The great day of my long awaited cricketing comeback has arrived.But first to more mundane matters. There is A to deal with. Not had a lesson for a few weeks and she seems strangely manic today. We stop for pain aux chocs as is now our habit, then head out onto the road. We nearly hit a van at a roundabout. Partly my fault. I shouldn't have let her approach it so quickly. More mistakes follow. Then we hit the kerb at 50 mph. Things get scruffier. We emerge from a junction. The windscreen wipers go on. I explain how to get them off. she puts them on express speed. I try again, and the back wipers join in the game. And then it's tears. OMG the second time in two days!! I start my own self doubt as A is bawling "I fail at everything I do. I'm a failure" We can't stop. We are on a busy road. I steer the car until we can pull in to one side. She stops for a fag, gets out of the car and relaxes. She seems better. We drive back very calmly to Wycombe as I try to reassure her. She has her theory test again next week. I do hope she passes. I suspect she will give up if not.
And so to Penn Street. I don Dan's whites and meet up with my new team mates. R arrives just behind me. We field. I suddenly realise how much I have forgotten. Walking in as the bowler approaches, changing positions for the left and right handers. Throwing the ball from fielder to fielder. How bloody hard is the cricket ball! Am I going to want to get in the way of that bloody thing when it's smacked towards me by that fat bloke who swings with gay abandon?
The ball is thrown to me. I fumble it. Damn! But next time I remember. Keep your eyes on it. Cup your hands! Yes!!
The ball isn't exactly following me around, but I get my hands on it a couple of times. I remember now I can't throw, and hope I don't get dispatched to the boundary.
Penn Street don't fare well. Wickets tumble with regularity. They are short of players and a procession of kids appear at the wicket.
Then the fat man swings. The ball hurtles towards me. I dive to the right and get my hands to the ball. Applause ripples around the village green. "Well done Simon" "Great stop Simon" I hear from all the team mates. I am really chuffed.
"Can you bowl?" asks the captain. "Slowly" I reply.
Towards the end of the innings I am told. You bowl the next over from that end. Now I am nervous. I could make a serious fool of myself here. I haven't bowled a ball in anger for god knows how many years. Fortunately my adversary is about nine years old! Just get it on the stumps. First ball is fine. Well pitched up, on middle . Forward defensive. Next ball. Oh no! I feel it go wrong straight from the hand. It's going to pitch four feet short of a good length, and three feet outside off. The nipper sees his chance. He slashes, and top edges. The keeper hangs on to the catch!!
He's their last man so I finish with an analysis of 0.2 0 1-0.
A nice tea in the pub, and then we set off to chase 90 to win. Apparently I am to bat at 5. Excitedly I pull on my pads, at a kind of jaunty, Alan Knott angle. I try to fix my box, but realise my mistake. I am wearing my boxers, which are the wrong things to hold a box in place. But these boxers have a fly, and the button is missing, So the box just falls through the hole. Hmm. R gives me a thigh pad. I use the velcro strip from that to hold the thing in place. It sort of works, but I keep having to adjust it.
The third wicket falls. I stride to the middle. A couple of elegant forward defensives. A few nasty swishes at the air outside off. A few worrying biffs on the pads. A couple of neat offside nudges for singles. The an edge. The slipper fumbles and floors the chance. Is it to be my day?
There is a grey haired slow bowler operating from one end, who occasionally sends down a nippy quicker one, and one of the kids, a very good player, from the other. He is quite quick but cannot control his length, bowling a lot of straight full tosses. It hurts every time I hit these,, jarring my arm. Talking later it seems I need a better bat.
Eventually the slow bowler tempts me. The ball is just short of a length outside off stump. I step down the pitch and drive over his head. For a moment I think I have connect properly and it is flying to the boundary for four. But no, it's up in the air and the bowler is greedily clutching it to his chest. Oh well. I was actually quite pleased. When I wanted to defend I did OK. It was just getting the ball off the square that was my problem.
The Old Gits triumph, and I am asked to play for them again if they are short. I would do gladly. A guy from Penn Street also invites me to play. I will consider my options!
Dinner at Loch Fyne in the evening with S & P, and from the cricket, R and his french girlfriend D. She seems lovely, but none of us can quite work out the exact nature of the relationship. Both being Jewish there is a suspicion of an arranged marriage about it. R is quite engaging company, but can be annoyingly finneckity. I hope that at the end of the meal we are not to be in a "Well we had this and you had that" type of situation. Luckily we don't and we all part on good terms.
A very enjoyable evening to round off a splendid day. I hope A is ok now.
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