Clog Blog

All good things must come to an end; Dutch dominance of European club football, Zimbabwe’s steady progression in international cricket (although an almighty comeback appears closer than ever), Aberdeen Football Club’s start-of-season winning streak (we managed to string together an imposing two victories), the glorious years of being able to consume lethal quantities of alcohol without suffering from a slight tenderness in the domal region the next day (how I envy those student scum). As distressing as those all are, the items on that list all pale in comparison with the single most miserable date in my annual calendar – the end of the cricket season.

The end of the cricket season is always a strange sensation for me. I generally look forward to it with some satisfaction, mainly due to my customary end-of-season dramatic collapse in form. It is usually when I start contemplating whether to buy the latest Predators or stick with the Total 90 boots for the coming football season during my run-up that I know I have drawn a mental conclusion to the cricketing period. In fact a neutral observer could probably be able to tell what month of the summer it is by judging my reaction to an edge for four through third man: if I aim a barrage of expletives and personal abuse at that bat-wielding scumbag, odds are it’s the start of the season, probably the first few weeks of May, but if I simply shrug my shoulders and whistle on my way back to my mark, it’s safe to say that autumn may rapidly be approaching. Those are the endpoints on “Rene’s Scale of Batsman Abuse”, which contains a large variety of manners in which to respond to being hit for a lucky boundary, each representing a different month of the summer.

Of course you will now be wondering why on earth I feel so sad at the end of the season if I seem so indifferent in the weeks running up to it. That is because, without fail, in the very last game of the season I, or any cricketer for that matter, will at some point have a moment of cricketing enlightenment that will make you remember why it is such a brilliant game. This moment does not have to be particularly significant in the context of the game; it does not require any personal milestone such as a five-for or ton or even a fifty. It could be anything, from a perfect cover drive that pierces the off side for four (or in my case the perfect chinese cut that pierces fine leg for four), a diving catch at slip, a single delivery that nips back and sends off stump cartwheeling, or even just a bouncer that the batsman wears in his ribs. Anything that would give a reasonable sense of personal satisfaction in any other match is significantly enhanced by at least several factors in the last game of the season.

The Scottish cricket season came to a thundering conclusion last Saturday as crucial ties all around the country were being decided (with just a touch of help from the elements). For the small isolated minority that do not follow the sporting grandeur that is Scottish domestic cricket (your loss), the impressive Edinburgh-based Grange Cricket Club took the illustrious Scottish Premier League title. Unfortunately, the bookies' favourite, the mighty Aberdeenshire CC, couldn’t repeat last year’s heroics of doing the double as a series of crucial injuries, unfortunate AWOLs and critical retirements took their toll on a stretched squad. The vacuum left by the talented Kiwi pro and amateur duo that dominated our batting and bowling averages the year before proved to be difficult to replenish. More importantly, however, I am sure that Cricinfo readers will rejoice at the news that our second XI, led by the notorious Buck Escobar Oakman, was once again successful in retaining their crown by winning the ever-competitive, and world renowned, Strathmore and Perthshire Union Premier League.

Oddly enough we still managed to get comprehensively annihilated in the last game of our season. However, having already won the league our sorrow was short-lived (there was a 15-second window during which we were truly inconsolable) and the remarkably familiar sound of carbon dioxide coming out of solution as a result of a sudden decrease in pressure (i.e. the opening of cans of lager) could be heard from the crease where I was playing a minor part in a not-so-heroic last stand. Rule of thumb: if I am needed to bat it can safely be assumed that the team is in trouble). My contribution to the match was pretty much limited to a few wickets and a bucket load of no-balls conceded during my opening spell. Unfortunately there was no financial incentive in my case; it was simply down to my inability to jog 14 paces without breaking stride. Although I feel I should add that I am very much open to bribes, preferably in the form of the aforementioned carbonated cans of amber liquid, in return I shall endeavour to bowl no end of wides, no-balls, beamers and long hops (cue riotous “not much different from your usual spell then” remarks).

Faithful readers may have noticed that I have thus far avoided talking about the lesser of the two of cricket’s great skills (Yes, two. Fielding is a little like the Zimbabwe cricket team. We all know it is there, but we do our best to avoid it). The more cynical among you probably suspect that this is because my batting achievements have not exactly set the world alight. Well, that is just not true. While my 52, scored for Mannofield’s 4th XI against Inn at the Park 3rd IX (not a typo), probably isn’t quite up there with Sachin’s ODI double-ton or Lara’s 400, their third-change bowler got some decent bounce for an 11-year-old, and their “spinner” was probably olde... I mean more experienced than our entire team put together.

I will put the trumpet to rest now, I promise. This week I will highlight the plight of repressed batsmen. They may be sadistic sods with an attitude to fair play that would disgust even John McEnroe, but believe it or not, they have feelings too. Batsmen, more than anyone else in cricket, are nerds at heart. In fact, had Bill Gates been born in India or in Australia, he would probably be opening the batting for them in Test matches. The reason that every true batsman has an inner Hermione Granger bursting to get out is that he is consumed by statistics. Ask any batsman worth his salt how his season is going and he will reel off his aggregate, average, strike rate, proportion of runs in boundaries, how he got out and various umpiring grievances for not just the current season but the five preceding. Ask a bowler the same question and he will grunt, shrug his shoulders and mutter something like “a’right” before shoving aside some batsman’s vodka tonic and grabbing his pint of lager.

So you will see that, because statistics determine the very soul of every batsman, the story I am about to unfold is a tragedy of Grecian proportions. Picture the scene: A young batsman strolls off the field to a ripple of applause, raises his bat and acknowledges his team-mates (and mother), who have just witnessed his first century of the season. Feeling immensely satisfied with a job well done, he loosens his pads in the changing room and does what every self-respecting batsman would do in the same situation, i.e. calculate the impact on his season and career averages. Just as he decides to discount the duck scored in the early April friendly - as, a) a clearly terrible decision, b) not a league match anyway, and c) discounted so it would push his average over 41.33 recurring - he hears a faint tinkle against the window. “Oh well, if it rains at least I won’t have to indulge in that tiresome fielding routine that we batsmen seem to be unable to ban from the game”. The game is subsequently called off, as the light shower becomes a monsoon, the likes of which have rarely been seen in Aberdeen grade cricket. The batsman shrugs his shoulders and goes home. The next morning he wakes up and immediately checks the online record of the match to check whether his calculations were indeed correct. To his horror, there is no score recorded against his name and, worse still, his average remains unchanged. Thinking this must be some kind of horrible mistake, he calls the scorer, who bravely masks his disgust at being woken up at 5.33am on a Sunday morning to say: “Sorry Jacques, but stats from abandoned games do not count towards the averages.”

Picture the scene: an early spring Aberdeen afternoon, on a hill overlooking the wonders of Aberdeen airport, 11 similarly dressed men are loafing about on a field, hands firmly in pockets and heads facing their feet. It has only been a few days since the snow has decided to pack it in for the season and has left in its wake an icy wind piercing its way through the earlobes of the athletes in question. It can only mean one thing: university cricket season is in full swing along with all its associated horrors.

As I stumble in to bowl, my numb hands are unable to find their way along the seam. The result is a wide long hop, which is firmly dispatched for maximum over deep cover by the St Andrews opener, who has a bronze tan (despite the weather) and an imposing chin. No complaints are forthcoming from yours truly as that delivery got exactly what it deserved. In fact, I am pretty content with the outcome: it was a legal delivery, meaning I have completed another sixth of this tortuous over. My team-mates greet the whole affair with a deathly silence, no doubt cursing the day my parents met under their breath.

Then, suddenly, from the regions of cover, a single supporting voice unexpectedly pipes up with, “No worries Ren, floor ‘im with the next one, aim for that runway he calls a chin. You could land a Chinook on that bad boy”. It’s our new recruit, a fresher from the village of Leek, near Stoke. I am stunned.

When one considers the many issues captains have to deal with, several stress generators immediately spring to mind: selecting a team, having to drop underperforming players, having to re-pick said dropped players due to last minute call-offs (always pretty awkward conversations), batting order, bowling options, explaining woeful results to the committee (a problem we solved at university by not having a committee), etc etc.

However, possibly one of the most crucial decisions, and one that is a constant source of migraines for many amateur captains, is which of your players to volunteer for the dreaded umpiring duties. Granted, this is not a decision that the likes of Andrew Strauss, Chris Gayle or even Ricky Ponting will worry about, but in more “casual” cricket leagues, choosing umpires wisely can give you that vital edge over your opponents.

Now, before I continue, I would just to like to point out that in no way do I, nor any team I have ever represented (even those captained by the infamous Buck and the Glaswegian fishmonger, despite claims to the contrary – especially concerning the latter) condone umpiring skulduggery of any sort.

My injuries tend to follow a cyclical trend and this summer it appears that I have hit one of many peaks. It is not just me who suffers from this affliction: over the past few months, Aberdeenshire CC has become a cash cow for physiotherapists as the casualty list is starting to resemble War and Peace. It is thus no surprise that results from all four XIs have been less than desirable as they slide down their respective league tables. The only silver lining is that one of the club’s main strike bowlers, a seven-foot mountain giant who flosses giraffes for a living and terrorises batsmen in his spare time, is on the mend and should be back causing severe urinary incontinence to many an opening pair in the near future.

Anyway, the point of all this is that our cricket over the last month has been pretty dismal, and having been stripped of my ability to contribute a few overs, I am personally about as likely to have an effect on the outcome of the game as a Tour de France winner is to pass a drugs test (although, to be honest, I wasn’t much of a game changer at the best of times). I am thus left with very limited material and I promise not waste your valuable time recounting the calamity that is my current cricket season, but will instead detail the humble beginnings of my floundering cricket career on the grassless pitches of Muscat, Oman.

The first team I ever played for was founded by, among others, my two older brothers (if you know them, this fact should tell you all you need to know). It was the inaugural American British Academy Muscat cricket team and competed in the lowest local league in the city. Having never played cricket before, we were of course, and this is being generous, an offence to cricketers everywhere, an athletic eyesore, and the most useless collection of untalented individuals ever to don whites. We did, in fact, end bottom of the league on several occasions, making us the worst cricket team in Oman, and thus, by implication, quite probably the worst competitive cricket team in the world.

Having locked myself in my flat for the week, cowering in a corner of my living room, hidden under a Dutch flag and hugging the remains of an orange vuvuzela whilst rocking back and forth in a foetal-like position, I find myself contemplating my life’s athletic priorities.

Over the last eight years both football and cricket have dominated my sporting life and as the respective seasons overlap one another each year, I need to decide which one takes priority. The decision is usually taken using the method perfected by American politics, i.e. the knee-jerk reaction. If I have a run of ducks, wicketless games, dropped catches and, more importantly, rubbish teas, I tend to favour the beautiful game. However, this attitude may reverse in the space of seconds, when, say, some ginger-haired midget, reeking of booze, with pupils the size of dinner plates pulsating so violently they look set to explode, crashes into me with a two-footed dropkick. As I feel his sharpened studs steadily dig into my groin I may find myself longing for the bored hours spent counting grass stems at fine leg. Every year I find myself facing this choice and this year is no exception.

Although I am 25 years old, mentally I haven’t aged since the age of 14, and physically I have accelerated to around 40. This means that like any 14-year-old I would like to, among other things, play sport all day every day. Unfortunately my body is about as resistant to injury as you would expect any 6ft 4in lump of meat at just a shade under 100kg (220 lbs) to be. Currently I am carrying a permanently swollen right ankle (football and bowling), a displaced left shoulder joint (mountain-biking - I have a lovely bit of bone sticking out of my shoulder and am banned from taking my shirt off in certain public areas), a strained knee ligament (football), and a mystery injury to my right shoulder, which for the last few weeks has prevented me from bowling (this unexpectedly occurred whilst I was giving my older brother a serious education in beach football). I imagine that the word “hypochondriac” may be balancing on the tip of your tongue right now, dying to be spat out at your computer screen, but unfortunately I guarantee the authenticity of these, which means that over the last few years I have led a very sporadic athletic life.

Well, it looks like someone up there took note of my last blog. After my moan about all things meteorological last week, I was compensated with one of the most beautiful days for cricket I have ever had the good fortune of being involved in. Not merely content with the finest streak of weather seen in Scotland since the arid conditions of the Permian era (geological reference – it won’t happen again, I promise), we also happened to be playing at one of the most idyllic grounds in the country.

Rossie Priory Cricket Club is an absolutely stunning ground located several miles south of Dundee (thankfully the pestilent influence of which does not quite extend far beyond the actual city limits) along the hill slopes of the Rossie estate. It is one of the oldest cricket clubs in Scotland (established 1828) and presumably has not changed much since its formation. The showers for example, can only be accessed by navigating your way through a herd of sheep and associated faecal debris (if the match wasn’t enough, you will most certainly need a shower after that). They have to be turned on three weeks in advance with the help of several rain buckets, an assortment of levers and pulleys, a 19th-century generator and a deaf mule.

The only glitch in an otherwise perfect day came at the start of the match, when Buck, our Colossal Captain, lost the toss (his coin-tossing ability is about on par with his people skills) and we were put in to bat. Covers are non-existent (they are an eyesore for the lady of the Estate, whose Priory overlooks the ground), thus the wicket tends to be damp in the morning but hardens during the day as the aforementioned glorious solar warmth does its work.

Well, my cricket season has started off with customary exhilaration; Chelsea won the premiership, Aberdeen avoided relegation and FC Twente were the surprise champions of the mighty Dutch Eredivisie.

Yep, you guessed it, same old Scottish story.

“Game called off on account of rain.”

For as long as I can remember our team has “benefited” from the services of a professional cricketer. Many a lazy Saturday afternoon has seen me doze about on a cricket field contemplating the major concerns in my life (i.e. the state of Dutch football) whilst a cricketing demi-god from the southern hemisphere does our dirty work with his triple-figure batting average and single figure bowling average (my anti-clone). The following game occurred last season and is a prime example of cricket at its most pointless.

The opposition are on about 60 for 0 after 10 overs (thankfully I am not the only bowler having a bad game; an off day is a thing best shared), so we bring on the Pro to change things up a bit. The Pro is described on Cricinfo as gentle right-arm-medium, which in our club-cricket tongue roughly translates to “right-arm-probably-going-to-crack-amateur-cricket-skulls”.