Nicknames

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

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

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

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

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

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

It got worse.

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

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

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

The Comeback Tale

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Done like a kipper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until Wednesday.

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

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

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