My foot hurts...
Sep. 8th, 2001 08:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fleetfootmike...quite a lot, actually.
To understand why, let me take you back to yesterday. Yesterday was the Post Office Challenge Cricket tournament - 8 sides from various sections of the cricket press, sponsors, etc. My employers fielded a team, including me.
First game, almost the end. The captain tosses me the ball (probably out of sympathy for me making the journey to York, getting kitted out etc, rather than any expectation of talent...).
Ball 1. Wide, spins a little wider (by design) when it bounces. The batsman, to his later chagrin, follows it, aims an almighty slash that catches the outside edge, and slices away, spinning, into the hands of Dave. Much applause, 'inspired bowling change' comments, etc.
Ball 2. We try the one that spins the other way. The new batsman taps it smartly back past me for a run. Resolve to save the one that spins the other way for when I'm more in practise.
Ball 3. Wide. Spins wider. Batsman leaves it alone, like the first guy should have, and it gets called a wide ball by the umpire. I adjust my runup to stop it happening again.
Ball 3, take 2. Better line, straight on the stumps. It may even have spun away from the bat if it hadn't bounced so close to the batsman it didn't have time to. Sound like small explosion as batsman hits it smack out of the middle of the bat, sweet as a nut, and doing 90mph, 6" above the turf, straight for where I have just followed through after bowling, straight for the top of my right foot which is currently bearing the majority of my weight. A detatched part of my mind notes that I appear to have saved a certain boundary four.
That *hurt*. Colleagues sympathise. One enquires why I didn't catch it on the rebound. I give him the grade 3 glare while hobbling and muttering variations on "*expletive*, that *expletive* well hurt!"
Ball 4. Reassuring skipper I can still walk, and bowl. Prove it. Well, I know I bowled it, but I can't remember now what happened to it. I have a reasonable excuse. Honest... "*Expletive*, that *expletive* well still hurts!"
Ball 5. Strayed wide. Another sound like a small explosion. My evasive action turns into a bad case of whiplash as the ball disappears back over my head like a tracer bullet. My optimistic shout of "Catch!" turns out to be directed at a spectating member of the batting side, who wisely chooses not to, as the ball impacts on the window of the bar/pavillion/changing rooms and goes right on through. Boundary 6.
There is a brief pause. The skipper returns with the ball, and the umpire and I convince him that the small fragments of glass embedded into the leather are not the kind of thing we want smacked past our noses at 90 mph, and we'll wait for a replacement, thanks. Umpire trots off to find one. I hobble and mutter some more.
Ball 6 and last (or ball 2, if you're counting distinct physical objects!). Sod it, lets try the one that spins the other way again. Small thunderclap, and another case of whiplash. This one went further than the last (cries of disappointment from the local glazier) and bounces off the bar *roof*.
Thankfully, that's my lot. I hobble and curse my way back to first slip for the final 6 balls of the innings, then head back to the changing rooms.
The bruise, by the end of the day, is *impressive*. You can *almost* make out the stitching on the ball's seam...
I love cricket. Really!
To understand why, let me take you back to yesterday. Yesterday was the Post Office Challenge Cricket tournament - 8 sides from various sections of the cricket press, sponsors, etc. My employers fielded a team, including me.
First game, almost the end. The captain tosses me the ball (probably out of sympathy for me making the journey to York, getting kitted out etc, rather than any expectation of talent...).
Ball 1. Wide, spins a little wider (by design) when it bounces. The batsman, to his later chagrin, follows it, aims an almighty slash that catches the outside edge, and slices away, spinning, into the hands of Dave. Much applause, 'inspired bowling change' comments, etc.
Ball 2. We try the one that spins the other way. The new batsman taps it smartly back past me for a run. Resolve to save the one that spins the other way for when I'm more in practise.
Ball 3. Wide. Spins wider. Batsman leaves it alone, like the first guy should have, and it gets called a wide ball by the umpire. I adjust my runup to stop it happening again.
Ball 3, take 2. Better line, straight on the stumps. It may even have spun away from the bat if it hadn't bounced so close to the batsman it didn't have time to. Sound like small explosion as batsman hits it smack out of the middle of the bat, sweet as a nut, and doing 90mph, 6" above the turf, straight for where I have just followed through after bowling, straight for the top of my right foot which is currently bearing the majority of my weight. A detatched part of my mind notes that I appear to have saved a certain boundary four.
That *hurt*. Colleagues sympathise. One enquires why I didn't catch it on the rebound. I give him the grade 3 glare while hobbling and muttering variations on "*expletive*, that *expletive* well hurt!"
Ball 4. Reassuring skipper I can still walk, and bowl. Prove it. Well, I know I bowled it, but I can't remember now what happened to it. I have a reasonable excuse. Honest... "*Expletive*, that *expletive* well still hurts!"
Ball 5. Strayed wide. Another sound like a small explosion. My evasive action turns into a bad case of whiplash as the ball disappears back over my head like a tracer bullet. My optimistic shout of "Catch!" turns out to be directed at a spectating member of the batting side, who wisely chooses not to, as the ball impacts on the window of the bar/pavillion/changing rooms and goes right on through. Boundary 6.
There is a brief pause. The skipper returns with the ball, and the umpire and I convince him that the small fragments of glass embedded into the leather are not the kind of thing we want smacked past our noses at 90 mph, and we'll wait for a replacement, thanks. Umpire trots off to find one. I hobble and mutter some more.
Ball 6 and last (or ball 2, if you're counting distinct physical objects!). Sod it, lets try the one that spins the other way again. Small thunderclap, and another case of whiplash. This one went further than the last (cries of disappointment from the local glazier) and bounces off the bar *roof*.
Thankfully, that's my lot. I hobble and curse my way back to first slip for the final 6 balls of the innings, then head back to the changing rooms.
The bruise, by the end of the day, is *impressive*. You can *almost* make out the stitching on the ball's seam...
I love cricket. Really!
