Bat and ball beyond my boundaries

THE ART OF CRICKET: Of all the sports we’ve invented on these fair shores, cricket is the one which is the most quintessentially English.

It’s so ingrained on the English psyche that when something goes wrong it’s considered appropriate to say, “it’s just not cricket,” even if it’s quite clear that no-one had suggested it was cricket in the first place.

It’s a game played in the summer and for more than 150 years now, the sound of leather on willow has punctuated many a balmy afternoon or evening. It’s a fantastic example of civilised society with lots of people wearing white woolly jumpers and clapping each other every few minutes even when very little has happened.

The team which is fielding faces two batsmen who are in and trying not to get out. Once they are out they have to go in so more batsman can come out to see if they can stay in. When all the batsmen have been in and out everyone can go in, for tea. The roles are reversed thereafter. It’s a bit like the hokey cokey.

Bowling is all about accuracy, pace and swing and if you’re a spinner, a limp wrist. Batting is about footwork, keeping your eyes open and trying to hit it. Key phrases to listen out for are “howzat”, “howzeee” and “howdidyoudropthatyouf#!$@£*&<:\{#@%?”

As a teenage boy I enjoyed bowling, especially that bit where you get to rub the ball on your groin to make a red mark on your trousers, but batting was my speciality. I dispensed with balls using a variety of strokes but I was probably most famous for being a great conversationalist during that bit where the batsmen meet the middle of the wicket for a chat. It wasn’t unheard of for the boundary fielders to jog in if it looked like I was letting rip with a particularly amusing anecdote.

Sadly, my burgeoning career in top class cricket was tragically cut short when a ball lodged itself in my nostrils. It was an under-13s seven-a-side tournament and if I do say so myself, I’d been smashing it all over the show. There was a lad on another side who’d been bowling everyone out so it was only fitting that come the final, the two star players should clash.

I can only imagine the anticipation felt by the dozen or so spectators. The first ball came and I thought, “I’m having this one!” but unfortunately it clipped the bat and hit me in the face. If that wasn’t bad enough, I got blood all over the white jumper I’d nicked from my older brother so more pain was on the way.

I did return to the crease but generally wearing a helmet which was much too big while attempting to hit the ball blind with my chin in the air. I still remenisce about time spent clapping as I guarded a boundary though. And the bowling. My red mark was the talk of the Sunday League.



Next weeK: The art of being irrational.