A nuisance of a calf injury left me unable to play this week but I did travel over to Lichfield where the Mighty Fourths were engaged in battle.
I arrived during our innings and the weather was not the best. Light drizzle seemed to seep into every clothing gap and a cold wind chilled the tiniest piece of exposed flesh. I hobbled around the boundary and got wet and miserable.
Then Skipper Steve Tranter asked me to umpire. I did, and got annoyed yelps and stares from a bowler who wasn't happy with my refusal to award an lbw. A little later, as I stood at square leg, my team mates began to shout abuse from the boundary because they thought the black anorak and grey woolly hat I was wearing were not exactly the height of fashion. It turned out I looked like a polish docker/Sangatte refugee/football hooligan/birdwatcher/trainspotter/Michael Foot (take your pick). Little did they know that on the platforms of Cracow railway station I would have been considered quite the thing.
I trudged off sulking at the end of the match and headed for the bar. Bad move.
Three of my team mates followed me in and I copped for the round.
Fellow cricketers everywhere take heed. If you're injured, STAY AT HOME.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Friday, May 18, 2007
Outfield Athletics
"The ball's following me!". All cricketers know this lament.
The phrase is used when the ball keeps getting hit towards the same fielder. Sometimes this fielder will change position but spookily the ball starts then getting hit to the area he moves to. This week, I was the victim, but my discomfort ended in glory.
Incident One: The batsmen launches a rocket towards me at mid-on. I leap like a salmon and reach for the ball. Alas, it just skims the top of my left hand middle finger.
Incident Two: Almost a carbon copy of the first. This time my right hand clutches at the air and descends with grazed little finger for its trouble. Almost!
Incident Three: The Skip is getting a bit cheesed off with me as for some odd reason my team mates think I've dropped two catches. He moves me to wide-ish deep mid-wicket, affectionately known as cow corner. It turns out to be an inspired move. This is what happened next and I swear every word of it is true.
Just on the other side of the boundary I can see three athletes eyeing up a 100 metres track. I overhear their conversation and it turns out they are actually Linford Christie, Carl Lewis and Michael Johnson all meeting up for a reunion. They decided to have a flat out sprint on the 100m track for old times sake.
Back to the cricket and the batsmen whacks another ball skyward and it's heading 40 metres to my right. I begin to sprint like a gazelle. At the exact same moment, Christie, Lewis and Johnson begin their race. Amazingly, I overtake all three of them.
The ball is now heading downwards. I'm still 10 metres short. I leap to my right and such is the power that I travel parallel to the floor for 10 whole metres. Ever seen the film 'The Matrix'? It was just like that.
I'm now very close and my arm shoots out like a frog's tongue at an unsuspecting mayfly. It's a catch! Whoops of delight ring out amongst my team mates. I get up and sprint around the boundary overtaking Christie et al again on the way. I'm screaming with elation as I drop to my knees, slide forwards, arch backwards, face upwards, open my arms and offer my genius to the skies.
The phrase is used when the ball keeps getting hit towards the same fielder. Sometimes this fielder will change position but spookily the ball starts then getting hit to the area he moves to. This week, I was the victim, but my discomfort ended in glory.
Incident One: The batsmen launches a rocket towards me at mid-on. I leap like a salmon and reach for the ball. Alas, it just skims the top of my left hand middle finger.
Incident Two: Almost a carbon copy of the first. This time my right hand clutches at the air and descends with grazed little finger for its trouble. Almost!
Incident Three: The Skip is getting a bit cheesed off with me as for some odd reason my team mates think I've dropped two catches. He moves me to wide-ish deep mid-wicket, affectionately known as cow corner. It turns out to be an inspired move. This is what happened next and I swear every word of it is true.
Just on the other side of the boundary I can see three athletes eyeing up a 100 metres track. I overhear their conversation and it turns out they are actually Linford Christie, Carl Lewis and Michael Johnson all meeting up for a reunion. They decided to have a flat out sprint on the 100m track for old times sake.
Back to the cricket and the batsmen whacks another ball skyward and it's heading 40 metres to my right. I begin to sprint like a gazelle. At the exact same moment, Christie, Lewis and Johnson begin their race. Amazingly, I overtake all three of them.
The ball is now heading downwards. I'm still 10 metres short. I leap to my right and such is the power that I travel parallel to the floor for 10 whole metres. Ever seen the film 'The Matrix'? It was just like that.
I'm now very close and my arm shoots out like a frog's tongue at an unsuspecting mayfly. It's a catch! Whoops of delight ring out amongst my team mates. I get up and sprint around the boundary overtaking Christie et al again on the way. I'm screaming with elation as I drop to my knees, slide forwards, arch backwards, face upwards, open my arms and offer my genius to the skies.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Alan Ball's Boots
It's strange the conversations that take place on the boundary as the batsmen await their innings. This week's oddity focused on a football boot, or more precisely on a particular type of football boot.
The recently deceased England football hero Alan Ball once pioneered a new type of boot. (I've searched in vain for a picture of the said boot type so a text description will have to do). Imagine the sole of a football boot. Normally, at the front of the boot are four or more chunky studs to aid grip on the turf. In the 1970s, these four studs were experimentally mounted on a moveable turntable inlaid into the sole. The theory was that if players turned sharply on the field, the boot would swivel naturally with them and consequently the number of twisted ankle injuries would be reduced.
So how on earth did this conversation start? Well, I had a small part to play. As I was batting (compiling a majestic four runs), my team mate Stewart Gill noticed that one shot I played involved lifting my left heel off the floor, then swivelling one-legged nearly 360 degrees on the ball of the same foot. Needless to say I rarely made contact with the cricket ball. Regular readers will recall that my batting ability is more Saddam Hussein than Nasser Hussain. However, the shot produced much hilarity amongst my team mates on the boundary, especially the aforementioned Mr. Gill.
I should also mention at this point that Stewart was playing his first match for the club following a year long absence away in Australia. I think we all expected him to settle in quietly. How wrong we were. He had already mentioned that he'd won a bowling award while playing in Oz, and that he'd batted before me in this match, knocking a valuable 33 runs.
Later, as we fielded, Stewart continued to make merry at my expense with repeated reminders to the whole field of my 'Alan Ball's Boots' shot.
Around halfway through the opposition innings, one of the batsmen hit a pull shot through midwicket, straight towards Stewart. It was like slow motion. The ball raced towards him about two feet to his right. He turned his head to watch its approach. It got closer. His expression took on a determined look. The ball was now a couple of yards in front him. We waited for him to make a move. Nothing. His feet were glued to the grass. The ball was now level with his right hand. It was at this point he collapsed at the knees. It was as if a nearby sniper had shot him in the calf. If you've ever seen film footage of tall blocks of flats being razed to the ground with explosives, you probably get the picture. The ball went for four runs but the pill was sweetened a little by the uncontrollable laughter being guffawed across the ground.
"My feet got stuck in the turf!" exclaimed a kneeling and embarassed Mr. Gill.
I probably don't need to tell you the type of footwear I recommended he should use in future.
The recently deceased England football hero Alan Ball once pioneered a new type of boot. (I've searched in vain for a picture of the said boot type so a text description will have to do). Imagine the sole of a football boot. Normally, at the front of the boot are four or more chunky studs to aid grip on the turf. In the 1970s, these four studs were experimentally mounted on a moveable turntable inlaid into the sole. The theory was that if players turned sharply on the field, the boot would swivel naturally with them and consequently the number of twisted ankle injuries would be reduced.
So how on earth did this conversation start? Well, I had a small part to play. As I was batting (compiling a majestic four runs), my team mate Stewart Gill noticed that one shot I played involved lifting my left heel off the floor, then swivelling one-legged nearly 360 degrees on the ball of the same foot. Needless to say I rarely made contact with the cricket ball. Regular readers will recall that my batting ability is more Saddam Hussein than Nasser Hussain. However, the shot produced much hilarity amongst my team mates on the boundary, especially the aforementioned Mr. Gill.
I should also mention at this point that Stewart was playing his first match for the club following a year long absence away in Australia. I think we all expected him to settle in quietly. How wrong we were. He had already mentioned that he'd won a bowling award while playing in Oz, and that he'd batted before me in this match, knocking a valuable 33 runs.
Later, as we fielded, Stewart continued to make merry at my expense with repeated reminders to the whole field of my 'Alan Ball's Boots' shot.
Around halfway through the opposition innings, one of the batsmen hit a pull shot through midwicket, straight towards Stewart. It was like slow motion. The ball raced towards him about two feet to his right. He turned his head to watch its approach. It got closer. His expression took on a determined look. The ball was now a couple of yards in front him. We waited for him to make a move. Nothing. His feet were glued to the grass. The ball was now level with his right hand. It was at this point he collapsed at the knees. It was as if a nearby sniper had shot him in the calf. If you've ever seen film footage of tall blocks of flats being razed to the ground with explosives, you probably get the picture. The ball went for four runs but the pill was sweetened a little by the uncontrollable laughter being guffawed across the ground.
"My feet got stuck in the turf!" exclaimed a kneeling and embarassed Mr. Gill.
I probably don't need to tell you the type of footwear I recommended he should use in future.
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