The rise and fall of the van Poorshot XIII

Let the faint-hearted beware. This is a tale of passion, intrigue, sweat and blood (plus some vomit). It will shock and awe, bring tears to the eyes of even the most rugged individual. Why, you may ask. Because, above all, this is a story of betrayal. The nature of this betrayal was the worst possible - no, not the type carried out by Brutus, Benedict Arnold, or even Boromir – worse than that: this tale recalls the betrayal of one cricket team by its opposition. I am, of course, referring to the use of a “ringer”.

Amsterdam, Saturday April 25, 2007: a day that shall live in infamy. It is the single most important day of my eldest brother’s life. Not his wedding, not the birth of his first-born, not even the day he scored his first hundred (although that would be a close second – were it to ever happen), but, as I am sure you will have realised by now, his stag do. Not content with the originality of organising a stag party in Amsterdam, we thought we would spice it up by throwing in a cricket game versus one of Netherlands’ most popular travelling cricket teams, the mighty Zamigos.

The morning after a pleasant evening of shopping, museum visits and lovely strolls along the canals (as one does when on an Amsterdam stag party), we made our way to the VRA cricket ground in Amstelveen, picking up team members along the way from various respectable coffee-serving establishments. Having been asked to field (most definitely not the preferred option), the "Van Poorshots" (a name we would later do proud), with yours truly opening the bowling, started the match with a bang.

Those of you who have read my previous posts may have, by now, formed an impression of my bowling and realised that “starting with a bang” is not something I make a habit of. I don't usually blow my own trumpet, but on that day I was awesome. Given that my oldest brother was bowling from the other end, and another brother was keeping wicket, it probably was a good thing I was having an unusually successful day (sorry guys).

But this came to a thundering halt when, with the opposition floundering at 20-odd for 3, in strolled a very confident-looking young man, swaggering about like a penguin on steroids, with his bat casually swinging by his hip. Having endured many a caning at the hands of good (well, relatively good) batsmen, my experienced bowler’s eye immediately registered this man as a definite threat to my figures. Being captain, I did what I had to do and temporarily relinquished my bowling duties.

It was the right decision.

The man with the swagger carted our talented and eager, but relatively inexperienced, bowling attack to all parts of the Low Lands. Even appealing to him as a fellow countryman wouldn’t dissuade him (later I realised this was rather pointless – he plays international cricket for Netherlands and so obviously isn’t Dutch). Only a sublime piece of bowling combined with a stunning catch ended the carnage. The scorebook read:

For those who don’t know much about Associate cricket (i.e. everyone), he is in fact the current Dutch captain. Although 87 may not seem like a huge innings, in the context of this game it was immense. It took the total to around 200, which proved too much of a challenge for the courageous Van Poorshots. Even a late flurry of sixes could not save us.

Despite their blatant disregard for the unwritten codes of club cricket, the Zamigos were all top lads and treated us to one of the best meals I have ever had (they had a professional cook in their midst – right-arm medium, middle-order bat). We had a few beers and most of us got the opportunity to see the meal again later that the evening. It was a long weekend.