Let me introduce myself...

On this, my hundredth birthday, I've decided to use this blog to record some memories of happy days, when I played cricket - and to write them down before my mind completely packs up, and I am no longer able to recall clearly the sound of willow on leather, the feel of a bat gripped in sweaty palms, or the sight of a ball pitching and turning into the stumps.

The Day Dave Triumphed Over A Little Girl.

Once a year, my cricket club would play a friendly match against a local team. One year we turned up to discover they were playing an eleven-year-old girl in their side (the captain was coaching her). I came in to bat when we needed to score some quick runs, and found myself having to face her bowling.

I ask you: an eleven-year-old. A girl. She couldn’t even bowl the ball the regulation 22 yards, so had been given a shorter crease to use.

Obviously I would smash her out of the ground.

I would have, too, if she hadn’t clean-bowled me, first ball.

One-nil to her.

Move on two years. We are playing them again, and she (now a thirteen-year-old, county player) is playing for them again. Everyone remembers what happened two years ago; there is plenty of jolly banter, in which I join.

I come out to open the batting. Seeing that, their captain asks her to open the bowling, so I can be humiliated again.

She runs in. I wait, bat poised.

The ball is going to pass outside my off-stump, I judge. I leave it. Fortunately, it does indeed miss my stump.

I have not been bowled first ball! ‘Not out!!’ I say, gleefully.

She comes in to bowl again. The ball is faster this time, and on line (chatting to her afterwards she told me she could see it heading straight for my middle stump; ‘Miss that’, she thought, ‘and I’ve bowled you again.’).

I lean forwards and play a perfect cover-drive for four runs.

One-all, I think.

When they bat, and she comes in, I move up from gully (about ten yards away from the bat) to about one yard away from her. Death or glory.

She hits the ball straight at me. It ends up in my hands. Caught out!

I do not gloat.

Nevertheless: One-two! I have defeated her!!

Huzzah for me!!!

Run Out

It is the 16^th August 2003. Loddon A are playing Old Catton. We bat first, scoring 172-8. They bat well, and with a couple of overs to spare the match is drawing to a close; they need ten more runs to win. I am moved from gulley out into the covers, to try to stop their batsman hitting the ball through for fours – and I manage to stop a couple getting through.

It is now the final over. The batsman hits the ball hard to my left and sets off for a run. I stop it with my left hand, turn, switching the ball to my right hand, take a moment to steady myself, and throw at the stumps (which are at right angles to me, so I have a target about half an inch wide to aim at).

Throwing is not my greatest skill. I do not have a powerful arm, and am not always the most accurate, either. In this case the ball flew almost horizontally, straight for the top of the stumps. The bowler was there, ready, and took it, as it hit the first stump – whether he guided it on to the stumps (in which case it was only missing by a hair’s breadth at the most) or whether it was a direct hit, I could not tell.

I will claim it, though, as my finest throw. It certainly went into the book as ‘Run Out, fielder: East’.

We won the match.

The next year, though, was the one in which I became Fielder of the Year.

A Poisened Chalice

Something that harms the person it is given to although it seemed very good when they first got it.

Let me take you back to the 26^th June 2004. Loddon A were playing Norwich Union B (there’s no great significance in the letters – it just means our second team were playing their third team; they had more players in their club, and could field at least three teams on a Saturday; we were playing in the same division of the league, so were of comparable strength).

The wicket was taking spin well, and they used slower bowlers almost exclusively, as they skittled us out for 131.

Our captain favoured fast bowling, and rarely gave my slower bowling a chance. This was the eighth match of the season, and so far I’d only bowled in one of them (and only then, I think, because my daughter had come to watch, and I’d asked our captain if she could see me doing something for a change) – I got three wickets in that match, but still wasn’t used in the next three games.

As usual, therefore, he employed our fast bowlers, who had managed to take just three wickets (one of them a catch by me, as it happens) by the time the opposition had reached 131. The scores were thus tied. They had, however, plenty of overs left to score one run, with seven wickets in hand. We had, clearly, lost the match. Whoever bowled the next over would have the dubious privilege of bowling the ball that enabled them to win.

You’re ahead of me, aren’t you?

Yes, our captain turned to me, and said: ‘Would you like a bowl, Dave?’

‘This,’ I replied, ‘is what they call a poisoned chalice. But, yes, I’d love the chance to bowl a ball.’

So I did. I took my short run, and pitched the ball well up, outside off stump. The batsman, who had scored fifty by this point, was well in, seeing the ball clearly, and striking it cleanly. He leaned back and took a mighty stroke to score the winning run. Unfortunately for him, the ball didn’t bounce as high as he thought it might - so it flew off his bat straight to Third Man, who held the catch. 131-4 now.

I placed my next ball in exactly the same spot, the batsman missed it, and the umpire called ‘wide’. They won the match, and I ended with figures of 0·2 overs, 1 wicket, for 1 run.

On the way back to the pavilion, their captain came over to me and asked why I hadn’t bowled earlier: ‘We knew you were a slow bowler, and we were getting quite worried about having to face you, having seen what the wicket did when we bowled.’

That, though, in miniature, is the story of my cricketing career.

My best ever ball.

What was the best ball I ever bowled? Two in particular come to mind. I’ll save one for another day, but let me share with you now the time I bowled Gary Colman.

At the time, Gary was captain of Loddon ‘A’ Team, for whom I played, but also ran a Sunday team. Many of the Sunday squad also played for Loddon’s ‘A’ team, and I knew most of them.

Once a year, Loddon (with a team made up from both the First and A team) played a match against Gary’s Sunday team. I was picked to play for Loddon – but was thus facing many players whom I knew, and with whom I had been playing all season on Saturdays.

I was asked to open the bowling. I hit their opener on the elbow, and he had to retire hurt. This brought Gary to the crease. He was by a long way the best batsman in the side, and had regularly been getting big scores, and hitting sixes all season.

He did have one weakness, however, which was that he tended to take a swing at the ball too early in his innings, before he had got his eye in. So far this season he had got away with it. He, clearly, knew my bowling (even though he never allowed me to bowl many overs) and was aware that he’d not be getting a fast ball, so he'd have plenty of time to go for the big hit.

I didn’t disappoint him; the ball looped towards him, with plenty of air, medium pace, pitching well up towards him, aimed just outside off stump.

It was however also bowled seam up, angled slightly in, on a wicket that sloped gently left to right.

As it hit the ground, it didn't bounce quite as high as he had anticipated; it also moved off the seam, with the slope, in towards him – his bat flashed over the ball, which struck his middle stump, sending the bails flying over the keeper’s head.

Gary was out for a golden duck. Our keeper said it was the best ball he’d ever seen me bowl.

Happy days.