Yes, No, Sorry

‘Yes, run Son!’ Dad cried.

I had made good contact with the ball and instantly obeyed the command from my batting partner. Although I had my doubts about the wisdom of the decision, I was halfway up the batting track when my fears crystalised and then came the fateful cry:

‘No! Get back!’

I slammed on the metaphoric anchors, the studs in my shoes chewing up the turf as I attempted to arrest my forward momentum. I needed to reverse direction and try to regain the safety of my batting crease. The fielder swept in and cleanly picked up the ball and prepared to propel it back to my exposed wicket. They say that time slows down and that life itself flashes before your eyes as the moment the death approaches. On this occasion the experience occurred to me at the impending end of my innings:

Cricket, oh wonderful cricket! A sport which is a metaphor for life. It has been an ever present in my existence. My earliest memories are from the village cricket green, sitting on a tartan picnic blanket with my mother and grandparents watching my dad play this wonderful game. I am told that I was completely entranced and refused to wear a hat to protect my fair blond locks from the dazzling golden Sun of the Summer of ’76! ‘Hat off’ was the cry.

I am now old enough to start to understand the game. I have seen Botham win the Ashes and now the magnificent West Indian team are dominating the Cricket World. It is Christmas and I am playing cricket with my dad. We are in the living room and are playing a game where the badminton racket is the bat and a table tennis ball the substitute for the leather clad cricket variety in my hand. My delivery was slightly overpitched full at his legs, Dad leaned forward and clipped it neatly over my shoulder. Yet, I leapt backwards and stretched out my right arm took a one-handed catch! Whilst simultaneously my left-hand rests against the wall preventing me from crashing into the Lego set that Santa had brought me the previous Eve.

I am now old enough to go to Cricket with Dad on my own. In a plastic bag I have a big bottle of orange squash along with my sandwiches in a Tupperware box. But, more importantly I have my own bat and ball. I beg the Cricketers to play with me. If I am lucky one of Dad’s teammates will have also brought his child along and we have our own games wearing out our own cricket pitch along the the side of our parents.

However, I just love sitting in a tree watching my dad play and his team play. From that secret perch I witnessed amazing endeavours; full stretch running catches on the boundary edge! Throws whipped in from the deep, fizzing in true and straight as an arrow. Wickets demolished and immense sixes struck!

I am now old enough to start scoring the game. My Dad has brought me a mini scoring book and I am keen to use it. I know my letters and I know my numbers and the intricate laws of this centuries old sport. Therefore, I can record the process of this magnificent game with pencil and paper. A series of notations to record the outcome of every delivery; a dot indicates that no run has been scored, whilst a ‘W’ shows when a wicket and fell and there are many, many more. I dutifully record each ball bowled, each run hit, every boundary smashed! I get to know the players in the team, they get to know me! I get to watch my dad score runs, I see him swooping in and fielding the ball, and even more exciting clinging onto catches in the gully!

I am now old enough to start playing the game. We have a teacher at Primary School keen on the game. My Dad volunteers to help look after us as we compete in a local festival and his hat is spotted on TV! I have started playing for the Club’s junior team, making friends that will be there for the rest of my life. Us younger ones do not always get to play in the big games all that often but when I do the ball flies over my head, yet I reach back and with my right hand I take the catch! Is that Brian’s young one I hear one of the elder players from behind the boundary. ‘Yes Dad’ I think; ‘it was your son!’

I am loving being part of a club! My Dad is the Fixture Secretary his responsibility is to arrange the team’s games for the season. I listen from my bed as he sits in the hall and rings his opposite number from teams near and far. I get to learn their names and will know who is playing who, where and when. Little do I know that in less than twenty years I will be doing the same! But in the meantime, I get to see my dad skippering the team! My Dad who was the opening Batsman and took lots of bangs and bruises, but I was so proud to watch him succeed.

I am now old enough to be running a team! I am the Captain of the Second XI and we are playing away against an old foe. I am so proud to be leading the team and cannot wait to open the batting with my old Dad! The man who inspired me to love this game. The man who has always played fair and who is respected by friend and opponent alike. The first ball I receive I stroke to into the covers, and he cries;

‘Yes, come One!’ Pause. ‘No get back!

I am stuck in the middle of the pitch and there is no way I am getting back to safety. Pain is etched on Dad’s face! He has sold me short but that was not his intention. Like life cricket has its ups and downs. And as the ball strikes the wicket dislodging the bails I curse! But Dad has shown me this amazing game and he has taught me how to behave both on and off the field, so I shrug and smile because there is always another game.