Penn Cricket Blog

The heroism of Brian Lester

2009-05-03T11:22:00.000Z

I will always maintain that cricket is a team game, but also concede that it offers the chance for individuals to shine like few other sports. But would it be claiming too much that cricket offers opportunities for heroism? I ask you patient reader, to consider the following tale from yesterday's match and the deeds of our skipper, a certain Mr. Brian Lester.

It is important to set this all in context. We are the Fifth XI at Penn CC, which means in theory that we are fifth best at the club in terms of ability and performance. However, we obviously do not play the other teams in our own club. Instead we compete in a league where we are (again in theory) matched against teams from other clubs at a similar level of ability. The best sporting contests at any level in any sport are always against closely matched opponents.

This week, we encountered a Third XI from a big club, who, for reasons best known to league administrators, have been placed in our division. The contest began as a hopelessly one sided affair as our unfortunate bowlers (your humble correspondent included) got pasted around the ground by batsmen far too good for us. After 35 overs they had reached 320 for not a single wicket. It was at this point their declaration came, they began to walk off the pitch, and my tale really begins.

After tucking bats under arms, unstrapping gloves and starting to walk off, the batsmen were ordered back on by the skipper who had been informed by the scorers that one of them was on 199. For non-cricketing folk, this is just one run short of a double century. So, having duly returned to the crease, our skipper, the aforementioned Brian Lester decided to bring himself on to bowl his first over of the day.

I'm sure Brian won't be too offended if I describe his bowling style as unique. His first ball started off as a frisky little two footed shuffle to the popping crease where a languid arm action completed his delivery phase. It's worth pausing at this point to describe the typical trajectory of a Brian Lester ball. The flight is very similar to what must have been experienced by those involved in the early days of space rocket design. The ball goes near vertically upwards quite quickly before arcing slowly at its peak, then dropping menacingly towards the batsman. This first ball took the batsman by surprise and he dabbed a single to bring the '199 not out' batsman on strike.

Picture it. The batsman has not been in trouble all day. He's 199 not out. He just needs a single for an incredibly rare double century. He's puffed up. He's confident. He's smiling. But he's facing Brian Lester.

Brian shuffles into launch phase. The ball goes up. Mr '199 not out' widens his eyes and quickly dances down the wicket towards where he thinks the ball will pitch. Everyone is watching and anticipating. He swings the bat into a shot that would in truth have shamed a tail-ender and our wicket keeper gathers the rolling ball to whip off his bails. Brian got him!

Now, why do you think I believe our Brian's part in this to be heroic? Well, it's fairly simple. This was David and Goliath stuff. We were never in the game until this point and Brian's little spell gave us a tiny victory. It showed that despite any opponent's great strength and dominance, there can always be a chink in the armour, a miniscule weakness upon which you can build. This is exactly what Brian did for us. I believe that the dismissal of Mr 199 (we can now dispense with the 'not out') contributed greatly to our team spirit, lifted our heads a little and gave us heart going into our own innings. We were subsequently able to bat out for a draw which had previously looked impossible.

So, as far as I'm concerned, if Penn CC had its own knighthood, Mr. Brian Lester would today be on bended knee. Arise Sir Brian!

Start of (yet another) new season

2009-04-26T12:32:00.002Z

This ridiculous pantomime of a retirement continues.

Last week, I started the first match of the season by opening the bowling and getting roundly hammered around the ground after having yet again failed to attend a single close season net. Owing to my attending a 40th birthday party the same evening, the skipper asked me to open the batting too. All of which meant it was Thursday this week before I could again walk upright.

This week saw me standing in as skipper which is not something I usually enjoy, but the team played really well and we won reasonably comfortably. Whilst the victory may have been comfortable, I certainly am not. Once again I'm hobbling around and wincing everytime I sit down/stand up.

A friend of mine suggested a proper massage would ease some of the multiple muscular knots and recommended a parlour in town. I've never been very sure about the reputation of these establishments but I hurt so much, I'm willing to give anything a try. My mate said the place is totally fine. So, it's Saffy's Sensual Body Relief Parlour for me next week. What could go wrong?

End of (yet another) Season

2008-09-27T08:07:00.002Z

Well, how did my first retirement season go? My first season of free summer Saturdays and leisurely hour long boundary circumnavigation watching my ex-team mates continue their flannelled efforts for Penn CC?

In truth, it didn't go as planned.

The season was only four or five games old before the thirds were short and asked if I'd mind helping them out for just one game...

This led to an odd early/mid-season team hopping exercise between the thirds and the fourths which in all honesty I didn't really enjoy. This was nothing to do with my always excellent team mates, but more to do with the fact that I'd not done any pre-season work at all, and mentally I'd not prepared to even take the field. All of that combined to result in a series of pretty poor personal performances harshly reminding me of why I retired in the first place.

It all turned around for me around halfway through the season when I started regularly playing in the fifths. I'd had a series of matches under my belt and I started to feel how I should have felt at the start of the season - relaxed and better prepared.

The personal performances improved a little and unbelievably I hit form with the bat! My final two innings of the season were 21 not out, and 18 not out which doesn't sound much, but compared to the four consecutive ducks at the start of the season, it was little short of miraculous.

I still think the cricketing gods are toying with me. They let me get those runs at the end of the season to make me believe I could continue the hot streak at the start of next season...

I've enjoyed being in the fifths enormously. We have a great mix of old heads and young 'up and coming' players and we had some great results finally finishing fourth in the league.

All of which probably means that maybe I'll have to think again about tearing up those whites for dusters.

Coach Trip

2008-07-27T13:15:00.002Z

I'm up at Penn's main Mount Road ground most weeks, and most times the club coaches are there improving the skills of our younger players. I'm always impressed with the patience and structured techniques the coaches employ to help our youth section play better cricket. I'm also pretty jealous as I've never had a day's cricket coaching in my life, which is pretty obvious to all who've seen me play.

I think it's natural to wonder 'What if I'd been coached properly? Would I have been a massively better cricketer than the poor effort I turned out to be?'

Regular blog readers will be familiar with my recent batting record having not yet scored a single run (see last post for details). I was fortunate in my last match to have one of the club coaches (Kevin Drew) with us on the sidelines before I went in to bat. I asked him to throw a few balls down to get my eye in.

Kev clearly saw some terrible things as I attempted to gently knock the ball back to him. He regularly winced as my bat came down and he kept repeating various technical terms that meant nothing to me. 'Straight bat', 'head still', 'front foot forward', 'high elbow' were all fairly alien terms to someone who's usual approach is 'hit the ball (with the bat if you can)'.

However, in fairness to Kev, I followed his advice and suddenly found that my bat was connecting with the ball on a reasonably regular basis. As the next wicket fell, I strode out to the middle in relative confidence. Could this be the innings where I got my first runs of the season?

I got back to thank Kev for his help a few minutes later after gloving a ball that was heading towards my teeth straight to short square leg. It was not the longest innings I'd ever had, but those three runs felt like a long cool drink after a desert trek.

The Harsh Truth

2008-06-05T20:37:00.002Z

Oh dear. It really has gone all pear shaped.

The brief flush of success marked by the two wickets in my comeback match has quickly faded and I've not taken a wicket since. I've bowled in three further matches and been largely slammed around the ground.

My batting record reads thus:

Four innings - 0, 0, 0 not out, 0 not out. Total runs scored - 0. Average - 0. Number of times my bat has hit the ball at all = 0.

This week, my knee injury has flared up again and I'm unable to play. For some reason, there have not been many phone calls wishing me a speedy recovery.

We put out five teams on a Saturday which means there are 55 playing places. If there are 56 players available in future, I should definitely be the one to miss out.

Last Saturday was personally horrendous although we did win the match. I bowled five overs for 33 runs and got neck ache watching the ball disappear back over my head each time I delivered it to the wide eyed, salivating batsman. The bowed head silence from my team mates was embarrassing and I was looking for that crack in the ground to open up and blessedly smother my misery. It was exactly that sort of performance that induced my retirement last season. It just shows, you should never go back on a decision you knew was right in the first place.

I'm low at the moment and Saturday afternoons in the garden not worrying about cricket at all seem mighty appealing.

Next week's blog will focus on the safe and organic removal of aphids from a favourite rose bush.

Nicknames

2008-05-26T12:57:00.002Z

Nicknames are curious things aren't they? This thought struck me as I stood in the outfield this week encouraging our fast bowler James Thomas. James has a fairly straightforward name but amongst the cacophony of support he got called several things:

"Come on James!" said one, "Nice ball Jim" came another. "Good stuff JayJay!" took the nickname to a slightly higher level. "Yes JimJam!", "good boy Jimmy Lad!", "Super effort JT" and so it went on.

Why do we use nicknames and why do they sometimes make a name shorter (which kind of makes sense), but sometimes longer (which makes no sense)?

For instance, our beloved ex-spin bowler Norman Howard is affectionately called "Norm". Straightforward. No problem. One syllable less than his full name.

Lee Nightingale, our first team wicketkeeper gets called "Nighty". Again, it makes sense.

However, once our third team number three Glyn Martin starts getting called "Glinners", and even "Glinderella" (three EXTRA syllables) I start to scratch my head.

I can't end the post without remembering my two favourite nicknames, even though they are not from the world of cricket. There was a footballer who played for Crystal Palace called Fitz Hall. His nickname was "One Size". Genius.

My number one has to be a friend of my father's from the building trade. This unfortunate fellow is in charge of a skip hire business and is fastidious about not receiving skips that are overloaded.

His nickname?

Phil Level.

The Pain in Rain

2008-05-17T20:48:00.002Z

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

2008-05-11T11:00:00.000Z

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

2008-05-09T19:10:00.005Z

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

2007-09-16T12:24:00.000Z

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

2007-09-09T09:50:00.000Z

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

2007-09-04T22:30:00.000Z

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

2007-08-30T22:40:00.000Z

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?

Me and Dev

2007-08-16T22:09:00.000Z

It's important to maintain good relationships with your fellow team members as this contributes enormously to the performance of the team as a whole. Unfortunately, my relationship with one of my team mates has deteriorated a little in recent weeks.

I refer to our master spin bowler and all round top bloke Dev Penn.

Dev is unquestionably a good guy and so I can only assume the decline in our friendship is entirely down to myself.

It all started a couple of weeks ago when, while sprinting in the outfield I pulled a muscle in my left buttock. This severely hampered my (admittedly limited) ability to run. I'd heard from somewhere that it was a good idea to treat pulled muscles quickly so I asked Dev if he'd massage the injured area. Dev replied that he thought it might look a little odd from the boundary if I was bent over and he started rubbing my bottom. I offered him the option of massaging me as I stood facing him but this made him really cross. I understood his concern but thought he'd at least take the embarrassment to help me and the team.

The following week saw Dev standing in as captain. The opposing team were late arriving which gives the home captain the option of deciding whether to bat or bowl first without having to toss a coin. Dev took a range of advice on whether to enforce this rule. I suggested not as I thought we could beat the team whether we won or lost the toss. So Dev sportingly allowed the toss to take place, promptly lost it, and we didn't win the match.

During the match Dev called me on to bowl. I sent down seven overs including three maidens and picked up a wicket for only seven runs. Dev took me off and I walked to my fielding position feeling I'd done OK. Next over, Dev called me across.

"D'ya wanna know why I took you off Pottsy?" quoth he.

"Why?" I said.

"Because your bowling was kak."

Looking back now, yet again Dev was correct.

This week I'm going to try to put things right. I'm going to stand right by his side all match and offer any help or advice I can. I'm sure that will work.

St. Dympna's Well

2007-08-05T10:07:00.000Z

It is not my habit to write about events that I've not witnessed, but sometimes stories get passed around cricket dressing rooms that are just too good to go unreported.

Last week, our opening bowler Stewart Gill (a good church going boy) went on a pilgrimage to the Republic of Ireland where he did a tour of sacred catholic shrines. One of these visits was to St. Dympna's Well. For those of you who like your historical context, St. Dympna is the patron saint of mental illness and those of us who know Stewart well will spot the irony.

Apparently, tradition dictates that pilgrims approach the well and dip a part of themselves into the water, usually a hand or an elbow. Stewart, being the unconventional type decided that he would dip his St. Christopher pendant. Personally, I would have removed the pendant from my neck first.

As Stewart bent over, he steadied himself on the wrought metalwork that surrounded the well. This metalwork was of soothing and reverential design topped with the unsurprising title 'ST. DYMPNA'S WELL'.

Unfortunately, the metalwork, though aesthetically pleasing, was not designed to support the weight of our big Stew and it gave way. This meant that Stewart plunged headlong into the sacred waters and got trapped with his head submerged and his legs kicking furiously for attention.

Fortunately, Stewart's 11 year old son James was at hand and pulled his father free which was some feat for a little lad who presumably was holding his sides at the same time.

Stewart emerged dazed and spluttering and frantically shaking his head free of the holy H2O.

Obviously a quick exit was the order of the day but as he scarpered, Stewart risked a backward glance at the scene of his embarrassment. The ornate metalwork was now a tangled mess and he had somehow managed to destroy parts of the lettering that named this holy place.

The sacred revered shrine that has given comfort to pilgrims from all over the world for hundreds of years now bears the legend 'ST DYM'S WILI'.

One nod

2007-07-29T20:50:00.000Z

This week I exchanged the sodden fields of England for the baking sands of Spain. It's strange how even in non-cricket playing countries (how do they cope?), the sport can still catch up with you.

One morning, I was taking a slow walk along a sun drenched coastal path wearing my 'Cricket Force 2007' t-shirt (see my club colleagues modelling the said t-shirt). Walking towards came a gentleman sporting a t-shirt with a giant cricket ball on the front under the large lettered statement 'Cricket is Life'. We each clocked the other's shirt at the same moment and after a second's recognition gave each other a nod of acknowledgement.

And it was all there. In that nod. Everything about the game.

The chock of leather on willow, the sunshine on flannelled players, the days spent on cricket grounds under umbrellas waiting for clouds to pass, the sweet cover drive, the stumps flying, the concerted appeal to the umpire, the shake of the umpire's head, the raising of his finger, the disgruntled batsman, the 'punch the air' bowler, the diving catch, the dropped dolly, the exasperated captain, the delight of winning, the despair of losing, the chats about past players and matches, the beers after the game, the inability of non-cricket lovers to understand the game, test matches, the pointless draws, the autobiographies of past players, the laughter and the tears.

All there, in just one nod.

Of Sawdust and Manhood

2007-07-13T07:24:00.000Z

Regular readers will be familiar with the state of the summer in England this year. Wet. Very wet. As I write this article on July 13th, I sit hearing the rain thumping against the window and contemplate switching on the central heating.

We had a dry day last Saturday but on a very wet wicket. I volunteered to pick up some sawdust on the way to the match to put on the crease and prevent the bowlers slipping over. (You are right to detect some self-interest).

This sounds like a simple and mundane task but it always fills me with dread. Why? Simply because the only place to get a decent quantity of sawdust is in a builder's yard. I loathe these places in the same way I loathe car spares shops. The root of my loathing is in the fact that I know nothing about DIY, building, or anything that requires the crack of your bum to poke out of your trousers. The people that work in those places ALWAYS expect you to know exactly what you want, especially if you're male. If you don't know that you want exactly fifteen three quarter inch self tappers with a crosshead then they treat you like an idiot.

So I walk up to the counter in the builder's yard, draw myself up to my full height, puff out my chest, smile, cock a jaunty eyebrow and in my deepest very English voice say confidently:

"Good morning. I have a cricket match today and need a bag of sawdust. Can you help?"

The woman behind the busy counter simply pointed at me, then pointed to a different area of the counter and gestured that I should move. I did, rapidly reducing in height as I took the seven steps of shame to where she was now sitting.

"That's for trade love" she said. I still don't know what that means.

My embarrassment was compounded when she said I needed to go to 'Timber' which was over the other side of the yard. I went, and did not need to look for the sideways glances that the 'trade' people around the counter were exchanging.

Eventually, having fought my way through racks of tools and other building equipment that meant nothing to me, I found the timber counter. I stupidly tried the same approach, which doubled in stupidity as there were several people behind the counter and they could all hear my enquiry.

"Good morning. I have a cricket match today and need a bag of sawdust. Can you help?"

"No saw mill process here now mate" came the reply.

"Er...does that mean you have no sawdust here at all?"

"Nothing. All done off site now" he smirked. Yes, he smirked. He smirked as if everyone in the world except me knew that his sodding saw mill processing was now conducted elsewhere.

I left. Quickly.

Even driving off the car park was not easy. There was a system where you were stopped at a barrier and quizzed about your purchases, and you had to show your receipt. The guy on the security gate was exactly what you would expect. Big, officious, and at a swaggering ease with his work. My explanation of why I was there and why I'd left with nothing elicited several contemptuous sneers.

A flash of inspiration saw me driving across the city to a garden centre. These places sold wood didn't they? Maybe some of them cut it to order and had a pile of sawdust I could scoop up and take away?

I approached the counter where a twelve year old girl stood waiting.

"Good morning. I have a cricket match today and need a bag of sawdust. Can you help?"

"Er...how big a bag do you want?"

This sounded hopeful. I made a wavy sign with the flat of my hand at about my midriff. She looked concerned and led me to the pet section.

I know for a fact she had deliberately called her Dad from outside just to watch me leave.

The tall deep voiced sportsman was skulking out with two women's handbag sized bags of sawdust usually purchased to line the floor of hamster cages. Each was adorned with cartoon depictions of Jerry Gerbil and Ronnie Rat and I swear even their toothy grins seemed to mock me.

Shakespeare and Stretching

2007-06-24T10:22:00.000Z

The Good Lord heard my pleas and despite yet another 24 hours of Friday rain, the ground had recovered sufficiently for our game to go ahead.

Before we take the field, it is customary for our team to undertake a collective stretch. This involves standing in a circle while one team member conducts the strange contortionist symphony with a series of arm and leg exercises.

During this week's effort, to add a novel twist, I suggested we recite our favourite Shakespeare sonnet during the thigh stretch. I wasn't even prescriptive! I said they could choose whichever they pleased from the beautiful selection of 154 the bard kindly left for us.

I was a little surprised at the reaction my suggestion provoked. Most are not printable for the sensitive audience this blog enjoys.

Suffice to say I will not be offering such a suggestion again, and to Glyn Martin, our solid number four batsman I defiantly say this:

Yes. I do think it would be possible to bowl with a complete First Folio shoved up there.

Friday Flooding

2007-06-15T16:23:00.000Z

The weather in England over the last two days has been appalling. Today (Friday 15th June) has seen widespread torrential rain and serious flooding. Not only was the entire day's play lost in the Test Match against West Indies, but, more importantly, tomorrow's Penn Fourths game has been cancelled. I think this is the earliest call off I can remember. 5pm on the day before the match.

So that leaves an entire Saturday free. A rarity. However, I've made the stupid mistake of telling my wife. I am not joking when I tell you she is now writing a list of jobs for me to do.

Dear Lord, if you are truly merciful, please let the sun shine next week.

The art of watching cricket

2007-06-03T10:50:00.000Z

A low scoring match and an early victorious finish for the Fantastic Fifths meant that I had a couple of hours to spare. I drove up to Penn's main Mount Rd. ground to watch the second team in action. It was a beautiful sunny day and I settled down with a cold pint to watch the cricket. A rare treat for players who most weekends are playing.

One of the traditional elements of watching the game is a slow relaxing walk around the boundary feeling the sun on your face, listening to the birdsong and the chock of leather on willow. I'm a traditionalist so I set off, pint in hand, on my heavenly amble of the perimeter.

Approximately halfway round, I met fellow supporters Mike, Paul and Norman engaged in a similar activity except in a counter clockwise direction to my clockwise. They all looked at my (by now) empty pint glass and cast a few concerned glances. Apparently, the form is to ALWAYS make your pint last for exactly one circuit. I had committed a cricket spectator faux pas by not doing so. They walked away, heads shaking and I felt somehow inadequate.

I took a seat at the halfway point and began to observe this expert trio. It was true! Each time they completed a circuit, they popped into the bar for a refresher, and off they set again. Each time they passed me they looked on in pity.

The timing was precise. One circuit, one pint.

Gentlemen, I salute you. Your system is perfect, and I will try harder in future.

Broken and broke

2007-05-27T19:50:00.000Z

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.

Outfield Athletics

2007-05-18T17:58:00.000Z

"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.

Alan Ball's Boots

2007-05-10T17:57:00.000Z

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.

Cricket is a pain

2007-04-29T12:01:00.000Z

I ask you straightaway to forgive any typing or grammatical errors in this week's blog entry. I'm trying to finish quickly as sitting at my computer is extremely painful. Want to know why?

England has enjoyed an unseasonally hot and dry April. This makes watching and playing cricket extremely pleasurable. However, there are drawbacks for players. The ground is very hard and unforgiving as I found to my cost early on in this week's match. I was at mid-on and dived to save a ball passing swiftly to my right. I got nowhere near it and the ball sped to the boundary. As I emerged from my dive with sideways roll flourish (having registered a 4 on the Richter Scale) my right arm screamed with pain. I had an angry looking graze running from elbow to wrist. Very sore. Very painful. It got worse.

Next over, back came the ball again and I had to dive forwards on to my knees. This time I managed to stop the ball but both of my knees exploded with pain. It took a while to get up and walking became very difficult. It also didn't help that I was carrying an Achilles tendon injury which felt as if someone was hacking at my heel with a razor blade.

Then I began to bowl.

It was only the second game of the season so few of us are as supple as we should be. The guys that went to nets look OK. I'm afraid you can see my version of nets in my photo at the top of this blog.

So, with a sore heel, swollen knees and a grazed and bleeding arm, I trundled in. After the first over I had difficulty turning my head owing to the fact I pulled a neck muscle with my fourth delivery. Mobility was becoming a real issue.

Somehow I managed to take my first wicket of the season and I can be for forgiven jumping with delight. Problem was, it put my back out. Now I genuinely couldn't bend down to pick the ball off the floor.

It was at this point that I noticed a sharp stabbing pain from my foot. I was wearing new cricket boots and they had taken all the skin off my left little toe. Believe it or not, this became the most painful of all these injuries.

I managed to get through the match and we won, but my sorry tale doesn't end there.

I went straight from the match to a rock concert at a very small venue. The toilets (mens and ladies) could only be reached via a narrow staircase. I gave way to a lady and she complimented me on being a gentleman. I just didn't have the heart to tell her I could only wincingly negotiate the staircase by gripping the hand rails on either side.

My wife is getting pretty cheesed off that I spend most Sundays now groaning and unable to move. She says she's going to write a note for the captain next week. She isn't joking.

Just imagine in next week's dressing room as Skip reads it out to the rest of the team. "Dear Skip, Please can David be excused cricket as he has a bad heel/toe/knees/back/neck..".

That sort of humiliation would be the most painful of all.

A new season and a new hero

2007-04-22T19:44:00.000Z

At last!

The Cricket World Cup has finally thrown up a hero for all amateur cricketers to worship.

Those of us who stumble about the cricket fields of England believing we are finely tuned athletes have finally found the international role model we mostly resemble. This portly Adonis is called Dwayne Leverock and he plays for Bermuda.

The supple, speedy and springy antics of Collingwood, Clark, Ponting and Gibbs are so last year. Leverock is our rock. From now on, Dwayne reigns.

The 2007 season started for the mighty Penn Fourths away at Cannock & Rugeley. We got off to a bit of a bad start before the match when the caretaker did not turn up to unlock the changing rooms. This meant peeling off our clothes pitchside and revealing our Leverock-esque figures to the local residents whose houses overlooked the grounds. I was sure I spotted a camcorder poking out between a pair of twitching curtains.

I spent most of Sunday morning searching the internet for 'tubbycricketersinthealtogether.com' just to see if any of us had made it as 'Mr. April'.

And to all those mothers/wives/girlfriends in their cars who pretended to turn away as we changed - I know you were using your wing mirrors.

Season's End

2006-09-16T11:42:00.000Z

Well, that's it. Mid-September is here and the season's cricket has ended. So what was all that about? Let's have a season's review!

First of all, we actually played rather well and only lost one game. This was a magnificent effort considering no games at all were won last season. We finished second in our division and secured an automatic promotion place (Check out League Tables and Division 3 with this link).

And so to the traditional end-of-season awards. I hope the Penn Cricket Club Committee will see fit to make these proposed trophies a reality.

Best Shorts: Steve Tranter

Best Thermal Undergarments in a Supporting Role: Chris Rudge

Biggest Wuss: David Potts for the Cricket Ball In The Face Incident

Most Entertaining Player From Another Club: Shouty

Most Terrified Player From Another Club: Nervy

I have to say thanks to everyone that has given positive feedback about this blog. There was only one person who provided unfriendly criticism along the lines of "The blog is self-indulgent poorly written rubbish and haven't you got anything else to do you lazy git", but she had just finished scrubbing my cricket whites clean.

I've enjoyed writing the blog. It's been a funny old record of events. From a Post Office induced back injury, through the Deselection Blues, a smack in the face from a cricket ball, an RAF Fly Past, THE TOTALLY BRILLIANT MR. SHOUTY, a name change to D. Perks, right up to a tribute from Ol' Blue Eyes himself. All very strange, but made bearable by sharing the season with great team mates who've enjoyed the banter just as much as the cricket.

As for me, the bones and joints are a bit creaky lately, and the days after games are becoming more painful to bear. Will I play next season?

You betcha.

The rain in England falls mainly on the cricket ground

2006-09-05T18:41:00.000Z

Rain.

It gives life to the dry ground. It stirs poets from their dreamy repose. It is prized where there is none. It's despised where there is too much. And it really buggers up the cricket season.

If ever there was a greater example of the old adage concerning swings and roundabouts than an English summer, I've never seen one. A monumentally gorgeous June and July have been trumped by an awful August. This weekend was the third in a row where we've had sustained rainfall, and the second in a row where no game of cricket has been possible.

This week though, both teams actually got to the ground and it was interesting to watch the unflannelled knots of players staring alternately at the sky and various parts of the ground. It had rained all morning and shown no signs of letting up. The skies were thick, grey and leaden. The wicket was soaked. The outfield a near mudbath. Players walked out to inspect the wicket under umbrellas and others just sat in their cars looking out between swipes of the windscreen wipers.

In the pavilion, tales of past matches were passed around and tolerated with good humour, and everything just had that end-of-season feel to it.

I glanced out from the pavilion and was certain I saw passing waterfowl eyeing up the wicket. It was at this point I caught the eye of an opposition player who was covered from head to foot in waterproofs and I had to smile at his optimism as it seemed to sum up so well the Dunkirk spirit that sustains this island.

"What d'yer reckon?" I said staring through the monsoon.

"Think this one might be a bit of an 'on and off-er' " came the cheerful reply. Priceless.

I was still smiling a few minutes later as we all left for home.

Summoned by bells

2006-08-27T12:36:00.000Z

Our last match was played next door to a pretty church yard. During one of my overs, just as I was running in, the church bells started to peal and I knocked over the batsman's leg stump.

As I was being congratulated, Dev Penn jokingly reminded me of the John Donne quote '..for whom the bell tolls'.

This set me thinking about other famous quotes and how they might relate to cricket, and to the mighty Penn Fourths in particular.

The first one that springs to mind is a Hemingway quote that is perfect in describing my fielding style: "Never confuse movement with action".

Shakepeare would probably have said that my batting prowess was "Much ado about nothing"

It often falls to myself and Chris Rudge to undertake scoring duties and we both get very nervous when watching our batsmen chase a total. Shakespeare again might have said: "Come what come may. Time and hour run through the roughest day." (Macbeth)

There was no match this week as the opposition could not put out a team. This gave me a chance to look for other cricket quotes on the internet. The following are my favourites:

For six days, thou shall push up and down the line, but on the seventh day thou shall swipe.
Doug Padgett, 1969

When you win the toss – bat. If you are in doubt, think about it, then bat. If you have very big doubts, consult a colleague – then bat.
W.G. Grace

Looking backward we could almost see, suspended with the most delicate equipoise above the flat little island, the ghostly shapes of those twin orbs of the Empire, the cricket ball and the blackball.
Patrick Leigh Fermor

A loving wife is better than making 50 at cricket, or even 99, beyond that I will not go
J.M. Barrie

Domestic Questions

2006-08-21T18:02:00.000Z

This blog has already recorded the invaluable contribution that wives and girlfriends make to the lives of cricketers. However, there is still an unbridgeable divide between those who love cricket, and those who simply don't get it. I have been married for seventeen years and have played cricket all of that time and I still get questions today that I had seventeen years ago. It struck me that this blog might be a way of stating in black and white once and for all, some of the answers.

What time will you be back?
Cricket is not like football my dear where playing time is determined by the clock. Playing time in limited overs cricket is determined by the number of overs bowled, and how long teams bat for. This means that if a match starts at 2pm, it could finish by 5pm, or earlier, or it could last until 8pm, or later. I do not know what time I'll be back.

Why are you going to play cricket if it is raining?
Cricketers must turn up to fulfil a fixture whatever the weather, unless the game is called off in advance. This is determined (usually) by the two captains who will subsequently inform their respective teams in good time before the match is due to start. If I have not received a call from the skipper, I have to turn up at the ground my love.

If it starts raining during a match, why don't you all just come home?
Oh dear heart! If only it were that simple. To give the game the best chance possible of reaching a fair result in rain interrupted games, there are special rules. These rules have to be followed just like the rules that apply on the field of play. If rain interrupts a game, we have to stay until the rules say the game can be officially abandoned. So, my sweet, if it starts to rain, this does not mean I will be home within the hour.

Why do you have to play in white?
So that there is a distinct background for the red ball in play. It is not to annoy those people who (very kindly!) wash the cricket kit. Honestly love of my life.

Why don't you just wear shorts to play when it is really hot?
We are English, we have standards.

Sinatra plays for Penn

2006-08-13T19:09:00.000Z

This week I got a promotion up the batting order to Number Nine. As I struggled with the altitude sickness and nosebleeds, I did begin to look forward to getting in at the end of the innings and having a good swing at the opposition. And it worked out well. I got to face the final few overs and let the old shoulders loose.

Afterwards, as we took the field to bowl our overs, I suggested to the team (for idle amusement) that our shouts of encouragement to each other should have a Frank Sinatra theme. The contributions were of mixed quality. They ranged from "Don't do Somethin' Stupid" to "Great bowling ParcelFreight! That's yer cargo!" ('Chicago'. Geddit?)

Later, in the outfield, my mind began to wander (see the 'Fred's Concentration' post below) and I started to muse on what Frank would actually have sung had he been a cricket fan.

My Way

And now, the end is near,
And so I face the final over,
I hope to clear the rope,
I'll smash the ball as far as Dover,
My Skip says play it cool,
Take gentle runs, that's not what I say
Oh no, oh no not me, I'll do it my way

Last night, I had a few
But to the Skip I must not mention,
We had a family do, in a rough club, in New Invention
I necked each pint of Mild, with little thought, after all it's Friday
And now my head feels wild, 'cos I did it my way

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew
When I thought I could bat at number two
Then through it all, when there was doubt
They put me in, and I got out
I faced the ball, I missed the call and got run out my way

I've bowled, they laughed and cried
It's 'cos of me the team keeps losing,
And now, as tears subside, they find my blog so amusing
To think if I could bat
They may not say "he's poor so why play?"
Oh please, oh please just once let's get runs my way

For what's number nine, what has he got?
He holds a bat, but has no shots
He plays the way he truly feels, and smacks the ball to one who fields
The record shows I score zeroes 'cos I do it my way!

Fred's concentration

2006-08-06T10:27:00.000Z

Concentration is very important in cricket, in every aspect of the game. Batting, bowling and especially fielding require focused attention at all times. This is indisputable cricketing truth.

It is also true to say that this rarely happens. It is incredibly difficult for amateur (and sometimes professional) cricketers to concentrate hard for 100% of the time and mistakes do happen.

Some of the most comedic moments I've ever witnessed have been watching fielders react having lost their concentration. These reactions tend to fall into certain categories:

The 'Dignified' Reaction: The batsman plays a simple push to mid off where our fielder (let's call him Fred) is waiting. Unfortunately, Fred at that point in time is thinking about what colour to paint his kitchen ceiling and has no idea the ball is coming towards him. After a shout from one of his team mates, and the scrambled sound of the batsmen taking an unexpected single, Fred jerks to life, picks up the ball and throws it in. All the time he is doing his utmost to make it look as if he knew the ball was coming all along. We know he is embarrassed.

The Panic: This usually happens when the ball is travelling at a fair pace towards Fred who this time is thinking about the girl with long legs in the office. The first symptom is the rising volume of his team mates' pleas as they watch the ball speed towards him. They all realise he's on another planet.

"Fred. Fred. Fred! FRED. FRED!"

Fred's reaction is swift. He starts to sprint towards the centre of the pitch which would normally be OK but the ball is fizzing past him to his left. Fred spots it from the corner of his eye and immediately changes direction to run away from the centre. If he's lucky the ball goes for four and he just has to deal with the furious stares from his team mates. If he's unlucky, he manages to reach the ball before the boundary and fall on it in a breathless heap. Fred then quickly snaps to his feet and with eyes closed and body clenched in a pathetic attempt to make it look as if he's really trying, he launches the ball with all his might right over the middle of the pitch and across to the other side of the field where it runs away for five overthrows.

The Fear: This one usually occurs when everyone on the ground realises that Fred is in danger from a fast approaching ball. Except Fred.

In every case of this type, there will a desperate scream from the team mate closest to him.

"FFRRRRREEDDDD!!!!"

Fred is naturally startled at being awoken from his reverie where he was away jet skiing in the Mediterranean. Again, the result depends upon whether or not he is lucky. If he's lucky he just has to suffer the indignity of the whole ground watching him collapse on the floor with his arms clasped over his head as the ball passes swiftly by for another four runs.

A less fortunate result will see Fred attempt to stop the ball without actually knowing where it is by opening his arms wide like a vicar welcoming his flock. The ball will then usually glance Fred on the forehead and ricochet away for six. Fred again collapses from the knees and in a vague dazed fashion attempts to raise his hands to the wound as he falls.

The Reality

2006-07-30T10:27:00.000Z

Playing cricket at this level allows average players to participate in a sport that vaguely resembles its professional counterpart. This in turn gives rise to those players sometimes holding an image of themselves and their abilities that is perhaps a little at odds with The Reality. Between matches the batsman will close his eyes and see himself striding down the pitch to lift the fastest bowler in the league back over his head for six. The bowler, in quiet muse will be launching a searing delivery down at the best batsman which destroys all three stumps in a flurry of splinters and sawdust. The Reality can be quite different.

I had personal experience of this in Saturday's match. After a fortnight's break in Spain, I was not feeling in the peak of physical condition. However, in my last match three weeks ago, I had taken two wickets with my last two balls. This meant that my first ball in Saturday's match was a hat-trick ball. What follows, is the scenario being played out in my head, and The Reality.

In my head: Potts is looking motivated here. Despite the two week break he looks in reasonably good shape. He's given the ball by the skipper to open the bowling. His team mates look at him expectantly. They all know what's at stake here. That rare bowling feat of a hat-trick. Mid-off and mid-on give him a respectful nod as he commences running in.

Potts steadily increases pace gazelle-like right up to the crease and slams his foot down hard. His left arm swings over in a blur and the nervous batsman tentatively prods his bat forward. Potts is unlucky. The ball is nigh on unplayable but catches the inside edge and shoots along the ground through square leg for four runs. Potts stands mid-pitch, hands on hips with a rueful smile playing on his lips. Around the ground his team mates give sympathetic applause for an outstanding effort. Dignity maintained.

The Reality: What a lard arse. The ruddy-faced Potts has been away in Spain for two weeks and has clearly enjoyed too many extra helpings of anglicised paella and cheap lager. The usual two opening bowlers are not playing today so Potts benefits with a rare opportunity to start the bowling. How can this guy be on a hat-trick? His team mates look around at each other nervously as his huge bulk begins to wobble towards the bowling crease. He looks a little queasy. The paella and lager swish washing machine fashion around his ample belly.

Potts manages to reach the bowling crease without dying. His arm eventually comes over and the ball hits the deck halfway down the pitch. It's a leg side long hop. The batsman's eyes come out like organ stops and he belts it to square leg where it bounces just in front of the boundary for four.

His team mates give Potts a collective angry stare and Potts himself looks for cracks in the pitch wide enough for him to disappear down.

He realises that only the Grand Canyon will suffice.

Make 'em laugh

2006-07-09T10:56:00.000Z

Over the years I've seen numerous ways of winning a cricket match, and not all of them have been strictly legitimate. However, I played a central role this week in the discovery of a new way to win. Make 'em laugh!

Here's the background. It was a low scoring game on a terrible wicket. We had dismissed the opposition (Wombourne) fairly quickly and were making horribly slow progress towards our target of 95. Regular blog readers will know that my own talents as a batsman are even less than my talents as a bowler but as we were short of recognised willow wielders, I got promoted up the order to number seven. This was where the fun started.

I got in when we were 78 for 5. This was more precarious than it sounds as we were scraping through at one an over due to the awful unpredictability of the track. At the other end was fourteen years old Richard Kimberlin.

After a decent enough push through the covers for two, everything fell to pieces. For reasons I am still unable to explain, I proceeded to give one of the most ludicrous batting performances that the game of cricket has ever witnessed. It's difficult to describe what happened in cricketing terms because the game has not yet evolved the appropriate language. That may now change. Suffice to say that the opposition were laughing so much, it was seriously impairing their ability to bowl and field properly. It went something like this:

Shot No.1: Imagine a giant spider doing a star jump. Then, at the apex of his leap, he is peppered with a hail of machine gun fire. It looked a bit like that. At this stage, the Wombourne guys were merely incredulous and incomprehending. Fortunately, the ball missed everything.

Opposition comment: "This one needs a bell in the ball"

Shot No. 2: I get a quickish ball fired down the leg side. Remember the song 'Jake the Peg'? Well, my legs were spread wide with my bat directly between forming the 'extra leg'. The ball shot through my legs and we managed to scramble two byes. During the running of the second bye, both of my shoe laces fell undone and my right batting pad came adrift. Some of the fielders are now visibly holding their sides.

Opposition comment: "Bowl him a piano, see if he can play that!"

Umpire comment (This was our own umpire and he was laughing): "Hey Dave. You got a name for that shot?" Perhaps I should have said it was the 'Jake the Peg' shot.

Shot No. 3: My eyes were closed for this one. No foot movement. No elbow movement. Just a limp upturn of the wrists and the bottom of the bat ends up pointing at the heavens. The ball missed everything and the bowler wasn't happy.

Opposition comment (through the laughing): "Christ! What must the rest be like?"

One of the great things about batting with some younger batsmen is their keenness to do well and their willingness to learn. At the end of the over, young Richard approached me and asked for advice on how to play the next over. I just said "Learn from me Richard. Watch everything I do, and make bloody sure you do the opposite."

Richard heeded my advice and carried us through to victory. As for me, well the inevitable happened and I lost my off stump but my eccentric partnership with Richard did carry us through to within three runs of the target. I left the field to raucous laughter from the opposition and my team mates waiting outside the pavilion were bent double.

To cap it all, my earlier bowling performance where I had taken three wickets for nine runs had been incorrectly entered into the book by my own skipper Chris Rudge. The history of Penn Cricket Club will now forever record that on the 8th July 2006, three wickets for nine runs were taken against Wombourne by a Mr. D Perks.

Thanks Rudgie.

Dismissed by Shane Warne!

2006-07-02T13:00:00.000Z

I must first of all make this absolutely clear. What he said to us was deadly serious. Unambiguous. There was not a hint of irony. He meant exactly what he said.

I speak here of Paddy who is our wicketkeeper and genuinely all round nice chap. He had just been dismissed and had arrived back with those of us who were padded up and waiting to go in.

I've played cricket for twenty years and I don't really think you ever get over that feeling of nervousness before you go in to bat. You look for any piece of advice, or any hint on how to play the bowlers, particularly from those batsmen that have already been out there. You yearn for anything that will give you a little more confidence.

So, Paddy comes over to me and Dev Penn and we both look at him eagerly for some sage words. And this is what we got.

"There's nothing to worry about out there. He's doing nothing at all. All he's doing is bowling exactly like Shane Warne."

I can't speak for Dev, but I was a little concerned. I wondered if it was only me that thought this piece of news wasn't all that good. I reasoned that facing someone who could bowl like the world's leading test wicket taker, the man who has been the scourge of English cricket for the last fifteen years, ought to be a cause for some concern.

So I got out there and Paddy was not wrong. He was spinning it from leg with some ferocity. I played at every delivery in his first over to me and got nowhere near the ball.

Finally, I suffered the same fate as many English batsmen that have tried to master leg spin. After carting him for a six, a couple of fours and some scrambled singles, I top edged a sweep and was caught at backward square leg.

No one could say I hadn't been Warne-d.

Shouty

2006-06-27T20:35:00.000Z

Part of the beauty of playing cricket is not only meeting the characters you get to play alongside, but encountering characters from other teams.

We played a team a few weeks ago that contained such a character. His most salient characteristic was an unparalleled ability to shout. He shouted at us, he shouted at his team mates and he shouted at himself. For this reason, using our unrivalled talent for assigning obvious nicknames, we christened him 'Shouty'.

Now not all Shouty's shouting was angry shouting. Shouting was just his default mode of communication. Whether it was hailing his mate on the other side of the cricket ground, or a one-to-one conversation, he shouted. He simply had a naturally loud voice. This was unusual but tolerable. Just.

The problems really arose when he started to get angry with his batting partner. Shouty was getting increasingly perplexed at his team mate's sluggish attempts to back him up when he wanted a quick single.

WYWOHYERBUDDYRUN!!?? was Shouty's pleading yell. We later worked out that he was questioning his hapless batting partner as to why he would not run when asked. THAWOZANEEZEEUNTHEEYER!! turned out to mean he thought the run was a comfortable one.

As the overs went by, Shouty got increasingly cross and increasingly purple. In direct opposite, his poor partner started to shrink and became increasingly nervous (We christened him Nervy). He was visibly twitching.

At one point, he could not bring himself to lift his gaze towards the glowering Shouty who by now had steam coming out of his ears and whose head looked on the verge of exploding. YOEAYEVENLUKKINYERPRAT!! rang out across the ground. WOTSSUPWIYA!!?? AMYA LAME??!! each time a shot was played.

Poor old Nervy. He looked like he wanted to die. His legs wobbled like jelly. He started to run even before the bowler began his run up. He genuinely did not know if he was coming or going.

CUMMMMON!! came the cry as Shouty flicked the ball to midwicket where one of our grateful fielders was waiting. He swooped at the ball, whipped it in to our wicket keeper who quickly broke the stumps. Nervy had been run out, but this did little to ease Shouty's mood. His voice rose to a frighteningly high pitch as he lambasted Nervy all the way back to the changing room. YAMTOOOSLOW!! WHYDAYYERSPEEDUPABIT??!!

Nervy looked very relieved to be off the field. The same could not be said of the incoming batsman who bore a visible air of apprehension.

Eventually, with bulging eyes and gritted teeth, Shouty smashed at the ball and holed out to a catch on the boundary. Needless to say, he did not go quietly. SHUDDABINNAFOUR!! was the strangled cry on the breeze as he trudged back towards the changing room where the trembling face of Nervy stared out in terror.

In praise of Wives and Girlfriends

2006-06-18T20:00:00.000Z

There's no two ways about it. Wives and girlfriends of cricketers get cheesed off during the season.

For a start, there's the fact that most of the summer's weekends are disrupted by their cricketing partner's absence. In the week there will probably be at least one net session and endless phone calls about last week's game/next week's game/team selection/individual performances/team tactics/best place for a beer after the match. Even if us cricketers agree to a summer holiday away, we will spend Saturday afternoon on the phone listening to team updates as our foot-tapping, folded-arms wives and girlfriends (WAGs) look sternly on.

In fairness, all of this adds up to a pretty raw deal for those WAGs who have no interest in the game.

To compound this misery further, we cricketers sometimes do not help ourselves. I had personal experience this week when (having declared my availability last week) I suddenly remembered late in the week that the forthcoming Saturday was my wedding anniversary.

So here is the dilemma. In my own mind, a dilemma of Hamletesque proportions. Do I let down my skipper and the team by pulling out of Saturday's match? Or do I upset my gorgeous wife by spending most of our anniversary on the cricket field?

Well, I didn't bowl but I did take a catch and I got a majestic 13 with the bat so the day wasn't totally wasted.

For those of you that feel a sense of injustice here on behalf of my wife, I want to reassure you that I love her dearly and did not forget it was a special day. There was a card and a beautiful bouquet. I chilled a bottle of champagne and after I returned from the match we spent a late warm summer evening on the patio with candles, light Mediterranean food, the scent of honeysuckle and some lovely memories of our seventeen years together.

When I woke up this morning she was gone.

I'm joking. It's Father's Day and she wouldn't do that. She's waiting until tomorrow (still joking).

So on behalf of cricketers everywhere I say this to our WAGs: We're sorry. We love you. Don't leave us.

To my fellow cricketers: See you next week lads.

Potts is honoured by a Fly Past

2006-06-12T01:15:00.000Z

In cricket, a lack of confidence is something that is very easy to diagnose in a player, but extremely difficult to put right.

My own confidence has suffered lately after a series of very poor bowling performances. It got to the point where I started to think I should give up altogether. To be fair, my team mates have been thinking the same thing for a number of years.

However, it is amazing how different everything looks when something positive happens and this week it did! I took my first wicket of the season, and two more followed.

The first wicket was accompanied by a strange sound from the heavens. Naturally, I thought even the gods were appealling to the umpire on my behalf but something very different turned out to be the cause.

As I stood in the middle of the pitch being congratulated by my team mates, a five helicopter formation flew overhead. I was of course delighted that the authorities had seen fit to mark my first wicket with a fly past, but I did wonder how much fuel they had consumed in the previous six weeks of waiting.

I later found out that there was an Air Show at RAF Cosford (the local air base) and the likelihood was that the helicopters were en route. I'm not so sure. Next time I take a wicket(please let there be a next time) I shall settle for no less than a Spitfire, the Red Arrows and a Lancaster Bomber.

Blood, a cricket ball, George Orwell and me

2006-06-04T18:00:00.000Z

When I was a boy, I remember reading an account by (I think it was) George Orwell who had survived being hit by a bullet. He committed the experience to print simply because he could not remember having read about it anywhere else.

During this week's match, I was hit in the face with a cricket ball and while I do not pretend that it was quite as serious as the unfortunate Mr. Orwell, I think the event should be recorded for similar reasons.

First of all, apologies must go out to our master spin bowler Dev Penn. He did what all good spin bowlers do and set a trap for a batsmen who was slapping our bowling to all corners of the ground. Just before he started his spell, I asked if he wanted a slip. He laughed at me and with delicately spiced language remarked that my time would be better spent on the boundary.

Walking towards the boundary (and here is the first piece of irony), I noticed that Chris Rudge was already there. Chris then reasoned that my catching abilities might be superior to his own and he offered a swap.

So there I am. Standing poised at the deep long on boundary. Dev is in the business of baiting the trap, I am supposed to be the iron jaws that clamp tightly to the victim preventing his escape. The bait is taken. The burly left handed batsman launches a skier towards me. It is high, far, fast, and away to my left. I run towards it and make up good ground getting to the exact spot I need to be to pouch it. Fleetingly I see a vision of a Venus Fly Trap swiftly closing on an unsuspecting bug.

I'm in a good position. My arms are up, elbows slightly bent with palms towards the sky. The hand position is important. They are together, thumbs and forefingers crossing with a roundish gap inbetween. It was the gap that proved my undoing.

The ball is coming down at me at a fair rate of knots. I'm looking at it just above my hands. My eyes are in perfect line following the ball's rapid descent into my hands. There is a crucial moment here. A split second, a micro second, a nanosecond where the ball passes below the line of my outstretched fingers and into vision through the gap between thumbs and forefingers. A further nanosecond later and I expect to feel the slap of the ball in my palms. The slap doesn't come. Instead, several things happen at once.

There is a sickening crunch resounding through my skull. There is an explosion of pain between my my nose and top lip. I hit the ground. The ball rolls away I know not where. I realise the gap between thumb and forefingers was a tad too wide. I see another fleeting vision of the bug crawling out of the Venus Fly Trap holding his sides from laughing.

I manage to bring myself up to my knees and my trembling hand feels for facial damage. I'm expecting to see a handful of blood, teeth and bone but I've been lucky. My eyes are watering, there's blood all over my hands and I'm shaking but the Potts features remain intact. Some would say that was unfortunate.

By this time concerned players from both sides (Thanks Aldridge Boys) have surrounded my prostrate form. I start to get concerned as Pam Kimberlin, mother of our young fast bowler Richard, runs toward me. She is a dental worker and I'm sure she is looking at me in a 'rubbing hands at prospect of future business' kind of way.

My own Penn colleagues offer all kinds of advice.This ranges from "Would you like a glass of water?" to "Get up you stupid bugger they're still running!". Thanks lads.

Full 4th XI Match Report is at: www.penncc.org

It is now Sunday morning. The traditional English panacea of a cup of tea has worked wonders and the mirror reveals no facial bruising or disfigurement. My time is devoted entirely to devising a brand new fielding position for myself next week where there is no chance of my having to catch the ball. Back to scoring for the firsts I reckon.

These boots were made for scoring

2006-05-28T12:35:00.000Z

OK. It was my fault. No-one else to blame. But, it was bad luck all the same.

Saturday morning arrives and it is the fourth or fifth consecutive wet weekend. We are travelling to a ground I've never visited before so I arrange to meet some of the guys at our club so we can drive over together. When I get to the ground, I remember that we're playing on an artificial pitch and spikes are not allowed, and (this is the 'my fault' bit) I've forgotten my spikeless trainers.

Never fear! I drive over to a local sports shop and buy a pair for £27. By this time, my team mates are on their way to the ground so I have to travel over with a head full of sketchy directions. The rain still pours.

The inevitable happens and I get lost. Never fear again! I call the skipper on his mobile phone only to discover that the match has just been called off. If anyone wants a new pair of artificial track cricket shoes, size 10....

It's about this time that I get a call from the first XI scorer who needs substituting owing to an evening engagement. I decide to help out and set off for the game over the other side of the city. This was a smart move.

The mighty Firsts are engaged in a highly exciting game that goes all the way to the last over. They are victorious and my first Birmingham League scorebook looks immaculate and even adds up correctly. This never happened to me in the Staffs Clubs League and would never had been predicted by my old maths teachers.

Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now

2006-05-19T19:32:00.000Z

No game for me this week as I'm going to see Morrissey on Saturday night in Birmingham. It would have meant leaving the team before the end of the match and that is not really on. However, I intend to limber up my vocal chords for next week and serenade the lads with a medley of hits from Morrissey and The Smiths. I bet they can hardly wait.

Good Luck for Saturday lads!

Spring unsprung

2006-05-13T18:59:00.000Z

Another Saturday. Another cold and wet day to confirm that the gods surely can't be cricket lovers. Not in England anyway. The great poets have mused on the English summer with tales of swallows, sunburn and cherry blossom. I can only assume they never came to Wolverhampton.

On the plus side, we won! The Penn bowlers were superb in bowling Quinton out for 77. Chris 'Asbo' Asbury bagged five wickets to add to his six last week. Chris 'Thermals' Rudge got three with some good tight bowling. A superb run out from Ghazi Zaki near the boundary left his team mates in shock.

We knocked them off for only one wicket in thirteen overs with some excellent shots from young Jimmy Grosvenor.

Sunshine next week perhaps? Please?

In whites at last!

2006-05-07T20:57:00.000Z

So, three weeks into the season, yours truly finally flannels up and takes to the field on a cold May afternoon in rural Staffordshire. Rodbaston Agricultural College is an interesting place covering a fairly large area without a single sign pointing to the cricket ground. It is highly amusing to watch the bemused faces of cricketers driving around the many winding roads of the campus asking young apprentice farm workers where to go. None of them know.

Finally, all the errant vehicles managed to meet up in the same place next to a clay pigeon shoot. The shots of the batsmen sounded doubly explosive as they coincided with the field next door. At one point, several clay pigeon shooters wandered across the cricket field with rifles in hand. It was rather like a scene from the Magnificent Seven.

The match ended in a winning draw for us, the Mighty Penn Fourths. This was largely due to a diligent 75 n.o. from Ghazi Zaki, and a magnificent six wickets from Chris 'Asbo' Asbury. Yours truly bowled like a prat (International Readers: 'Prat' is a quaint English word for someone who still participates in competitive sport but should have given up a long time ago)

Absence makes the teams play better

2006-05-07T20:55:00.000Z

The thirds and fourths were victorious on the weekend of my Post Office-induced injury so they clearly missed me.

Not selected for last weekend's fixtures.

What is the bribe most likely to succeed with this week's Selection Committee? Money is too obvious. Beer too expensive.

Instead, I've written a song called "The Deselection Blues" and will sing it live with my acoustic outside the Selection Meeting on Tuesday. Here are the lyrics:

"Got no game again this week,
Is it 'cos I'm past my peak?
Without me you won't lose,
I got the Deselection Blues

The post girl left me incapacitated,
To the sidelines I was relegated,
My ego got all bruised,
I got the Deselection Blues

The skipper says I'm dropped,
My parcel left me crocked,
Sat'days shopping I must now choose,
I got the Deselection Blues."

A rude awakening! Fri 21st April

2006-04-21T20:11:00.000Z

I learned in the week that I'd been picked to play for the third team away at Whittington and was really looking forward to what is a nice fixture, especially as there is great weather forecast for this first match of the season.

At 7.30 this morning my front door was being banged and the bell rung as if a fire were sweeping the street. I leapt out of bed and immediately pulled several back muscles. I hobbled and winced as quickly as I could downstairs to find a sour faced gum-chewing Post Office woman showing me a parcel. Before I had chance to open the porch door she had left it upside down on the floor outside. Charming.

I've spent the whole day dosed up with painkillers and have had to withdraw from tomorrow's match. I would kick the nearest post box in an act of petty and pointless revenge if I weren't sure I'd break a metatarsal and miss the rest of the season.

Cricket season 2006 begins

2006-04-17T09:08:00.000Z

Well, here we are again.

The sharp April wind cuts through the hardiest of us and the sunshine yet brings little warmth. It's the start of the cricket season in England, and the players of Penn, near Wolverhampton, are just starting to think about cleaning the mud off their boots from last September.

The pre-season routine remains pretty much the same. Practice nets have been ongoing since just before Christmas, and players are already setting themselves personal goals before the first match has knocked it clean out of them.

Cricket, like all things has been touched by technology. The old round of early April phone calls to gauge player availability has been replaced by a series of text messages. Fixtures and league tables now surface on the web rather than the local rag, and ageing cricketers like me take to blogging to record their personal experience of this year's campaign.

What lies in store I wonder?