“Clonk!”
That oh-so familiar sound as for the 11th time this season the ball smacked into my stumps.
Five runs in a failed attempt to reach a pretty low total, and off I trudge, once again wondering why I’ve spent quite so much of my life trying to play this stupid game.
Batting-wise, it’s been one of my worst seasons in years, a series of what cricketers call “starts”, scoring between 5 and 15 and then getting out, and of course, the usual ducks (0 runs).
I’ve got two very smart catches to cling on to (pun intended), and a sumptuous cover drive that fizzed to the boundary in the second game which gave a great sense of (false) hope.
I’ve also made some pretty good jokes over the course of the season which everyone seemed to enjoy.
Another Season
Another season has passed, my 29th for the same club.
I made my debut in 1996, taking two catches at mid-off and scoring 4.
This was the start of what I had assumed to be a glorious career which would culminate in me overtaking my father as club record run scorer.
29 years on, the only records of his I’m likely to break are “games played” and “ducks scored.”
I’ve played at two home grounds, 500+ games, scored not enough runs, probably taken 200 catches, four wickets, had a great many laughs, and met more people than I can ever remember.
Precious memories
I always try to spend a minute or so looking at the ground after the last game.
I like to carry out a quick assessment of the season, my own performance and the club’s health in general. Summary: Mixed, crap and pretty decent.
Come April time, you can guarantee I’ll only remember the stupid things that happened and the annoying ways I got out.
The last Sunday match combined bright sunlight with a distinctly chilly wind, somehow symbolising it was time to end.
Once we’d finished, the sun was very bright and very low, casting shadows across an area that has been buzzing with cricket throughout the unusually dry British summer.
That’s that
There’s always a sadness at the end of a season.
The routine of playing, net practice in the week and the flap of making sure you’ve not forgotten your whites (I did this for the first time ever this season, arriving at the ground while my playing gear remained on the clothes horse), it all just suddenly ends.
What also stops is spending one afternoon a week larking around with your mates while also trying to achieve something.
It’s a curious contrast because, at the same time, it’s always the right time to finish.
Cricket is a grind, but the end of the season also marks the start of the more miserable time of year, where everything is grey, wet and dark.
“There’s always next year”
The season always ends with promises to myself that I’ll work hard in the off-season to improve.
Get fitter, get better at running, learn to throw properly again.
What usually happens is a lot of looking out of the window and deciding it’s too cold, wet and dark for all that nonsense.
Sadness and gladness
So in summary, you’re sad the season ends, but also glad it has ended, and you don’t really want to be playing cricket but you’re also counting the days until winter nets and the season starting again.
Is that clear?
The world of village cricket is wonderful.
The game itself is frustrating beyond belief, but those of us heavily involved in it find it extremely rewarding and hugely irritating at the same time.
The club won’t stop over the winter, as myself and the other dedicated members of the committee work behind the scenes to make sure everything is ticking over.
But it’s the playing that matters and now we’ve finished, the main thing to do is to count the days before we can begin the exhausting process of trying to play cricket well again.
Nine months to go, and I definitely won’t do all the stupid things I’ve done this year again (I definitely will).
