Blood, a cricket ball, George Orwell and me

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.