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.

Season's End

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.