements had ever previously taken part in a Wodehouse cricket match. His wife took up a position somewhere near midwicket to record this with her camera. He managed a very fine leg hit and then was bowled. Things were not looking good for the Green Swizzlers. Runs were hard to come by and the lunch was still lying heavy.

The only hope was that the scorers, reaching surfeit levels of cream cake consumption, would start to lose the concentration required. By this time Hope Gaines and Kristine Fowler were battling at the wicket. But Hope was bowled and Pongo strode out. He immediately played a spoon shot which suggested his mind was still amidst the teacups but it was dropped.

John Fletcher was brought back onto bowl. He took to bowling underarm, without his glasses and wearing what appeared to be his vest. It proved successful. Fowler was caught off one of his looping deliveries. A large crow took off from the weathervane of the pavilion and swooped low over the field making a raucous and scathing racket.

It all came down to a last-wicket partnership of considerable verve and skill between Jean Tillson battling away and the elegant strokeplay of Pongo. But on the dot of 1.30 Pongo was run out. A dispute then took place as to whether a ten-run penalty could be imposed on the grounds that someone had kicked over the umpire's glass of water. It was dismissed. And after no little calculation and discussion the Green Swizzles were found to have scored a total of 39 runs and were declared to have lost the match to the May Queens by 31 runs, or something close to that.

Grateful thanks for the use of their ground were referred to the members of the Merion Cricket Club. And several people mused on the opportunities this provided for dropping the casual comment of 'having once played on the home ground of the MCC' into future conversations without making it entirely clear which MCC this might have been.

A happy throng made their way back to Philadelphia. The final sentence enshrined in the Philosophy of The Wodehouse Society Cricket Club had been fulfilled. 'And most of all,' it states, 'don't ever forget that it isn't whether you win or lose, or even whether or not you hit the blasted ball that matters; it is being able to return from a TWS convention proudly proclaiming: "I have played Cricket".'

Robert Bruce