The leaving of it

Well, that's it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Journey's End

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dev the Saboteur

This short post completes the Dev Trilogy.

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

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

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

I returned to the clubhouse anticipating a dry evening.

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

Good effort mate.

Dev and the Case of the Missing Pint

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wonder what his excuse will be this week?

Me and Dev

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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

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

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

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.