It took me five minutes to become riled on my club cricket comeback

HUWZAT ON WEDNESDAY: The third delivery was wide of off stump and I deliberately kicked it away. ‘Howzzzzz!’ screamed the appeal from short fine-leg. I turned to face him and flashed him a disdainful look. I just can’t help it

It took three balls of my comeback for me to be riled.

I defended the first two balls from the veteran slow left-armer. You know the type: gnarled, canny, wily… similar ball every time, just puts it there, hint of tweak, no nice juicy freebies to get you off to a flier… certainly no filth: the 8-2-23-1 type.

The third delivery was wide of off stump and I deliberately kicked it away. ‘Howzzzzz!’ screamed the appeal from short fine-leg. I turned to face him and flashed him a disdainful look. I just can’t help it.

I scratched around a bit, a couple of singles here, a couple of fours off the 12-year-old leg-spinner’s first over there. As you do.

My opposing captain, about 25 years younger than me, then brought himself back on.

He was obviously really hacked off that his first spell had gone wicketless, and he was about two-thirds of the pace of the youngster who had opened the bowling with him.

The ball maybe nipped back a bit and hit my pads and was worth a shout, but I wasn’t too worried. It felt like it was missing leg and the umpire – my team-mate, to be fair – confirmed that.

The bowler ran through, however, refusing to decelerate his Stuart Broad-style ‘celebrappeal’. He ended up a couple of feet away from me, and when he realised he was going to be denied, he held his sweaty head in anguished fury and disbelief.

I can’t bear this modern disease of recreational cricket. The weekend warrior in full flow: appealing every other delivery.

“You boys go up for everything, eh?” I pointed out to him.

“I’m entitled to appeal!”

“Yes, but you know it wasn’t out. The umpire has turned it down. Now off you go.”

Why do I do it?

Why do I get so goddam so involved?

A team-mate who was a policeman once told me that if he ever had me in the interview room ‘out the back’ he’d get an admission out of me in seconds.

Merv Hughes and Steve Waugh would have me on toast. I would literally dissolve before their eyes, like ice cream in the Outback.

And not just involved, but nervous. So nervous.

I had an urge to smoke my first cigarette in two decades.

It’s not as if I’m leading a peace envoy trying to avert global conflict. It’s a club cricket match for crissake.

But the nerves are there the night before, when you wake up, when you wait to bat, until you have made 20 or 30 really.

They were always there, from your first competitive match of cricket at the age of nine, to your last aged 59 (or later).

It’s a horrible feeling, that dread of failure.

^{The recreational game has made a joyous return}

Starting every innings on 0 again. Trying to wait for the bad ball, telling yourself ‘don’t give it away’; ‘concentrate’; ‘let it come to you’.

This is my first full-time (if not full, thanks to Covid) season back in ‘proper’ club cricket, after 21 years of mainly ‘jazz hat’ stuff, friendlies, games with mates, or playing like-minded wandering sides who – like me – couldn’t commit every weekend because of family or work.

I’d been looking forward to it, but it’s not easy.

Until I make a decent score, 50-plus, I won’t feel I belong. I won’t totally enjoy it.

Now there’s no place to hide either.

When I played my last season in Suffolk in 1999, there was no such thing as Play-Cricket.com.

Now the world and his mum can see how you are doing (as if they give a damn, but still…).

I was expecting an absolute volley of abuse after my words with their skipper from his team-mates, but none was forthcoming.

He had a bit of fun, posting a short-leg and two silly points to me against the spinner.

They get into your head, don’t they?

I patted a full toss back when I should have smashed it straight at their damn shins.

I didn’t make many more runs, pulled a short ball down fine-leg’s throat – a good catch – and was out for 16.

Again.

That’s three matches for my ‘new’ club: one each for the 3rds, 4ths and 5ths (the other two appearances were in an aborted comeback in 2016). Each time I have made 16. Weird.

I thought that was quite funny, statistically improbable, so I put it on Twitter.

“Means your (sic) shite,” a kindly soul who I have never met posted.

How sweet.

So no eighth career century for me this week (see what I did there?).

The oppo said ‘well batted’ to be fair and then their skipper chatted to me at tea and at the end. I bought him a beer.

The rest of the day was fun.

It was lovely to be out there after our pandemic-enforced absence.

I adore being captain.

It means I can bowl when I want to.

I gave myself one over this week. Had six in last week’s friendly. But at least I decide. Not somebody with a fraction of my experience.

The company was pretty good.

We nearly grabbed an unlikely victory against a team theoretically stronger than us.

Surrey and England legend Micky Stewart came to watch his grandson play against us. We chatted. That was brilliant. At 88 he looks in exceptional form.

Although there was no formal tea because of the restrictions and I didn’t bring my rolls as we’d run out of margarine, I didn’t waste away.

The lager tasted good afterwards.

So why did I get so het up?

Goodness knows.

A team-mate confided in me that if I get infuriated by that lot, “wait until next week. They are much worse.”

Ooof.

I can’t wait!