...is that your team mates are scum, and there can be no rule other than pitiless autocracy.
I can cope with them telling me they're going to bowl well and then getting splattered everywhere. That's just what the pros call 'not executing your skills.' I certainly can cope with them dropping sitters off my bowling. Fuck knows, I do it often enough off theirs. I can even cope with them running me out when I'm feeling in the form of my life and an 85-year-old has just come on to bowl.
No, the problem is that when it comes to everything surrounding recreational activities, sensible, intelligent, capable adults regress to infanthood. They appreciate the effort that goes into making games happen, oh really, they do, it's just that they're buggered if they're going to do anything to help the process.
They need you to help them sort out a hotel room for tour because they can't find anywhere online. They can't turn up to the ground on time. They forget to write match reports. They 'don't know how to score'.They forget to declare their availability and get miffed when they're left out of the team (classic, that one). They can't look after the kit for a weekend because it smells and their girlfriend won't let them have it in the house. They want to bat because they didn't get to bat last week, but they don't want to open. But they don't want to go at six either, because that's too low. They can't believe you took them off when they were just finding their rhythm (and had gone for 38 from two overs). When I captained my college side half the cunts would hide under the square covers at the exact moment I was looking for someone to umpire.
It's not surprising, I suppose - they work hard all week, their lives are increasingly consumed by domestic chafe, and the cricket is just there to get them away from all that. Those of us who realise that without the drudgery there is no cricket become increasingly bitter. The very notion of a game taking place at all becomes a gigantic pain in the arse. You end the season disillusioned, hating everyone around you and on the very cusp of ramming a stump through someone's eye socket.
Perhaps I'm just pissed off because I've received my first utterly hapless email of the season. But the middle of April, for Christ's sake.
I can cope with them telling me they're going to bowl well and then getting splattered everywhere. That's just what the pros call 'not executing your skills.' I certainly can cope with them dropping sitters off my bowling. Fuck knows, I do it often enough off theirs. I can even cope with them running me out when I'm feeling in the form of my life and an 85-year-old has just come on to bowl.
No, the problem is that when it comes to everything surrounding recreational activities, sensible, intelligent, capable adults regress to infanthood. They appreciate the effort that goes into making games happen, oh really, they do, it's just that they're buggered if they're going to do anything to help the process.
They need you to help them sort out a hotel room for tour because they can't find anywhere online. They can't turn up to the ground on time. They forget to write match reports. They 'don't know how to score'.They forget to declare their availability and get miffed when they're left out of the team (classic, that one). They can't look after the kit for a weekend because it smells and their girlfriend won't let them have it in the house. They want to bat because they didn't get to bat last week, but they don't want to open. But they don't want to go at six either, because that's too low. They can't believe you took them off when they were just finding their rhythm (and had gone for 38 from two overs). When I captained my college side half the cunts would hide under the square covers at the exact moment I was looking for someone to umpire.
It's not surprising, I suppose - they work hard all week, their lives are increasingly consumed by domestic chafe, and the cricket is just there to get them away from all that. Those of us who realise that without the drudgery there is no cricket become increasingly bitter. The very notion of a game taking place at all becomes a gigantic pain in the arse. You end the season disillusioned, hating everyone around you and on the very cusp of ramming a stump through someone's eye socket.
Perhaps I'm just pissed off because I've received my first utterly hapless email of the season. But the middle of April, for Christ's sake.
That's all well and good but you still haven't credited me with a catch I took in the 07-08 season.
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