Hard to watch the normal matches, the gentle drift of ping-pong balls, when an evening opens up with such a classic. Usually there is a logical order to things, a slow increase in the Hilton Centre’s voltage by dint of talent: Level Veterans’ (40+) Singles final first, Level Doubles somewhere in the middle, and finally the Level Singles – supposedly the big boys without the creaks.

Not tonight. Charles ‘Marvellous’ Musa – pores still full with his 2014 Preston Championships treble – has pitched his veterans tent and is scouring the place for weaker opposition. What he sees is a man who hung around the English Table Tennis Association rankings in the 1980s with the likes of Desmond Douglas, Alan Cooke, John Hilton and Matthew Syed. His name? Stephen Scowcroft.

It is not always obvious when you are in the presence of a former great. It should be, but it isn’t. Scowcroft does not have the face of Bjorn Borg. Neither does he have the presence of Shaquille O’Neal. His body has been ravaged a little by the sands of time. His grey, receding hair gives the impression of a modestly sophisticated businessman. What has remained, however, are the eyes – sharp, darting constructions apparent to anyone who has watched live sport.

Musa played this man just over two weeks ago in what was the penultimate match of their Premier season and managed to edge it 11-8,9-11,5-11,11-9,11-9. Now, with Scowcroft barely three months out of retirement after an apparent 20-year sabbatical and Musa, loyalties this season tipped towards Ashton ‘A’ (Preston) over Nomads ‘A’ (Bolton), such a clash is a tray of cakes to the neutral.

It is green versus blue: Musa’s bright Butterfly top the coolest attire in the joint and something he tucks in seconds before the match acknowledging the seriousness of the occasion; Scowcroft, family around him – cameras at the ready – immediately alert and engaged, his gifted left hand delving into the archives for shots.

The early exchanges conjure up an image of skilled rocking chairs firing out bullets such is the players’ rhythmic brilliance, their mastery of stretching to returns. At 5-5 in the 1^st Scowcroft mouths ‘Rushing’ – the realisation that Musa has pulled him in, has notched up the intensity and intends to go with the form book. With Scowcroft 7-6 down, I scribble “Shouldn’t be losing”. His polish is obvious to an amateur – each shot sculpted, warmed by the expensive rubbers on his blade.

A source articulates it better, more harshly: “He’s still playing the big lefty forehand loop…too high-octane for his age. He can’t get back into position.” Musa sees out the set…just (13-11).

The 2^nd set is full of disorder, of competing mental game plans. Musa leads 3-1 but a soft Scowcroft backhand Krypton Factors over the net. 3-5 moments later – Musa in trouble. Are you here to entertain or win? you almost hear him think. Win is the answer as he becomes cagey, tactical, begins to exploit the Scowcroft right flank. 11-8: Just one more Charles.

The Musa nose snorts firmly. A 5-2 lead in the 3^rd and then the relatively easy gravitation to 11-8. “Musa!” he harangued himself with in the middle of this set, but it’s another title, another jamboree.

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Other results:

Handicap Doubles (scratch)

Brett Haslam & Michael Dore beat Dennis Collier & Steve Barber (7-11, 12-10, 9-11, 14-12, 11-7)

>>> Haslam, serial bouncer of the ball before serving, responded to the shoulder-rolled angled forehands of Barber. Embarrassed by his own play early doors, Haslam found something in combination with Dore to shackle the frolicsome team of Collier and Barber.

Handicap Veterans’ (60+) Singles (2 handicap to JS)

Tom Ryan beats John Scowcroft (6-11, 11-9, 12-10, 11-8)

>>> Johnny Scowcroft is like a wind-up toy, the Duracell bunny that “lasts longer, much longer”. His 79-year-old frame, kitted out in trademark moss green T-shirt and tight blue shorts, strangles the 1st set. Ryan – perhaps just off the plane from Oz wearing an old-style cap and thin white beard – works his way into the match however…his black pimples becoming too much for the flat-hitting bobber (Scowcroft – 6-2 up in the 2^nd, but the wheels coming off). Those windscreen wiper shots from Scowcroft – as if down at the car wash – are insufficient, flailing now in the company of the canny Ryan. Scowcroft is still fast and furious – a human tornado – but he is rushing past himself, his armoury, the full gamut of his available talents. The match ends and Scowcroft shifts his heavy thighs and grabs his purple towel from under the table. He looks like a man who needs a whisky, who wishes to be transported into gown and slippers. Ryan, the 76% player from Ramsbottom ‘C’  in Division One – Tommy to some, Mr Ryan to others – needed to turn his back more in the early parts of this match, prevent Scowcroft from hurrying him, but he has come good, seen off the threat of the bobber.

Level Doubles

David Scowcroft & Stephen Scowcroft beat Dennis Collier & Steve Barber (11-8, 7-11, 11-8, 11-4)

>>> Dave Scowcroft, the man with the widest stance on the circuit and the most sinister glasses, needed the support of older brother Stephen (Most Improved Player of the Season 1979-80) to eclipse the partnership of ‘The Roadie’ Collier and the buoyant and infectious Barber “who stopped ageing at 29”.

Handicap Singles (scratch)

Keith Dale beats Robert Bent (11-8, 11-6, 8-11, 11-7)

>>> A guttural sound emanates from the southpaw, Dale in the manner of a Russian tennis player each time he strikes the ball. The gum-chewing 50% man from Division One dressed in blue Butterfly top and navy shorts looks poised and stylish – the unfair mien of the iconoclastic leftie in that they always look more capable. Bent went up to the Premier Division in September 2014 but found the going tough with his flat hitting – a return of 14% better than teammates James Hewitt (9%) and Mark Speakman (2%) but nonetheless quite damning. Dale, mid-table solace in One with Nomads ‘C’, is comfortable from beginning to end in this match despite the 3^rd set give-up; his shots – complete with kick – leaving the green Stiga-topped Bent vulnerable. A quiet seemed to descend the hall during this match, but that was in part due to the Musa/Scowcroft singles show earlier, still in the heads of the watching public.

Level Singles

Stephen Scowcroft beats Michael Dore (11-7, 11-8, 11-6)

>>> Michael Dore, the Rubeus Hagrid of the table tennis circuit, would have been better advised to slip opponent Steve Scowcroft inside his overcoat and make off with him rather than square up to the nimble assassin. Despite his heroic semi-final defeat of Charles Musa (87%) – 12-10, 17-15, 2-11, 14-12 – Dore (51%) was never likely going to challenge the improving Scowcroft whose renewed hunger for the game will only intensify. The 60% record of Scowcroft since he again set foot on this hallowed turf on the 8^th January is largely misleading in three respects: 1) He has yet to restore his ‘Five- set’ head having won only 1 of 6 marathon matches this season, 2) He had a dreadful late February / early March against Flixton and Ramsbottom (losing all six) – largely trials and testing ground before a good chunk of his old game returns, 3) His form will return and the expected transfer to Flixton for the 2015/16 season will whet his appetite, particularly as Ramsbottom had it far too easy this season courtesy of a mammoth 40-point cushion in the league. Coaxed out of retirement by brother, Dave, Steve will get the big guns of Ramsbottom (Lightowler & Moir) thinking again, nay panicking, if an ounce of his 1980s form can be reproduced. Tonight, he was too much for the black and grey striped Dore – sweat pouring from the bigger man’s left breast. The expletives which on occasion escaped the lips of Scowcroft suggest an inner force crying to get out and frustrated so far in his efforts to refine his game to the levels he expects. Dore led 5-4 in the first two sets of this auspicious final but one sensed throughout that Scowcroft is only beginning to discover forgotten gems at the foot of his old locker – shots and tactics that will project him to modest highs and hopefully make the Premier Division interesting once more.

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Played before tonight:

Level Mixed Doubles

Dennis Collier & Annie Hudson beat Charles Musa & Jean Smart

>>> The master chopper, Collier had to win something. From his workshop the compact, defensive warrior used lathe, wood and nous to take out the distinctive Premier/Division Three pairing of Musa and Smart.

Level Junior Singles

Jordan Brookes beats Max Brooks

>>> Watch out for ‘Mad’ Max as he conquers Division Two next season. They said a new Wilson Parker could not be built, but the signs are that something special has arrived.

Never a big crowd, but then the people of Bolton remain largely unaware of this April feast. One half expects the players to size up the place in their suits beforehand, check out the ‘turf’ and see if their honed abilities are suited to the generous surroundings. Such is the peculiar nature of this special night though, that the first of the players arrive just ten minutes before the prescribed 7.30pm start; their faces apprehensive, curious – a slight ‘getting off the coach’ gloss to them.

Representing Ladybridge ‘C’, the Division Two minnows, are Captain Brian Greenhalgh, John Birchall, and John Cole. The latter is the rangy looper, Birchall the stocky southpaw and Greenhalgh the low-chopping sage – tash stolen from a broomstick. The hefty handicap of 240.5 will help tonight, but this is rare territory – a battle with the might of the Premier Division, a syncopated reshuffling of their talent.

Little Lever ‘A’, used to the rigours of significant evenings, stroll in with the penetrating stare of mountain wolves. The different stance of these players is immediately evident. They are canny. Their thumbs and fingers encase the bat like axemen. Ron Durose (c), Graham Jeffries and Philip Riley – each of them like to win. Each of them, with plaster cast from a make-up artist, could comfortably symbolise the dark to Frodo Baggins’ light.

Match one is Birchall versus Jeffries – the teams’ top seeds but Jeffries playing as no.2; the dark arts already at work, sewing a perplexing seed, wishing to start strong. Birchall, Adidas joggers, Umbro top, eyes deep in their sockets, warmed up before this with his compact style and surety. Not one to get flustered, the 51% man displays a grace and positional sense seldom seen in Bolton’s middle division. 5-11,3-11,7-11,5-11; a respectable twenty points for Ladybridge. ‘Simple balls you’re missing,’ Jeffries cries in the 4^th, but Birchall can slug it out with most.

Always a pleasure to see the next performers: Cole, the flick-wrist feeder and Riley, a white Desmond Douglas, a leaper, a piece of fresh salmon in Asics trainers, grey socks and grey shorts. If there is a face that has lived with the elements, felt the harsh expressions of the world, then it is Riley’s; aquiline nose, lean constitution, a man teetering on the abyss yet paradoxically able to offer so much. Watching him, you inhabit his awareness: the rustling of a bush, a stray shot, the snap of a twig wide of the table. 2-11,5-11,2-11,4-11; Cole – not enough arm and shoulder – is unable to live with the intensity.

Greenhalgh, keen to regain momentum and revitalise his troops, steps forth. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,’ he had mumbled before Cole’s match almost sensing an early avalanche. Now, a flutter of fingers on his modestly-rotating bat prompts a de-stressing of sorts. Opposite is his counterpart – Durose in barely-legal lime shirt; there to distract, there to harness the traffic. 2-11,5-11. And then a waft of uncompromising sweat from the George Yates final next door. Like smelling salts to Greenhalgh – the man awakening from his slumber: 6-11,5-11.

Pretty much back to level pegging. And time for the Cole/Jeffries show. A show it indeed is! Down 4-10 in the 1^st, Cole’s shot clips the end of the table. ‘Oooohhh!!’ he bellows – not in an apologetic manner, but with a full-throttle warble. Jeffries sees out the game, but then at 1-7 in the 2^nd Cole cranks up his banshee call once more: ‘Yeooohhh.’ It is a low-key attempt at camouflaged glee and Jeffries finds it hard to stomach: ‘I don’t mind the edge, but I don’t approve of that. Don’t laugh at me.’ The tense moment, the first note of seriousness in what has been a congenial evening thus far, seems to affect the lower division player. Cole, the tall, polite man complete with rimmed glasses absorbs a good portion of Jeffries’ acerbic words and appears shaken slightly.

Any sport will nail you the higher you go. By virtue of the larger stakes, people react, conduct themselves differently – at times forget this is a lovable pursuit. Chatting to Cole before tonight’s heavy stuff commenced, I asked how Ladybridge ‘C’ were formed, how their tight squad came together. ‘We met up on Sundays. Still do. It was Birchall Snr I was first introduced to.’ Brian Clough and not the Ladybridge commandant, Brian Greenhalgh once spoke of “disenchantment” bringing together his famous Forest players. “They didn’t like what they were doing. They wondered what they were being paid for.” With the Division Two outfit, I sense something similar. They seem bound like atoms, ready to utilise the Sabbath as a springboard to meaningful ventures.

This match falls away 4-11,2-11,2-11; Jeffries’ slick effervescence proves too much. His balanced aggression gives you an understanding of why he is a 73% man from the Prem.

Birchall (Jnr) – by no means a young man – is at the table now. The unusual aspect of this lefty’s game is the two fingers you see behind the blade. The theory books will tell you to only use the forefinger for support. There are occasions when players alternate – one for backhand, two for forehand (drives and the like) – but such a grip is rare. Given Birchall’s confident game and general flair this is all the more impressive. Against Durose – the grey-haired ‘Greek senator’ – and through the cacophony and vociferousness of Gillian Marsden’s scoring next door Birchall hauls in a staggering twenty-nine points: 5-11,6-11,11-9,7-11.

Ladybridge are driving now – bolstered by Birchall folding back the soft top. They have firmly taken the wheel. Greenhalgh fortunately takes one very respectable game from Riley amidst the hard rain: 1-11,3-11,11-8,2-11. If you look closely at Riley’s demeanour, his very skin, you will see a prominent crease across his left knee. It reminds one of a Native American Indian message engraved on a tree and is maybe a warning not to step past a certain point. Greenhalgh, too old to care – used to smothering the demons before him – displays what was formerly just a rumour in the 2^nd: a wild, attacking streak seemingly permeating the bones of this pusher, this renowned, methodical player. John Rothwell was right – the great variation has begun!

The let of all lets occurs during the middle of the 1^st game between Cole and Durose – the former firing a shot into the neighbouring court and the ominous naysayers worrying over Cole’s ability to self-destruct (read: Div2 nemesis, David Cain) and his meagre total throughout the evening so far. Durose is not a man you meet for easy pickings. The ever-present 58% player from the top flight has turned over the might of Flixton’s Bowen and Biggs this season (his novella November). Observing his top-spin is like watching a specially-manufactured machine with a hint of karate poise within it. But that old thing ‘styles’ and the big bird before him will not fly away: 5-11,9-11. ‘That’s good play,’ Durose acknowledges – words from the Prem worth more than compliments from Division 2.

Cole is noticeably maturing during this match. Many would view his flicked loops as soft, desirous of a smashed return, but they do have a finishing kick, a touch of the mule about them. And most flattering of all, Cole knows where the table is. An easy thing to say, but his compass is clearly a top-of-the-range model: 4-11,7-11. An attempted Durose attack in the 4^th results in him hitting Brett Haslam’s drinks can outside the arena. ‘What is…’ he mumbles moments after, unable to finish the sentence – the silence a private acceptance that giving up twenty-five points has probably cost Little Lever dear.

We are nearly there. The Cornilleau 650 table has taken a pounding. Greenhalgh can afford to ease off a little against the stray elf that is Jeffries (red nose, red top, red England ‘10’ shorts). 3-11,5-11,4-11. Two big ‘not quite gonna get to the ball’ stamps from Greenhalgh courtesy of his white Joola trainers in the final game (1-11) dampen the Ladybridge total, but then Birchall – the hero of the night – is limbering up, ready to go against Riley. Ron Durose is umpiring – his change of T-shirt from lime green to grey a concession in itself that their dream is over, for no one celebrates without a good fill of sweat, no one sits pretty in resplendent gear and politely accepts the Warburton Cup.

240.5 is a punishing handicap to make up. It is four treble-twenties, an almost impossible bounty by the roadside. For the top players, errors have to be kept to a minimum, plus they must adjust slightly to the unpredictable raggedness of lower-league cohorts.

Brian Greenhalgh, John Cole and John Birchall (4-11,2-11,10-12,4-11 vs Riley) – remember those names though. They did enough (408.5 – 392). They took the ‘L’ plates off Ladybridge. Each rose to the demands when required. Each jettisoned their demons.