Michel van Oorschot

If I were a dog, I would be a mongrel. As a horse I would constitute 5% of a Tesco burger.

Most people start out as a glint in their parents' eyes. In my case, my parents sat down over a drink and had a conversation along the lines of "How shall we leave our mark on the world? I know… " So it came to pass. Without going into unnecessary, and frankly unsavoury, technicalities, let's say they wove a web that ultimately created the world's least fortunate cricket fan: viz, me.

Ever taken a jumping one-handed catch on the boundary using your left hand? Me neither. Now imagine taking aforementioned catch while holding a bat with three homicidal madmen jumping at you from all angles with bats of their own, trying to take your head off. Then, once you have caught the ball, instantly swat it for a huge six. Impossible, right? No!

In Ireland this happens on a daily basis and is considered child's play. Many of you may even have enjoyed a recent sanitised version as Eoin Morgan dished out a battering to Hyderabad Sunrisers' poor unsuspecting bowlers. The legend goes that Morgan developed his hand-eye coordination and textbook-defying sweeps through playing the Irish sport of hurling as a youngster. This ancient sport consists of equipping two teams of 15 with wooden sticks/clubs, a hefty dose of rage, and then unleashing them onto a field with instructions to get the cricket-sized ball between the opposition goalposts by any means necessary.

Hurling was on the verge of extinction in the 19th century as cricket swept the towns and villages of Ireland. However, a rise in Republicanism and revulsion at British imperialism led to the formation of traditional Irish sports clubs across the country and made life very difficult for remaining pockets of foolhardy cricket-loving Irish. English imperialism creating rifts in the cricket world? Some things never change.

Kids. I have nothing against them, honestly. I even have one myself.

But when the time comes for her to take my prized No. 8 slot (probably when she is eight) and bowl my allocated quota of boundary fodder, There Will Be Words. This is because children have been the bane of my cricketing career ever since I first realised how much fun it is to try and deposit offspinners over the deep midwicket boundary. And if it wasn't for a succession of annoying little brats taking my place in the middle order and leaving me to come in and face the returning demon fast bowlers, I might have managed to hit a six by now. Worse yet, if not for kids I am convinced my career batting average would be well into double figures.

This is purely a cricketing conundrum. In the dark winter months of infidelity to cricket I relish the sight of a child in the sports arena. When playing squash against teenie-boppers, I consider the match a complete failure if the young blighter doesn't demolish at least two rackets, threaten to throttle the referee (probably one of his parents) and leave the court in floods of tears. I won't go into what happens on the football pitch, but a reference to the physical attributes listed in my description may offer an indication of what awaits youngsters rash enough to venture near me. You may think I'm a cold, heartless bully but I have no compunction in putting kids in their rightful place. The first reason for this is that I went through it all myself. I smashed rackets, swore at my parents, sobbed in defeat (alright that was yesterday) and picked myself off the turf after another nutmeg gone wrong more times than I care to remember, and consider myself a better person for it. The second reason is sweet, sweet revenge for the suffering inflicted on me by cricket kids.

Bowled by a 12-year-old girl.

Three consecutive golden ducks.

Four dropped catches in a match.