Club cricket's lesson in humility

For DANIEL GALLAN, last weekend was supposed to be a glorious return to the cricket field after a long wait. The sport's gods had other things in mind...

It’s a horrible game really.

We wax lyrical about the luxurious green outfields, the gorgeous manicured strips, the lifelong friendships and the sheer ecstasy of perfect summer day, but cricket is a sport of the masochists and self-loathers. 

Even the greats know this, same as everyone else. This game is an angry cobra. Take your eyes off it for a second and it will spit in your eye and sink its teeth in you without hesitation. 

I forgot that for a fleeting moment last Saturday and am now paying a very heavy pice for my lapse in deference and the weight of my hubris.

I’d just bowled my opening spell for my new club in my first outing since lockdown was eased. My back creaked a little and there were a few deliveries pushed down leg, but a handy return of 2-16 from my miserly in-swing left a stupid smile on my face.

I’m a 32-year-old man and was filled with the same warmth I’ve felt on a field since I first turned my arm over a quarter of a century ago.

Stationed at extra cover my mind turned to my brand new GM duffle bag where my brand new Kookaburra Ghost 3.2 was resting.

I’d been finding its middle with increasing regularity over two months of net practice and I couldn’t wait to introduce it to a ball in a game that mattered. A gettable total was developing on the horizon and already I had visions of scaling that peak.

Less than an hour later I was in A&E, staring at an X-ray of my hand, barely hearing the nurse explain how long a broken bone takes to heal. Earlier, in my stupor induced by visions of cover drives and late cuts, I had drifted too close to the bat from my station at short extra cover.

First game back. Cricket, bloody hell. pic.twitter.com/dLE38BBDFw

— Daniel Gallan (@danielgallan) July 11, 2020

The No.8 at the crease hadn’t timed a single delivery for 20 minutes but our young off-spinner sought to remedy that with a generous full toss. 

I was snapped into consciousness by the cries of “catch!”. My instincts took the wheel as I shot out my right hand only to meet the onrushing ball with the tip of my ring finger. I watched as my nail exploded in a burst of blood. It was clear by the angle of my distal phalanx that my already truncated debut season was over before it had truly begun.

Is there a lesson in the sad tale? Don’t volunteer to stand in the covers when a perfectly safe position at short fine leg is available.

That’s one of the many things I considered while clutching my throbbing hand in the waiting room of the Whittington Hospital. But that doesn’t sit right. We want to be part of the action. The ball is scary and hard, and the game is difficult, but no one grows up wanting to play the role of Jack Leach at Headingley.  

The truth is had I been where I was supposed to have been - about 10 metres back - I wouldn’t be writing this exploration of self-pity with just one hand. I’m not saying I would have held on to the catch, but I’m confident the worst thing that would have happened would have been a simple dropped catch and the reminder that I’m no Jonty Rhodes.

And that’s the thing with this sport. Like Icarus, the closer you fly to the sun the closer your doom lies. That is why every attacking stroke carries a degree of risk. That is why every bouncer bowled is just a few centimetres away from a juicy long hop.

Only those who like their tea especially milky would prefer to watch a day of Geoffrey Boycott than half an hour of Shahid Afridi, but we all know who we’d rather bat for our life. The mortality of it all, the no second chances, that’s what keeps us coming back.

That is my lesson from this whole affair, that and the NHS is a treasure.

I’ve learned to respect the game for the sadistic beast that it is. Learned is not the right word. Reaffirmed is more appropriate.

And if at any time I forget myself and start dreaming grandiose dreams on the field, I’ll only have to look at my wonky digit to sober myself up with a dose of humility. 

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