Surviving the good net: revenge of the bowler

As a batsman, there are few things more bittersweet than accidentally middling one from the bowling of an express quick. My ungainly swipe at our opening bowler's offering had now triggered this precise predicament. It must be like the feeling of purchasing a house: at once a triumphant achievement and frightening prospect. The bank, an indifferent friend beforehand, is now your foe.

Making matters worse, my limp underarm return to the paceman had arrived on the half-volley, causing him to offer a disgusted, token right hand that had no intention of stopping the ball. It thus rolled into the path of the second net, nearly causing the incoming bowler a rolled ankle. This short but eventful transaction caused an immediate cacophony of sighs, grunts and swear words from at least five people, maybe ten. I had rattled the hornet nest of net bowlers. My middled cover drive, glorious as it was, had now compromised my safety. I was now truly in cricketing debt.

Fear began to take hold externally and internally. I had angered a bowler who, previous to this exchange, had never registered my existence in his life. "Why am I even in this net anyway?" I thought to myself.

I'd heard Ian Chappell once declare the importance of immediately countering negative thoughts with positive thoughts. I tried my best. "That was a great shot. I do belong at this level. Maybe they'll respect me now that I've middled one." The positive thoughts were contrived, though; the negative thoughts were true. My shot was, as they say, "arsey". I knew it. They knew it.

My spiralling negativity was punctuated with a relieving development - the next group had been asked to "pad up". I officially had six minutes to survive.

Don't get hit. Don't get out.

Thankfully it was the spinner who was up next. Sweet, gentle spinner. In reality he was probably the most skilful bowler in the club. But in this context he was a sight for sore eyes, because whatever he produced, it wasn't going to hurt me. All I wanted from this cricketing trade was for nothing to happen. To calm the emotional fever that had spiked from the ball before. Maybe a tight forward defence. Maybe I'd chop a ball meaninglessly to backward point. Anything to stop the building drama.

I noticed paceman No. 2 walk to paceman No. 1. He whispered something to him and caused him to laugh. My heart sank and quickened, because this could only mean one thing: bumper

To my surprise, it was full, really full. Slipped-out-of-his-hands full. Instinct took over. I waited, zeroed in, and unleashed the full force of my ageing hands, hips, weight and blade through the ball. The shot was not a controlled, lofted drive. It was a slog. It sailed over the net and through the region that would-be batsmen call wide mid-on. Others call it cow corner.

Perhaps it was the subconscious release of tension that had built previously, but I had wilfully and deliberately hit the ball so as to clear the net. To do it represented a controversial play in the unwritten protocols of net batting. When a spinner gets a ball very wrong, the classy move is to bat the ball back; almost in acknowledgment of the aberration of such a poor delivery. I, on the other hand, had instinctively whacked it. There was no need for a call of "heads". It was gone. Whatever you wanted to say about our club, it was big on encouragement. Praise like "Great shot, mate!" and "Good leave" were never far from the mouths of our senior players. As my slog sailed towards the playing wicket, I heard nothing.

Just as this was dawning on me, I realised another thing. Our spinner, dejectedly commencing his latest hike to fetch a slog in the way that only spinners can, would miss his next turn. I had bought myself more fast bowling.

My eyes turned to the trio of quicks standing atop their mark. Off their long run, they huddled together like the cool kids at the back of the bus. The club captain had wandered over there too to join the revelry, arms crossed, staring into the net. I noticed paceman No. 2 walk to paceman No. 1. He whispered something to him and caused him to laugh. I swear I heard paceman No. 1 reply, "You think so? Okay." My heart sank and quickened, because this could only mean one thing: bumper.

I could feel my feet shifting ever so slightly away from my stumps as I hunched over my bat awaiting my pain. The ground fell silent bar the heavy steps of our fastest bowler flying in. I swear I'd never noticed how high he pumped his knees upon approaching the wicket. His face was again strained - more evidence that the effort ball was coming. He was into his delivery stride and releasing the ball. I searched for the bouncer but couldn't find it. In fact I couldn't find the ball at all. For that brief moment I was riven with fear. Those slightly shifting feet gave way to the batsman's version of a standing foetal position. I awaited an awkward blow to the body or swish of the ball into net, but heard something far worse - the crash of leather into stump, followed by howls of laughter.

I had fallen for the two-card trick. I had been done by the slowest of slower balls. I had hunted for the ball in his half and caused it to escape my eyeline. In my haste to avoid a physical blow, I had failed my second priority. I had not been hit but I was out. What's worse is that I was now compelled to endure that most humiliating of net experiences: resetting the stumps that I'd allowed to be destroyed - in full view of my club.

The episode formed another scar in the ceaseless epic that is net batting at dusk. Maybe next time I'll just swing. Maybe next time I'll refuse the good net. Because, like democracy, the ritual of net batting is a flawed - sometimes broken - practice. But when it comes to training, it remains the best thing we have.

Read part one: How to survive the good net