Lacking in the Middle Wicket Department

I must have a gene missing.

I am English, born in Buckinghamshire, know most of the words for Jerusalem and can get a bit emotional if our nation acheives great things in sport.  My warm feelings can be quite expansive on seeing a home based cyclist triumph in the World Championships or if our domestic football teams take on and win against the usually more technical and skilful European teams.

I am sorry to say however that I just do not get cricket.

Such an admission , say 100 years ago will have done for any career aspirations I may have had in the Civil Service and 50 years ago in the Diplomatic Corps. I did have a Grammar School education with cricket being a mainstay of the summer term, and by default even got to play in a proper match against another similar establishment. At other times I would be volunteered to keep score. This involved sitting on a deckchair in front of the pavilion, yes we had our own such building from the 1930's on the school field, with a large score book ledger in which, in a series of binary strokes I would record balls per over, runs per over and the extra things, called extras where there was a no-ball or a by.

Essential equipment for this task was a pencil eraser. Fortunately for the morale and fortitude of the cricketers there was always a Master sat adjacent who would tell me what to write and when. His patience and calm demeanour were quite admirable given my obvious disinterest and incompetence. He was a true follower of the sport and I could see him fidget and grimace with each ball bowled as though he was out on the crease himself. Periodically he would exclaim admiration at a good shot or display of fielding followed by polite clapping of the hands which I always likened to a chip pan just reaching the temperature for the sliced potatoes to go in.

If I was typical for the student intake at the school then cricket was doomed to die out due to lack of ability and interest. To instil us in the sport we were introduced to playing cricket in the summer term and on a warmish, dry and breezy wednesday games lesson it could be quite pleasant an experience unless you were stood in the direct firing line  for one of the most barbaric weapons in existence- the cricket ball.

An evil thing. Red leather, raised ribbed stitching, hard and heavy. I was immediately alerted to the hazards associated with gravity and a cricket ball as I ran about madly to try to catch a high arching strike during a practice session. The ball plummeted through the humid air, gathering momentum before smacking painfully through my prayerful upturned hands and passing through with still enough velocity to embed itself on my thigh leaving an almost perfect imprint of leather on skin and tendon. Ouch, as I exclaimed at the time.

There was no sympathetic response for my pain, just a lecture on what I had done wrong. This was followed by a personal training session on what I can only describe as a torture rack. Where it lived during the 10 months of the year when it had no use was a mystery. A low wrought iron frame supported a cradle of engineered wooden strips in a shallow bowl. It was a bit like a park bench but after sat upon by the worlds heaviest person. A cricket ball, thrown with vigour into the contraption would take the contour line of the wood and shoot out the other side like a slingshot with the intention for the recipient or target to attempt a catch. Without the commensurate concentration the experience was startling and shocking.

Some of my peers were excellent cricketers. They fully embraced the tradition and knew all the terminology and ritualistic procedure. We were also forced to practice in the cricket nets which I felt akin to being a coconut on a fairground shy. The good players revelled in throwing down a bouncing ball of maiming potential to invoke utter panic or if taking up the bat sending a rocket missile back up the netted corridor leaving a small window of opportunity to dive for cover.

Some sense was made of cricket when relatives of my father took me to a first class match involving Somerset and Middlesex in the early 1970's. I had been invited to keep another young guest company. He was very posh and evidently a big enthusiast but quite gracious in providing authoritative answers to some , quite frankly, stupid questions and queries that I raised. I remember that it was a good day out, very civilised and polite.

The mystery of cricket however persists in my mind. The end of the football season in May heralds the start of the cricket and I am sorry to say that I remain cold and unemotional to it. 

Is there something wrong with me?

(re-issued from 2 years ago to the day)