Sport...
I have a stag do to go on this weekend and while I'm fairly confident about the drinking bit of the day, I've been training for that for a long time, I'm slightly dreading the obligatory sober activity in the day.
This is a real shame as to most Englishmen it's a chance of a lifetime. We're going to play cricket at Lords.
Lords, the hallowed field of great cricketing achievement, the long history of bitter battles with the colonies, W.G. Grace, Bodyline and to cap it all, me.
As with most, if not all, sports I am pitched at just below average. I can get by if I'm not stretched too far or trusted with any of the important jobs.
In the Keystone Cops extravaganza of a school playtime football game, I was invariably picked as the left back for which ever team got lumped with me, even when someone actually wanted to play there.
The taking part was still a real pleasure, the camaraderie and shouting were so much fun, as was the development of my relationship with the less crap and entirely mental lad picked to be the keeper, but God help me if the ball actually landed nearby.
A flapping swipe of the foot at the ball with one eye on the clustered horde of 7 year olds bearing down on me was about as good as I got, and to my credit occasionally it went where I wanted it to go.
It's, then as now, those rare flashes of mediocre skill that put me in an even worse position because they create a very false impression, not only for my self-confidence but also the team I'm playing for.
It's usually the first move I make that creates something special meaning everything else afterwards is a disappointment and the scowling brow and sad eyes of sporting failure are among the least desirable facial features to have pointed at you.
So to tomorrows sporting feast. I have a feeling I'll be the mug sent up to bowl first and inexplicably my slow paced, minimal spin delivery, which is normally smashed to the boundary with an belittling snigger, will trickle it's way through the military defences of the batsman and tap the bails to the ground.
A moments glory and with arms raised and a howled linguistic compound I'll be crowned bowler for the day, then as the skill levels plummet and the fraud of my victory is unveiled I'll once again be faced with the disappointment of my team.
Those poor, good men whose hopes will rest on my crumbling shoulders and for whom I'll have nothing to give beyond a sorry smile and a shrug.
Still, as time goes by and I can re-tell the tales of the day I'll be able to say I took a wicket at Lords. A very lucky and very poorly delivered wicket, but a wicket none the less.
This is a real shame as to most Englishmen it's a chance of a lifetime. We're going to play cricket at Lords.
Lords, the hallowed field of great cricketing achievement, the long history of bitter battles with the colonies, W.G. Grace, Bodyline and to cap it all, me.
As with most, if not all, sports I am pitched at just below average. I can get by if I'm not stretched too far or trusted with any of the important jobs.
In the Keystone Cops extravaganza of a school playtime football game, I was invariably picked as the left back for which ever team got lumped with me, even when someone actually wanted to play there.
The taking part was still a real pleasure, the camaraderie and shouting were so much fun, as was the development of my relationship with the less crap and entirely mental lad picked to be the keeper, but God help me if the ball actually landed nearby.
A flapping swipe of the foot at the ball with one eye on the clustered horde of 7 year olds bearing down on me was about as good as I got, and to my credit occasionally it went where I wanted it to go.
It's, then as now, those rare flashes of mediocre skill that put me in an even worse position because they create a very false impression, not only for my self-confidence but also the team I'm playing for.
It's usually the first move I make that creates something special meaning everything else afterwards is a disappointment and the scowling brow and sad eyes of sporting failure are among the least desirable facial features to have pointed at you.
So to tomorrows sporting feast. I have a feeling I'll be the mug sent up to bowl first and inexplicably my slow paced, minimal spin delivery, which is normally smashed to the boundary with an belittling snigger, will trickle it's way through the military defences of the batsman and tap the bails to the ground.
A moments glory and with arms raised and a howled linguistic compound I'll be crowned bowler for the day, then as the skill levels plummet and the fraud of my victory is unveiled I'll once again be faced with the disappointment of my team.
Those poor, good men whose hopes will rest on my crumbling shoulders and for whom I'll have nothing to give beyond a sorry smile and a shrug.
Still, as time goes by and I can re-tell the tales of the day I'll be able to say I took a wicket at Lords. A very lucky and very poorly delivered wicket, but a wicket none the less.
posted by Paul Seymour at 5:03 AM
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