Sorry, I slipped

The excuse is a method of self-defence, and a vital skill in the preservation of a club cricketer's ego. Where the professional player has an audience of coaches and HD cameras to scrutinise every action of his game, and the self-made error is there for all to see, the amateur has licence to blame an external force for his downfall. Depending on the mistake that needs a scapegoat, the excuse for the golden duck, dropped catch, or that over that mostly ends up in the next field, will be anybody's, or anything's, fault but our own.

The light, either too much of it or too little, can pretty much help out in any predicament. The spilled chance - from that lollipop that loops into your hands and then onto the grass, to the flat-batted screamer that singes your fingertips because you were too scared to make the attempt - can be nullified with the universal "I didn't pick it up", followed by a shrug of the shoulders, and perhaps a point to either the background or the sun. There is no argument with the player who can't see the ball - who can check your eyesight to see if you're lying? - and this bad light/bright light excuse can be called upon whether at the crease, while fielding, or not wanting to give your team-mate out stumped because you're staring into the setting sun.

Unfortunately I had none of these particular defenders at hand when I once dropped an absolute sitter at cover. Our famously luckless opening bowler was doing the Stuart Broad double teapot and glaring. My plea was that I'd slipped. I theatrically checked my studs and then the turf. Obviously the groundsman had over-watered the square. But when the batsman went on to make a hatful of runs, I had no allies, until weeks after the game, when a photographer sent us photos of the match. Quite clearly I could be seen losing my footing, and was nearly horizontal when my hands actually clutched at the ball. The bowler was having none of it. I'd dropped a sitter, as simple as that. The lesson was that an excuse must be instant to be effective.

At club level it is the beleaguered umpire who is the scapegoat for the struggling batsman. I know players who swear they have never truly been out lbw. Every such dismissal is put down to either bias or a poor decision, but never, God forbid, their own lack of ability. And when that middle stump is pegged back, or the big hit ends up in the hands of the infield, the bad workman is quick to blame his tools. From bats that are too heavy, grips that slip, to dud blades that the well-heeled club player will toss aside.

Bowlers are a different breed to batsmen, and possibly even more creative when it comes to finding an excuse for a bad ball, spell, or lack of form. My own go-to object of blame is the ball. As a swing bowler I need a surface that buffs it to a decent shine. A cheap cherry with peeling lacquer that resembles an old dishrag after a few overs is the first excuse. Then the weather: obviously the wrong conditions for swing bowling; either too dry, wet, windy or calm. And if the conditions are perfect, the skipper has got me bowling from the wrong end, at the wrong time. If it's the right end, the run-up is bumpy. Or on a slope, or the footing is uneven. Or I'm bowling too soon after a particularly opulent tea - although indigestion can hardly be an excuse when I'm the one solely responsible for putting half a dozen cream scones down my gullet.

In a game with so many variables, the list of excuses is almost inexhaustible. This season alone I've witnessed a batsman blame the umpire (me) for his golden duck as I called play before he was ready (not true); a catch dropped because someone in the crowd (of three) said "Catch!"; a slow-scoring opener bowled after uncharacteristically hauling across the line because he thought his team-mates were ironically cheering his forward-defensive prods; a player run out wearing oversize pads - all because he had lent his own pads to the team-mate who ended up stranding him; a sitter at mid-on fluffed because of "sweaty palms"; and a batsman, in form and scoring freely, dismissed when his dad turned up and told him to "play straight" after he whipped a half-volley from outside off stump through midwicket - he was castled next ball, showing the bowler the maker's name.

We are infallible, but our egos are creative enough to magic the excuse out of thin air. And if that means we're not bellowing at our team-mates for missing catches or getting out first ball - because sometimes we're not actually good enough - then I'm all for the fiction and fantasy that makes the village game so special.