The Pain in Rain

Good old cricket. Just when you think the game is treating you kindly and you've spent a lovely afternoon in the sunshine, and taken a couple of wickets, it comes back to bite you with a vengeance.

This week's match was a thoroughly miserable affair played mainly in a persistent drizzle on a cold day. The much needed warm up prior to play further exposed my weak right knee which feels as if there is a sharpened stanley knife blade floating around the joint.

My batting was a carbon copy of last week's innings. Same number of balls faced, same pathetic shot, same flattened off stump, and same score (0).

Going out to field was horrible. It was cold. It was wet. In the first over, I dived to my right for a catch and the VERY hard cricket ball slapped into my right palm. I didn't hold on and my hand just went numb.

In the next over, I crouched to stop one travelling fast along the ground but the aforementioned knee prevented me reacting as quick as I would like. It missed my hands and clattered me in the privates. I felt physically sick and nearly had to go off.

It got worse.

I was brought on to bowl and the combination of my slow pace, a dead pitch and a wet ball meant that I was publicly massacred. To top it all, I missed a caught and bowled chance which slammed in to my other hand so that one got numb too.

Predictably, I was removed from the attack and staggered over to my fielding position. Both hands were stinging, my wotsits were throbbing so much I felt sick, I had induced the ire of my team mates with a woeful bowling performance and two missed catches, I was freezing cold and I was wet.

I need medication. I need rest. I need to re-embrace retirement!

The Comeback Tale

I was curiously calm. After nine months away from cricket and no thought at all of ever playing again, I had supposed there would be a few butterflies on my return to the field of play. The worst aspect of the pre-match preparation was worrying about getting through the warm up without pulling a long unused muscle.

We fielded first and after 10 overs the skipper asked me to bowl.

To be honest, I just hoped the first ball didn't get smashed for six. Every fibre creaked as I ran in and turned my arm over. It was OK. It pitched on a decent length and held a good line. Incredibly, it got even better as the batsman pushed forward and lofted it into the hands of extra cover. A wicket with my first ball back out of retirement!

Another victim followed in my fourth over and I managed to run someone out too.

There are rules in cricket to protect young players under sixteen which prevent them bowling more than a few overs at a time. I asked the skipper if there were similar rules for the over forties. He replied in the negative and said simply that I would stop bowling when he told me to stop. However, after eight overs my legs turned to jelly and I could bowl no more.

Later, as I waited to bat, one of my younger team mates offered to brew a cuppa. I was greatly encouraged to witness this new behaviour from the youth section and I ordered a mug at once. He duly brought it to me outside the pavilion but just as I was about to take my first sip, we lost a wicket and I had to go out to bat! I needn't have worried. Five balls, a flattened off stump, and no runs later, I was able to return to the cuppa and it had lost little of its heat.

It is now the morning after my comeback and I can barely walk. But I really don't care.

Done like a kipper

Greetings readers and my apologies for the nine month delay in updating the blog. In truth, I had intended not to update the blog so often (or even at all?) following my retirement. However, events conspired to force my typing hand this week and, well, here I am again.

The question I pose to you dear reader is this: Have you ever been had? Or more importantly, do you think I've been had? Read on for the full story.

This year is Penn Cricket Club's Centenary. There is a programme of events throughout the year to celebrate (full details on the club web site) and one such event took place on Monday. This involved recreating an Edwardian 'Trip to the Game' whereby several club members clambered onto a horse and cart and set off to the ground via the pub. This rickety procession was preceded by a lovely church service where I gave a reading on the historic ties between the church and cricket in village life.

So far so good. I had also agreed to take part in a short friendly match between two teams made up of past and current players. This was highly enjoyable and I participated on the strict understanding I lay in the 'past' part of the equation.

After the match finished (we won by the way), a couple of friendly beers and a some hearty chat rounded off a very enjoyable day, but this is where I began to encounter the subterfuge.

As I was leaving for home, the shout from the clubhouse came "Oy Pottsy! You OK for Saturday then?".

"Oh no" says I, "I'm retired. Remember?"

"But we're really short" came the plea.

I laughed this off and said jokingly if they were really short of players and desperate, I'd play. I drove home and thought nothing more about it.

Until Wednesday.

I then got a text saying I was required for the Thirds! (Remember I used to play in the Fourths and Fifths?)

So now I don't know whether the invitation to play in the friendly match for the centenary match was just a not so subtle ploy to entice me back into the Saturday fray? What do you think?

So, unbelievably to me, and much to the chagrin of my wife, I will be pulling out the whites on Saturday once more. It should be hilarious as I haven't bowled a ball in anger for nine months and my once sculpted and honed physique has slipped a bit. As usual, the full story will appear here.

The leaving of it

Well, that's it.

As trailed in last week's blog entry, yesterday saw my last day as a regular cricketer. After nearly 35 years of playing competitive team sport (including my footballing days), I'm no longer an athlete. 35 years of honing my body to a finely tuned instrument of sporting prowess can be laid to one side with due reverence and dignity. No more will I have to put myself through the punishing training schedules and fitness regimes. Next time you see me I will probably be a little overweight, the proud possessor of a beer belly, and most of my hair will have gone. Don't be shocked. Just smile and remember me as I once was.

I would be lying if I said yesterday wasn't an emotional day for me.

It was a day when most thoughts began with "This is the last time that I'll..." and were followed by mundane and trivial things like "pack my cricket bag", "run in to bowl", and "drive home from the match".

Regular skipper Steve Tranter asked me to captain the side with the proviso that I opened both the bowling and the batting. This was a wonderfully kind gesture though it did little to steady my lower lip.

We were batting second and as I strapped on my pads, Steve surprised me by revealing that my son was going to open the batting with me. My son and I had never played together before so I was a little choked. I think I managed to blurt out "Thanks Steve" before I hastily turned my face away to concentrate on tying up my boots.

After a brief but hugely enjoyable partnership of around 15, I'm afraid Dad let the side down and perished first. A trademark looping dolly to square leg did for me and as I left the field for the last time it seemed strangely symbolic. Last match of the season nearing Autumn, and the old man shuffling away with a smiling backward glance over his shoulder at the youth who remained. Circle of life and all that. I hope my son's future years playing cricket are as enjoyable as mine have been.

The opposition came together and applauded as I left the field (Thanks Swindon boys), and I don't mind admitting I shed a tear or two.

Steve had arranged a post match meal for us all at local Indian restaurant. It was a lovely evening and an incredibly generous gesture on Steve's part. It gave us all a chance to have a chat and laugh about events from this season and seasons past. I will never forget it as a perfect end to the day, the season, and my career. The only downside was having to leave at all and it provided yet another difficult moment for me as I waved my team mates away into the night.

So all that remains to be done are some very important Thank You's. A big Thank You to Steve Tranter for all he arranged on the last day. Thanks also to Gilly for arranging to video some of the day's events.

I want to thank all of the players I've ever played with. Everyone of you has helped make the journey an exciting and enjoyable one. Thanks too to all those I've played against. Without you there would be no game.

Thanks too are due to my family (especially my long suffering wife) who have had to put up with Dad being away from the house pretty much every summer Saturday over the last 20 years.

Finally, I need to say a big THANK YOU to Stewart Gill and Glyn Martin. Twenty five years of playing cricket in five different clubs has brought me into contact with an awful lot of players. Stewart and Glyn were with me through most of it, and were there with me at the end. Thanks boys.

Journey's End

The first thing to say this week is that the Mighty Penn Fourths have won the league! A fantastic achievement. You can read the full match report here.

However, this blog focuses on the personal side of our cricketing adventures and this week it is very personal.

I've had it in my mind since the start of the season that it would be my last as a player. There are lots of reasons for this and for cathartic purposes as much as any, I detail them below.

1. The Injuries and the Pain. My achilles tendons tighten up like fraying bow strings the days following a game and I literally can't walk properly down the stairs first thing in the morning. After 25 years of slamming my right foot down on the popping crease, my knee joint feels as if it is made of shredded slate. I'm not going to start on the infuriating gluteus maximus injury that STILL hasn't healed and leaves me unable to run properly (see 16th August post. No need to feel guilty Dev).

2. My Type of Player. Batsmen and slow bowlers have a greater longevity than medium (OK, slow medium) pacers like myself. If you bowl medium pace and you want to continue playing a decent standard, you have to be still fit and still quick like Chris Asbury, a class above like Chris Rudge, or naturally talented and obsessed by the game like Stewart Gill. I am none of these things.

3. Youth. We have been blessed this year with 13/14/15 year olds who have bowled in our team and bowled superbly. Tim Howard, Jack Cooper, Michael Hingley, Zak O'Neill, Alex Haynes, James Thomas, George Nock and a few others I probably haven't mentioned are excellent prospects for the future. All of these young players can do the job that I do in the bowling department and it makes no sense at all for me to be hanging around blocking their path.

4. Lack of Options. I've looked at ways of extending my playing days in a different role. I've always fancied keeping wicket but I fear the aforementioned knee will not bear all the crouching. I could shorten the run up and bowl dastardly leg cutters but it's a bit late in the day to be changing my bowling style. I've thought about continuing just as a batsman but erm... I'm not good enough.

5. Time and My Son. My son is playing cricket for the Under 13s and playing well. I've enjoyed watching him, umpiring his matches, doing the scoring etc all season and having played for 25 years myself, it's about time cricket in our house started to focus on him. This year, with both myself and him playing has meant an awful lot of summer weekend time away from home.

6. Finishing on a High. There is a lot to be said for ending one's playing days as a title winner.

7. The Time is Right. This is an indefineable one. It just feels like the right time to go. I don't know why, it just does. Maybe it's a combination of all the things listed above but I have that feeling you get after reading the final page of an enjoyable book. Sad that it's over, but invigorated by the experience.

So there we are. Next week's final league match will probably be my last ever match. That will be an odd feeling I'm sure.

I read today about how some believe that participating in sport is more about the journey than the destination. I think that's a good way of describing it. I've had a fantastic and immensely enjoyable 25 year journey and the final station stop is slowly creeping into view, just a week away.

I need to leave it there as the national and international press have collected outside my house and the neighbours aren't happy. Don't believe it when they publish the 'Exclusive'. You blog fans read it here first.

Dev the Saboteur

This short post completes the Dev Trilogy.

Those of you that read the comments appended to my 30th August post, will notice that Dev offered to buy me a number of pints based on the number of wickets I took in Saturday's match.

Just to protect his investment, Dev decided to pour a large jug of water on the line of my run up just before the match started.

At the time I normally come on to bowl, Dev was practically begging our Skipper not to bring me on. He succeeded. Dev himself came on we bowled them out with no contribution from myself. I did take a catch and asked Dev if that counted towards our (very one sided!) bargain. No deal.

I returned to the clubhouse anticipating a dry evening.

Whether the disconsolate expression on my face inspired sympathy, I do not know, but waiting for me by the bar was a grinning Dev, holding two pints of cold lager.

Good effort mate.

Dev and the Case of the Missing Pint

After the injury to my Gluteus Maximus described in the last entry (see 16th August post), Dev Penn offered to buy me a pint.

Strangely, I was first in the bar that evening and ended up buying him one without getting one in return.

The following week, Dev didn't come back to the pub with us so I missed out again. I suppose Dev can't be blamed for the next week when the match was rained off, but he could have bought me a four pack at least.

I played a mid-week match with Dev on a blisteringly hot day last week, and I tumbled gasping into the bar to find Dev all showered and relaxed with a cold pint of lager. Only one pint. He promised to rectify the situation at the weekend where once again we were due to play together.

I spent more time prior to the weekend's match wondering whether my pint would materialise than I did the game itself.

Rather suspiciously, on the day of the game, Dev was mysteriously promoted to the Seconds and so I missed out yet again. I'm amazed at the lengths he is going to avoid buying me a drink.

I wonder what his excuse will be this week?