A bat and ball game
A life-long cricket fanatic who finds the game a cruel mistress, James Fisher heads to the MCC Academy at Lord’s to brush up on his skills
James Fisher learns to play cricket at Lord’s, home of the beautiful, yet cruel game
THE only thing I hate about cricket is that I am unfathomably bad at it. Reader, I am very, truly, Bambion-ice-skates awful. Cricket has often been described as a cruel game; those long hours in the field, getting out first ball, bowling for 15 overs for absolutely no reward—these are just a few of the many mental and physical horrors that can occur on the pitch.
However, for me, cricket’s greatest trick, its most cruel joke, is that I spend almost every waking hour reading, watching, listening to and playing the game—yet despite my intense passion, I am still terrible. Like the most deranged of scorned lovers, I keep coming back, knowing that the great willowand-leather scorpion is guaranteed to sting me in the face yet again. I don’t really bat, I can’t really bowl and my fielding is dubious at best. I can sledge, I suppose, but then it’s difficult for the batsmen to hear you when you’ve been stuck on the boundary to minimise the damage your ineptitude might inflict upon the scoreboard.
I found the game late, aged 11. I remember my first day playing—a teacher casually turning and throwing me a ball in an afternoon PE session at my school in Suffolk. ‘Go on James, let’s see if you can have a bowl.’ I walked up to the end of the net, steadied myself and promptly wheeled my arm over my head, only to see the ball go skyrocketing upwards, over the nets, and landing some yards behind the batsman. The next effort was an over-correction, with the ball being fired directly into the wicket about a yard in front of me. ‘Somewhere in between those two and you’re golden,’ came the teacher’s giggled response, barely audible through the chorus of childish laughter from my classmates. I can’t remember what the batsman was up to, but I imagine he got a fair few pages through the novel he was reading at the other end before something resembling a legal delivery threatened the stumps. That was 17 years ago. Not much has changed.
And so, to Lord’s. Where else to cure my sickness? Where else to cure my faults as a cricketer and, by extension, my faults as a human being? It was the middle of September and the air was just beginning to take on that autumnal thickness. ‘Good conditions for swing, these,’ I muttered to
See ball, watch ball, hit ball: the author desperately attempts to protect his stumps and guide the ball away for runs myself, eternally the optimist, even in full knowledge that I have never managed to get a cricket ball to swing in my life. The season was all but over and yet here I was at the MCC Academy, ready to attempt to turn my cricketing life around, under the watchful auspices of James Fielding. I’d never had cricket coaching before, but had instead modelled my game on what I’d seen on the TV throughout my career. I was nervous. I wondered what they’d make of me, all 6ft 5in of my frame, with an action that resembled, as the famous phrase goes, a frog in a blender.
James, thankfully, was more than understanding. ‘Oh don’t worry mate, we’ve seen all sorts come through here. The important thing is that you want to get better and we can make you get better.’ So far, so good. ‘Why don’t you grab a few balls out of this bag, send a few deliveries down the pitch and let’s see what you can do.’
Situated behind the Nursery End of the main square, the academy is an all-encompassing structure containing just about every piece of equipment that an aspiring cricketer could ever hope to get their hands on. Whether it’s bowling machines that resemble alien craft from The War of the Worlds, Hawk-eye (the software used to give batsmen out LBW) or Pitchvision, it’s all there. Throw in some top-quality coaching and it’s hard to imagine someone leaving those hallowed halls without improving as a player. That said, they had never met me.
With all the goodwill of James behind me, I steamed in and fired some deliveries down the end of the net. ‘What did you think of that last one?’ I asked. ‘That would have troubled a few batsmen, right?’
‘Just keep going for the time being,’ came the reply, and so a few more balls were sent down, waywardly, before I was called back over. James had his ipad out with videos of me loaded on it. ‘You said earlier that you learned how to bowl from watching on the TV and now I’d like you to analyse yourself, as if you were on the TV.’ It didn’t take long to see what was wrong. For a tall man, my arm was obscenely low as it came past my head. ‘Your issue is that you’re not using your height. And the reason you’re not using your height is because your front foot is landing in completely the wrong place. We can fix this.’
And fix it we did. Cones were brought out, some technique was taught and we went through some drills. Foot straight,
Where else to cure my sickness? Where else to cure my faults as a human being?