The joy of staying not-out overnight

Like for most recreational cricketers, most of the cricket I have played has been of the limited-overs, one-day or one-afternoon variety: twenty-twenty, thirty-thirty, and sometimes even forty-forty. On rare occasions, I have had the pleasure of playing multiple-day cricket. Because my talents were, and will resolutely remain, carefully circumscribed and limited, my ascent up the ranks of cricket stopped at the two-day varietal. Still, playing in that elevated domain enabled the enjoyment of a pleasure never to be found in the one-day game: remaining not-out overnight.

Many years ago, as a youngster, I saw a cartoon reproduced in the 1973 John Player Yearbook that sent my youthful imagination racing: it showed Bev Congdon, the captain of the New Zealand team to tour England that summer, striding out to bat, carrying with him, besides his bat and gloves, a small overnight kit and toilet bag. The caption read (I think, for the years have rolled by): "Bev Congdon will have the morning papers and tea sent out to him." (During that series Congdon had distinguished himself by playing two epic innings, of 176 and 175; they had taken all of 923 minutes and 831 deliveries; he also went first ball in the third Test.) That hyperbolic description of Congdon's powers of endurance made me think anew of the long distance - in temporal terms - the overnight not-out batsman traverses. I thought, too, of the satisfaction of walking off at the close of day's play and the pleasurable anticipation of the next day's batting, one ineluctably tinged with nervous apprehension.

But I never thought I would ever be placed in such a situation.

Except that I was. Shortly after I moved to Australia and began playing C-division cricket in Sydney's Northern Suburbs League, I learned that in addition to our usual complement of forty-forty games, we played a few two-day games. These were not limited-overs games; they were spread out over two weekends, two Saturdays. Outright wins earned the maximum points, with considerably fewer awarded for first-innings leads.

Batting in these games could afford to be a more leisurely affair; it afforded more space for settling in and consolidation. It was during one of these games that I discovered the pleasures of slowly, painfully getting into the groove, an experience I described in a post here a little while ago. And it was in one of these games, in my second season with my team, during the only other 50-run partnership I was able to put together for my side, that I remained not-out overnight. Pardon me, I remained not-out for a week.

That fine Saturday our opposition batted first. We dismissed them with sufficient time to spare for some serious batting ourselves that afternoon. After our first few wickets had fallen, I strode out to join our most productive batsman. He was often inclined to dispense a little too much advice on how to play the opposing bowlers, and I had steeled myself for the barrage of observations that would be sent my way.

Fortunately that day his normal loquaciousness was on hold, and our partnership proceeded smoothly. As the close of play approached, I suddenly realised that a few more overs batting would enable the realisation of a long-held dream. This thought almost paralysed me into incompetence, but I recovered, resolutely blocked out the last bowler, and then, as the umpire called "stumps", executed a gesture I had been waiting to make ever since I had seen that cartoon in the hushed halls of the British Council Library so many years ago: a smart turnaround, the bat neatly tucked away, a quick march to the "pavilion" where my admiring - I think - team-mates waited for me. And the opposition was generous to shake hands with my partner and I as we came off. The dream-like image I had constructed in my mind was neatly drawn and made manifest that afternoon.

That week, back at the university, concentration was difficult. My fellow post-docs and sundry graduate students asked me about the game and my batting. I responded with great pleasure, describing my shots and running between the wickets in some detail; such attention was immensely gratifying. I even allowed myself the indulgence of speculating about what might lie ahead for this already flourishing partnership. Cricket has afforded me many close brushes with glory; this was one such. I wallowed in the focus on this rare deviation from my usual cricketing incompetence. It was truly the best of times. I looked forward to the coming Saturday with pleasurable anticipation - with just a dash of nervousness. Perhaps the touch was gone.

And so it came to be. On resumption, I did not add a single run to my overnight (over-week) score. I was lbw to a delivery that in my jaundiced assessment had pitched outside leg; in the opinion of the umpire - a team-mate, no less - it had not. I had looked away as I was hit on the pad; the roars of the fielders told me my not-out state had been terminated.

Still, even as I reluctantly dragged myself off the field, occasionally sending a glance equal parts ruefulness and resentment at the man with the raised finger - someone I had considered a friend! - I consoled myself that I had at least experienced something the batting greats manage on many an occasion: the triumphant leaving of the field of dreams for rest and recuperation and recovery, for scheming about future glories.

And it happened during a minor game populated by other cricketers of modest abilities. It was not the first, and certainly not the last, time I would realise the most exalted of experiences can take place in the most humble of settings.