It’s Friday night in
early November. My work-mates head to the pub for an evening where they will
drink too much, too fast and too early, giving an introverted air to Monday
morning, punctuated by cagey conversation as they scope out who let someone
know what they really thought about
them, who made a fool of themselves trying to impress the boss and, most
importantly, who remembers what. Needless to say, however, a night of bacchanalian
release is good for any work team – the shared enjoyment and shame knit us
close and all the best stories come from such nights.
Whilst I’m usually
first to the bar at these events, my Fridays during the winter are given over
to a different sort of rite. From October to April I attend the adult coaching
class at the Oval, in the company of 15-30 other slightly awkward men of
varying cricketing ability, where we are put through our paces by a group of
the ground’s professional coaches.
Adult coaching is
interesting for a number of reasons. Firstly, it is genuinely populated by some
extremely shy men. I’m not sure if it’s just their dogged focus on improving
their skills, but some of these guys would rather be engaged in mortal combat
than friendly conversation. Secondly, half the attendees seem to hate it and
regularly grumble (to themselves, of course) about the format, the drills, the
coaches and the other players. Thirdly, its success is predicated on there
being just enough attendees for it to be worth running, but not so many that
the regulars can’t get in. It astonishes me that in a city of 8 million people,
over a winter there’s an average of 20-or-so who want to turn out and train each
week. It only really works because it’s a well kept secret, and I am under no
illusions that writing about it on this blog will change that.
It’s week one for me
(having missed the first couple of sessions this year) and we’re bowling.
Great. I do want to be good at bowling, and practice hard at it when I’m at nets,
but in contrast to my batting I’ve shown no real improvement over the last few
years. Also, LT Dinos CC is packed with good bowlers and the skipper very
rarely has to look around for the best person to throw the ball to. What the
team needs is some more consistent batsmen and that’s what I want to focus on.
But anyway, we’re
bowling this week and I’ll do my best. It’s off-spin, as you ask. The kind that
loops, or drops short, or is a full toss, and soars alternately, in reactionary
paths, equally wide either side of the stumps. It is so slow that the only way
it generates a wicket is if the batsman is beaten for lack of pace and the
wicket keeper is agile enough to collect it from in front of the slips and
accurate enough to through down the stumps.
This week is no real
exception and after an encouraging start I produce enough filth to have Mary
Whitehouse turning in her grave before turning in an injunction. After focussing on bowling good lines and
lengths to an empty set of stumps, the coaches ask for some volunteer batters.
My hand shoots up faster than a jailed heroin addict when he hears the warden
coming.
My first knock since
the end of the season isn’t an unqualified triumph. Against a mix of medium and
fast medium I middle a few drives to mid-off and cover but am bowled twice
swinging across the line of balls coming into my pads. Baffled for a while, I
realise I’ve taken the wrong guard and don’t know where my leg stump is. I
thought those balls were swinging well down leg and I could clip them fine. As
it was I missed them and they made a fool of me. Schoolboy.
I also backed away
from a couple of early deliveries, particularly from a stocky bloke with a gap
between his front teeth who I am convinced is a West Indian (I can’t tell
because, like everyone else, he doesn't speak). I thought I had cured this technical fault last
winter and am annoyed at myself, but part of the reason is that it takes me a
few balls to adjust to the fact that he, and one of the other quicker bowlers,
is banging it in short without getting any real bounce. Once I get used to this
I’m getting in line properly and I don’t think it was cowardice as much as poor
judgement. I also remind myself not to judge a bowler by how he looks (this guy
had me beaten before he bowled a ball) but to be alert, on my toes and react to
each delivery.
I am impatient in the
nets, trying to force runs from every ball and afterwards I can’t work out
why. It’s not how I bat in the middle and it’s demoralising to have your stumps
rattled even if you cream a few drives. I vow to regain Chappell-esque 'fierce focus' next week and
play each ball on its merits.
The following Friday
it’s bowling again and this time I don’t get a bat. The guy who does drives me
like I’m Miss Daisy and pulls me like I’m Miss Daisy’s younger, looser sister. But
I am improving. George, one of the coaches, is a fine off-spin bowler and works
with extreme patience on my delivery stride, trying to eliminate the annoying
skip that’s interrupting my rhythm. As soon as I manage that my line goes, then
my release of the ball. When I correct those I start skipping again. It’s baby
steps, but over last winter George gave me the beginnings of a basic technique –
I just have to remember to apply it each time I approach the crease.
After both sessions I
head home tired, a little frustrated and with plenty to think about. But I wake
on Saturday pleasantly achy, but with a clear head, and having done nothing
that’s going to stop me looking my colleagues in the eye on Monday morning.
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