A couple of
months into a cricketing comeback and what have I discovered? Three things:
(1) The other week I returned to Moddershall from an away game and bumped into an old adversary who’d been playing against the 1sts. We had a couple of pints and an amiable chinwag – not all of which was one-eyed in-my-day-ism – and it was pleasant, on a rare sunny Saturday afternoon, to indulge in what seems an increasingly uncommon part of the cricketing ritual.
For various reasons, teams these days are less and less inclined to socialise with their opponents after a game. (When my Dad played at Little Stoke, it was not unheard of for the opposition to stagger out, several sheets to the wind, at midnight or thereabouts, a tradition I’d like to think Addo and I kept alive in the late 1990s.) I’m not entirely sure why there’s been such a cultural shift. Maybe people are more precious about their time. Perhaps, as society – and thus cricket, as a reflection of that society – has become more aggressive, narkier and rattier, more of an overheated, short-fused struggle to keep your head above water, cricket teams have become more insular. You have to keep your guard up, project strength, have some mystery – all that. Then again, the far greater player traffic between clubs ought, in theory, to mean less insularity. I really don’t know.
During the winter, as I reckoned up whether or not it was worthwhile resuming playing, one of the things I felt I was most missing was simply competing. Or rather, challenging myself, regardless of the result (which can depend on many factors beyond your control). But another thing I was missing – and perhaps the local cricketing community as a whole is increasingly missing – was the sense of camaraderie and conviviality that comes through several years playing with and against the same faces.
The teams you competed against had an ‘identity’ of sorts, one created by their stalwarts and the core group of players who played year in, year out – an identity that Moddershall had in the nineties and early noughties, and which I see being recreated today. It was good to go to Porthill, Audley, Burslem, Little Stoke, Knype, Longton, Stone and see the familiar faces and lock horns anew. But it was also good to share a conversation after the game, to honour the battle (and relations, at various times, with the aforementioned teams did get a little spicy) with a respectful beer. After all, club cricketers have far more in common – the desire to spend eight or nine hours on a Saturday, maybe a Sunday as well, prancing around in ludicrous white polyester attire – than the superficial differences marked by the club crest we wear.
Anyway, I thought this might have been evidence that my competitive instincts were softening. The question was: would that be better or worse as far as playing the game was concerned?
(2) The second thing I’ve noticed is how disconcerting it is for six weeks of the season to pass by while only having one solitary innings (disconcerting for a supposed batsman, that is). But that’s how long it will be, this Saturday – the next opportunity I may have to stride out – since I nudged 60 not out at Hem Heath, an innings that started to remind me of the fundamentals of batting and offered a sliver of hope that I might be able to contribute at Division 3 level. That hope must now be built again: since HH there have been three consecutive washouts at home sandwiching a DNB at Fenton (oppo skittled for 28) and a score of 8 at Hanford on a pitch with the hardness of good sponge cake (i.e. not as hard as bad sponge cake). So, I’m back to square one, groping in the dark for the old certainties.
In the past, I’d never had admitted these things publicly – not before a game, at least. And in any case, the platforms for ‘confessional’ statements (blogs, social media and the like) just weren’t around. Besides, to have admitted these things would have been to give easy ammunition to the opposition. Suicidal. Take the South African batsman Daryl Cullinan as an example. A fine player, Cullinan would average 44.21 from 70 Tests, but he had terrible problems with Shane Warne’s legspin, averaging just 12.75 against the Aussies. Prior to one series he somewhat naively told the media that he’d seen a psychiatrist to help combat Warne and, predictably, he was mercilessly tormented by the Aussies about his mental state. Warne later added an acerbic line in an autobiography: “I knew that Daryll was a bit fragile at times, but never imagined he would go to a shrink to learn how to read a googly”.
Occasionally you’d admit these things after a game, over a beer, when you and your ‘enemy’ were discussing the cut and thrust of battle. You might mention that your feet were all over the place, that your top hand didn’t know what your bottom hand was doing, that you couldn’t pick the spin, that you struggled with the swing – anything bar admitting the bowler was a too quick! Letting your guard down, opening up, didn’t mean you’d be easy prey next time; it simply meant that sharing the odd honest moment is an important part of the reason why we play cricket, creating a culture of friendly rivalry. Showing ‘weakness’ and vulnerability, we all come to realize in the end, is nowhere near as personally destructive as forever trying to project strength, invincibility. My friend, today was your day, tomorrow will be mine, the game rumbles on.
(3) The third thing I noticed was that the old competitive streak has come out most when I have been briefly back in the captain’s chair. Maybe it’s that precision, the fussiness, the ‘perfectionism’, the irritation when things aren’t done properly. I don’t know, but for me setting the field, changing the bowling, creating pressure, creating theatre – all of it is about doing a ‘scientific’ job on the opposition, about not being sloppy or casual, about not losing focus. Regardless of whether you’re chirping them or not; regardless of whether your emotions are tick-tick-ticking, it’s about making life as tough as possible for the batsman out there in the middle. All the time. Every time a batsman hits a good shot straight to a well-placed fielder, it’s another pin in the voodoo doll, and eventually it’ll be too much for him to take.
So, what I’ve learned so far is probably three aspects of the same thing: the meaning of competitiveness, or competing. While the desire to do well, both personally and collectively, remains strong, there’s also an increased appreciation for the cricketing culture, and an awareness, I suppose, of the precariousness of good relations, how easy it is for them to be damaged by poor behavior and small-mindedness. I always did appreciate that culture, I think, but I was at times a bit heavy-handed with it, talking it for granted, rather like the way a young person might chuck expensive things about, scratching and banging and maybe damaging them.
The will to win is important, but not at any cost.
(1) The other week I returned to Moddershall from an away game and bumped into an old adversary who’d been playing against the 1sts. We had a couple of pints and an amiable chinwag – not all of which was one-eyed in-my-day-ism – and it was pleasant, on a rare sunny Saturday afternoon, to indulge in what seems an increasingly uncommon part of the cricketing ritual.
For various reasons, teams these days are less and less inclined to socialise with their opponents after a game. (When my Dad played at Little Stoke, it was not unheard of for the opposition to stagger out, several sheets to the wind, at midnight or thereabouts, a tradition I’d like to think Addo and I kept alive in the late 1990s.) I’m not entirely sure why there’s been such a cultural shift. Maybe people are more precious about their time. Perhaps, as society – and thus cricket, as a reflection of that society – has become more aggressive, narkier and rattier, more of an overheated, short-fused struggle to keep your head above water, cricket teams have become more insular. You have to keep your guard up, project strength, have some mystery – all that. Then again, the far greater player traffic between clubs ought, in theory, to mean less insularity. I really don’t know.
During the winter, as I reckoned up whether or not it was worthwhile resuming playing, one of the things I felt I was most missing was simply competing. Or rather, challenging myself, regardless of the result (which can depend on many factors beyond your control). But another thing I was missing – and perhaps the local cricketing community as a whole is increasingly missing – was the sense of camaraderie and conviviality that comes through several years playing with and against the same faces.
The teams you competed against had an ‘identity’ of sorts, one created by their stalwarts and the core group of players who played year in, year out – an identity that Moddershall had in the nineties and early noughties, and which I see being recreated today. It was good to go to Porthill, Audley, Burslem, Little Stoke, Knype, Longton, Stone and see the familiar faces and lock horns anew. But it was also good to share a conversation after the game, to honour the battle (and relations, at various times, with the aforementioned teams did get a little spicy) with a respectful beer. After all, club cricketers have far more in common – the desire to spend eight or nine hours on a Saturday, maybe a Sunday as well, prancing around in ludicrous white polyester attire – than the superficial differences marked by the club crest we wear.
Anyway, I thought this might have been evidence that my competitive instincts were softening. The question was: would that be better or worse as far as playing the game was concerned?
(2) The second thing I’ve noticed is how disconcerting it is for six weeks of the season to pass by while only having one solitary innings (disconcerting for a supposed batsman, that is). But that’s how long it will be, this Saturday – the next opportunity I may have to stride out – since I nudged 60 not out at Hem Heath, an innings that started to remind me of the fundamentals of batting and offered a sliver of hope that I might be able to contribute at Division 3 level. That hope must now be built again: since HH there have been three consecutive washouts at home sandwiching a DNB at Fenton (oppo skittled for 28) and a score of 8 at Hanford on a pitch with the hardness of good sponge cake (i.e. not as hard as bad sponge cake). So, I’m back to square one, groping in the dark for the old certainties.
In the past, I’d never had admitted these things publicly – not before a game, at least. And in any case, the platforms for ‘confessional’ statements (blogs, social media and the like) just weren’t around. Besides, to have admitted these things would have been to give easy ammunition to the opposition. Suicidal. Take the South African batsman Daryl Cullinan as an example. A fine player, Cullinan would average 44.21 from 70 Tests, but he had terrible problems with Shane Warne’s legspin, averaging just 12.75 against the Aussies. Prior to one series he somewhat naively told the media that he’d seen a psychiatrist to help combat Warne and, predictably, he was mercilessly tormented by the Aussies about his mental state. Warne later added an acerbic line in an autobiography: “I knew that Daryll was a bit fragile at times, but never imagined he would go to a shrink to learn how to read a googly”.
Occasionally you’d admit these things after a game, over a beer, when you and your ‘enemy’ were discussing the cut and thrust of battle. You might mention that your feet were all over the place, that your top hand didn’t know what your bottom hand was doing, that you couldn’t pick the spin, that you struggled with the swing – anything bar admitting the bowler was a too quick! Letting your guard down, opening up, didn’t mean you’d be easy prey next time; it simply meant that sharing the odd honest moment is an important part of the reason why we play cricket, creating a culture of friendly rivalry. Showing ‘weakness’ and vulnerability, we all come to realize in the end, is nowhere near as personally destructive as forever trying to project strength, invincibility. My friend, today was your day, tomorrow will be mine, the game rumbles on.
(3) The third thing I noticed was that the old competitive streak has come out most when I have been briefly back in the captain’s chair. Maybe it’s that precision, the fussiness, the ‘perfectionism’, the irritation when things aren’t done properly. I don’t know, but for me setting the field, changing the bowling, creating pressure, creating theatre – all of it is about doing a ‘scientific’ job on the opposition, about not being sloppy or casual, about not losing focus. Regardless of whether you’re chirping them or not; regardless of whether your emotions are tick-tick-ticking, it’s about making life as tough as possible for the batsman out there in the middle. All the time. Every time a batsman hits a good shot straight to a well-placed fielder, it’s another pin in the voodoo doll, and eventually it’ll be too much for him to take.
So, what I’ve learned so far is probably three aspects of the same thing: the meaning of competitiveness, or competing. While the desire to do well, both personally and collectively, remains strong, there’s also an increased appreciation for the cricketing culture, and an awareness, I suppose, of the precariousness of good relations, how easy it is for them to be damaged by poor behavior and small-mindedness. I always did appreciate that culture, I think, but I was at times a bit heavy-handed with it, talking it for granted, rather like the way a young person might chuck expensive things about, scratching and banging and maybe damaging them.
The will to win is important, but not at any cost.
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