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.