Out of the press box and into the fire
IT’S a given that you play your best cricket in the press box. You always have the benefit of hindsight, and you’re able to make your bloodless judgements without having to worry about nerves, pressure, aching limbs, tough opponents, a dodgy pitch or uncertain officiating.
Yesterday, I found myself booted out of my comfort zone, forced to actually play the game I write about.
I was a member of a Pinetown Invitation XI taking on a touring team from Denmark who are here for a week’s cricket, with further matches against Crusaders (today) and The Crickets at the Luther Field at the Kloof Country Club on Friday.
The friendly tourists, who go under the name of the “The Golden Oldies Viking Safari Culture Tour” (which must cover a lot of sins), had a lovely “Hagar The Horrible” type of emblem on their touring T-shirt.
Naturally, they attracted jokes about “raping and pillaging” the locals, and they certainly ravaged our team, cruising home by more than 100 runs in the 30-overs-aside game at Lahee Park, the home of the oldest cricket club in KZN.
The captain of the cricketing marauders is Ole “Stan” Mortensen, who enjoyed 12 golden seasons with Derbyshire in the English County Championship in the 1980s/90s. The 1.93m Dane took 434 first-class wickets at 23.88, and helped the county to glory in 1990 when they won the Sunday League.
I was definitely there to make up the Pinetown numbers. I spent most of my time patrolling the boundary, feeling my legs and lower back protest a little more vocally as the overs went by.
On one occasion, I was lumbering after a ball when I hit rising ground and crashed to the turf. I felt like jockey (and later crime writer) Dick Francis aboard the Queen Mother’s horse, Devon Loch, in the 1956 Grand National.
Well clear of his rivals in the finishing straight at Aintree, the horse inexplicably jumped an invisible fence metres from the finish and crashed to earth, leaving his closest pursuer to claim the honours. I cheered up a bit when called upon to deliver a few pies, one of which took so long to reach the batsman that he must have played a couple of shots before being stumped.
The Vikings scored plenty of runs and, after a deceptively good start, the Pinetown boys found themselves in some trouble. I was batting at eight and suddenly found myself walking to the wicket.
This was my first experience of live cricket action in about 15 years, and I was happy to 1) see my first ball and 2) swiftly judge its line and length and leave it well alone.
The second ball was closer to my stumps and I lunged forward, missing the ball with something to spare.
The ball struck my left pad and there was an almighty howl for lbw from the bowler.
The umpire (from our team) initially stood stock still, like a statue, and I turned back to the crease. Sadly, execution was not long delayed and the finger eventually went up.
“It was absolutely plumb,” said the delighted bowler helpfully as I walked off.
My son Ben had lent me his bat and pads, hoping I would give them a workout, but in the event I only tested the latter.
He was, however, able to get something artistic out of my ordeal, snapping pictures of me walking to the wicket and my lonely return.
“I’ve put them on my Facebook page, Dad,” he chirped, “and I’ve changed the one with you walking back to black and white.”