When cricketing abilities (and livers) take a hit

It is that time of year again. Cricket writers dust off their early-season cricket clichés, and I, for one, would love to join in on that action along with a healthy dose of unadulterated Aberdonian cynicism.

The tangy smell of linseed oil is rising through the air. Dust and cobwebs are being brushed off dirty pads and gloves, improbably moist with last season’s perspiration. The rhythmic thumping of leather on willow, as legions of devoted batsmen tend to their cricketing sweet spots, is being met with a cacophony of abuse from all those tortured relatives unfortunate enough to be within earshot. Mouldy whites are dug out of the darkest recesses of long-unopened cricket bags, releasing a rancid blend of eight-month-old cricketing odours, along with the occasional gangrenous sock.

The cricket season is upon us.

Prior to the start of the actual season, however, is the heavily anticipated event penned in bold into the otherwise bare social calendar of the average club cricketer: I am, of course, referring to The Annual Cricket Tour.

Cricketing tours are much in demand, as they give us a semi-valid excuse to travel somewhere with the boys for a week of sun, excess and filth under the pretense of serious cricket preparation for the oncoming season. Anyone who has been on a tour is well aware that the actual cricket associated with such occasions is about as fiercely contested as a burger-eating contest for size-zero models. The match results are readily forgotten and the regular sources of cricketing stress, such as lbws, catches, extras and run-outs, are generally discouraged.

As you may have guessed, I recently returned from such a trip, having tagged along with my former team-mates from the University of Aberdeen Cricket Club (in an attempt to satisfy my perverse desire to relive the student lifestyle). This year it was decided to travel somewhere particularly exotic for our tour, and potential locations included Barbados, Spain and Hong Kong.

Inevitably reality, as well as the usual student monetary constraints, kicked in and after a long bus journey we arrived in the glorious metropolis that is Liverpool.

Our tour began as we stepped off the bus, with a swift 20-over bash versus the local Ale Drinking Society XI. Not-so-brief respites in a variety of public establishments along the road from Aberdeen to Liverpool meant our performance was never really going to earn us OBEs and an open-bus parade through the capital. Oddly enough, and despite our best efforts, we won the match by eight wickets.

Thoroughly disappointed with our blatant breach of touring-team etiquette (i.e. winning) we set out to redeem ourselves the next day when playing Chester University Cricket Club. Thankfully neither team was cursed with an abundance of talent, so an entertaining cricket match was on the cards. To give an idea of the standard: a stumping attempt that we appealed for (in itself pretty poor form) was met with silence by the square-leg umpire. Only later did it transpire that the umpire (one of their players) was not aware that he was responsible for such decisions. Incredibly we still managed to lose that match, a fact that says more about our club than could ever be conveyed by the written word.

The following two days saw the world’s largest athletes of the mighty AUCC take on Cholmondeley Cricket Club (who play at a stunning ground) and Burscough Cricket Club (who don’t). Both matches were lost convincingly to superior teams (i.e. proper cricketers). I must confess, though, that a certain degree of intra-team sabotage was partially to blame for our disgraceful performances. Overthrows, misfields and dropped catches were the order of the day, and not all were down to a simple lack of fielding aptitude.

In fact, the only instances of coordinated team effort occurred during the well-known tour game, appropriately called Statues. When called into action, this game, which is the scourge of all bowlers, meant that regardless of the shot played, no fielders (keeper included) could make any attempt at collecting the ball (under punishment of social ostracism – not necessarily a bad thing on tour). Many a time did we witness blaspheming bowlers (including myself) chasing the ball to fine leg, deep midwicket or sweeper in an attempt to prevent the batsman taking more than six runs off the delivery and thus ruining the figures of the bowler in question.

On a more sombre note, for those interested in my career batting stats (i.e. me), I came agonisingly close to hitting my second-ever fifty, in our last match. I would have reached that magical milestone were it not for the fact that my touring companions thought it might be amusing to give yours truly a standing ovation when I had, in fact, only scored 48. A missed slog off the next delivery quickly sent me packing to the pavilion, where I, bizarrely, was met by an incredibly jovial crowd.

Good times indeed.

Despite the minor hiccup of the first match it can be said that the tour was a roaring success: our cricketing abilities unquestionably took a big hit (I got a dreadful case of the yips), our livers an even bigger hit, and the less said about the remains of our beloved mini-bus the better. The eagerly anticipated cricket summer can now start in earnest, and we are all comfortable in the knowledge that we definitely did not commit the usual cricketing faux pas of hitting our peak during the pre-season tour.

Well, I bloody hope not anyway.