16/05/11 - Croydon

Erm, so that's the only photo I managed, I'm afraid. And yes, I didn't exactly cover myself in glory with my photographic technique.

Anyway, as above photo amply demonstrates, perfect conditions in which to bowl, which having won the toss, we duly do. It's a bit of a shock, to say the least, when after ten overs the oppo aren't a wicket down and have gone at about eight an over. To be fair to our opening bowlers, they haven't done much wrong. They go past or take the edge countless times so we've got to leave the close catchers in; it's just that both batsmen can play and keep timing some nice shots (and rather less nice ones past the slips) which on a flat outfield keep racing for four.

Kudos to our captain - he sticks our chief purveyor of dibbly-dobblies on, and puts the field out. I'm parked at long on and have a little gander from behind his arm one ball just to see what it's doing - as expected, it's swinging like a brass band on the corner of 57th and Broadway.

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Semi-interesting digression corner:

My dad is a physicist and has done some research into the conditions required for a ball to swing. His findings, to my mind, are almost nonsensical. But they are what they are. There is no more physical evidence that the ball is more likely to swing in humid, overcast conditions, than a hot sunny day. That received wisdom about water droplets in the air, making the air denser so that the pressure acts more on the ball? There just aren't enough to make a difference.

From his scientific viewpoint, our perception of conditions and their effect on the ball amount to a gigantic collective delusion. We take huge decisions - the toss, the line we'll bowl, the field we'll set - on the basis of a hypothesis with no evidence to support it. We might think we see the ball hooping everywhere - but do we? Is it not to do with the fact that if you put the idea of 'bowling conditions' in both teams' minds, then their performances will always end up reflecting their beliefs? He would look at yesterday's game and say - 80-0 after 10 or so: are you sure it just wasn't quite easy to bat? Are they really playing and missing as much as you think?

Well, say I - even if you choose to totally disregard the masses of anecdotal evidence, what about the statistical evidence? For instance, James Anderson averaged about ten times more with the ball in the World Cup than he did during the home series against Pakistan. Even if you factor in all the other stuff (fatigue, the fact he wasn't always bowling at Umar Akmal, etc) that's a stunning discrepancy for an elite sportsman's performance. It's like Usain Bolt suddenly running the 100m in a minute and a half. But we just shrug our shoulders - they weren't his conditions.

Well, anyway. I've played cricket for nearly 20 years. I knew it wouldn't swing on Saturday. I knew it would swing on Sunday. So did a couple of other guys on our team - not least our skipper, which is why he took that decision. I had a bowl myself at the end, and the ball was beautifully polished on one side, and rough on the other. I could barely land it on the cut strip. I usually bowl two or three wides a game during a long spell. I bowled seven in an over. Or - as no doubt my Dad would suggest - did I just bowl badly, and imagine it?

Again, when we batted a couple of us noticed their opener was reversing it - the seam was presented beautifully for outswing on the way down, but it was drifting into the right hander's pads. (There's another received wisdom - that you have to bowl at 90mph to reverse it - you don't. From what I've seen on TV all sorts of medium pacers can do it, it's just that if like Wasim Akram you can bowl at 90mph and land it in the blockhole at will the effect is likely to be a bit more noticeable).

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As it happens our captain's the guy who nips out the most dangerous opener (further grist to CC Senior's mill - he's an off spinner) with some wonderfully flighted bowling. It's helped by our keeper, who is absolutely top class. Absolute pleasure to watch them both in action - bowler an Indian, keeper a Pakistani - playing some classical fielding cricket. From thereon we don't really look like letting it slip. A la 90s New Zealand, we do  a fine line in dibble, dobble and wobble (me the latter, I think), and with good keeping and excellent fielding we're turning into a bit of a bastard team to score runs off.

I have an inordinate amount of respect for one of said dobblers, who only took up the game a few years ago. He's turned himself into a painfully slow but relatively nagging purveyor of slow filth, and recently took his 50th wicket. It's hard not to respect someone who, when they started, was liable to get savaged into another county every other ball and who, now, always gets wickets and pretty much always goes at under six an over. Rather lets himself down today by over-enthusiastically celebrating an LBW decision against a child, but anyway.

Tea is taken, and I head out to open the batting. Now yesterday's hangover was rather monumental. Being a fucking prat, I went to the pub after the game and drank five pints on an empty stomach to make me feel better, which it did, when I went to bed. It didn't after I woke up at 5am with a stomach doing cartwheels and a thumping headache that wouldn't let me get back to sleep.

I think the runs I made in Cambridge were pretty much the first ones I've ever made while being hungover.

I've mentioned the biggest problem I face as a batsman before: the squealing lunatic that tells me to start slogging once I've got to about 10. I'm pretty sure it's the result of my cricketing history. At youth level I was basically a lower middle order bits-and-pieces player who came in and had a swing towards the end of the innings. In the school seconds I sometimes opened, but the firsts and my club team certainly had my number. In London I joined this lot - which at the time was a forehead-slappingly terrible pub team - where I had to open and hold up an end to give everyone else a chance to get out at the other.

I got better at it as I went on, but I'm only really experienced at first gear - work the ball around for three an over or so - or fifth, which usually kicks in once I've made 30 or so. The middle gears for me usually involve half-hearted hoicks that get me out more often than not, which is why I can't stand coming in anywhere other than one or seven/eight.

It turns into a massive problem with a hangover. The biggest problem isn't my reactions or technique - if anything I prefer pace as it keeps me in check -  it's the fact that my concentration goes and I start trying to play an innings that's neither cautious nor attacking enough. Happened on the Saturday, happened today. This time round it's a neat and tidy 16, before - well, a whole day later I still can't understand what I was trying to do. If I was being generous I'd say it was an attempt at lofting the ball over mid-off for six, but that would be ridiculously kind. I just decided to drive a ball that wasn't there for it, and rather than stopping the shot, followed through so the ball spiralled up in the air.

If yesterday's shot to get out was 'fucking crap', I can't think what words would do this one justice. I have a disgusting average for my main team - a bit over 30 at pub level - and while there have been other factors (aforementioned year spent batting on an outfield above all, sometimes batting down the order because I bowl too), it's hungover, nothing shots like this that have cost me more than anything.

So I sling my bat at the ground and call myself a cunt before I've even crossed the boundary, and of course not two overs later there's a fucking small child bowling. We win. I'm sure the others bat very well, and it's not especially easy out there, but I'm too annoyed with myself to pay much attention (sorry chaps, my blog). In fact I'm on the beers for the third night in a row within about fifteen minutes, and end up umpiring at the end to take my mind off it all. At one point I say 'Aaaand' as I begin calling the end of the over, and the fielder takes a shy at the stumps, leading to an overthrow. The bowler has a go at me for not calling dead ball, and I'm thinking about giving him both barrels - like the cheeky fucker wouldn't have appealed if the stumps had been hit - but instead I just sulk off to square leg.

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Sentimental conclusion corner:

I love my team, and I shouldn't give the impression it wasn't a great day, which it almost always is when I play for them. Post-match beer, banter and curry have remarkably restorative possibilities. When we started we were absolutely crap, and we didn't take ourselves seriously. Now we're almost good - unbeaten for a long time, though admittedly not against the greatest opponents - and we still sledge each other on the field and from the boundary, still give everyone a chance even if it means we could lose (and in fact it's been wonderful to see how much those players have blossomed the more faith we put in them) and still take anyone, be they borderline psychotic, criminally bad at cricket or even, on very rare occasions, relatively normal in every way.

We laugh at each other for being too fat. We laugh at each for being too short. We laugh at people for having too low an average. For having too high an average. For being too slow, and getting wickets. For being too fast, and not getting any. For being too bald. For being too old. For trying too hard. For not trying enough. One day, I hope, I'll be an old man trying to remember the games I played for this lot, and the only sound in my ears will be laughter.

The chap who was one of the founding fathers gave a very moving speech after he left London, which concluded with the words 'Look how many people we've made happy.' Well, we have - maybe 100 people, over the years. We're made up of God-knows-how-many different races and classes and rates of obesity, and every one of them get what we're about. We're seven years old this year. I hope I'm still around when we reach fifty.