Career Best

So indeed, every dog has his day, mine came about two weeks ago when I hit a scintillating 58 not out in a low scoring match. The innings began Boycott style, having to lash the pads onto the corpse, but finished with Michael Bevan panache - except for the lightning running between wickets, or indeed the left arm chinaman bowling, or the hitting a four off the last ball, but for the most part it was MG Bevan incarnate.

I got the Matthew Hayden walk down pat in this innings - the more astute reader [textbooks love including winning lines like that] would notice that I was set to expound on that in previous posts. The back foot moving infront of the front foot, shuffling down the crease and walloping over mid off/on.

But, there were humble beginnings. Firstly we bowled them out for 102 on a very wet wicket in a rain reduced match of 35 overs a side. I was promoted to number 3 to 'see if I could hold my own' were the captain's words, oh yes, I held it like an umbrella on a windy day - take that Tolstoy.

On the third ball I tested out the opposing keeper by snicking one between him and the leg stump for my first (supremely confident) scoring stroke - a four. I thought he needed another chance and so next over gave him on to his other side, but he was kind enough to drop that and let me scurry through for a single. 5 runs, two shots, two drops, good times. But then I let go of my inhibitions and hit straight out of the Asif Ahmed school of batting, with my arm extending into the wood of the bat. 12 boundaries in all, and also a cricket ball shaped bruise an inch to the left of the 'no go zone', curtesy of the 6 foot 7 opening bowler. On that ball he kindly asked me to remain in my crease else he may need to slip again and bowl another which may contact my person. I took his advice but decided that an alternate solution existed, that being a two bounce four over mid off. Your move Sherlock.

Wickets did crumble, but I remained confident - in the end we were 8 wickets down and won with 3 balls to spare, but I backed us all the way - plus I got a nice kickback from the bookies for making the score so clos... Ahem.

Next on the agendum [I take it one item at a time.... that is Latin-comic-gold] is the MCR-JCR match, and the wrap up on term 3 - Trinity.

Aston but not Martin

Again cricket has been dominating the days here, with a mixed bag of success.

I got reselected to play in the university match against Aston University near Birmingham. The journey there in the 7 seater car I was driving proved interesting, no strike that, it proved farcical. Using the cartographic precision of GoogleMaps I had marked down on paper the correct exit off the M6 - onto Birmingham Road. When asked, 'Did you bring a map, just in case you got lost?' I scoffed at the idea, suggesting that a) GoogleMaps would not send me up the garden path and b) I would back myself, Matthew Hayden style *more on that later* to find it even if we perturbed our orbit slightly.

Before we proceed with this lecture, and yes, it is a lecture, let me ask you this: you would think that the main road in Birmingham = Birmingham Road = 10 miles long would be labelled as one exits the motorway, yes? No. That would be the less correct of the two answers. So I just kept going, passing exit after exit, each time gritting my teeth at the English Autogyro system. Finally I bit the bullet and moved into plan B - those were my words to the crew (I came to view the passengers in the car as my crew, and I, their fearless captain who was leading them to the ends of the earth... = Birmingham). So I took the next road into Birmigham and tried to hunt around for B'ham Road - after all, it is the main road in Birmingham, how hard could it be to find? Error.

Round and round we went, then I went to plan c) - the astute among you would realise that hitherto I had not concocted a plan c) and so swift thinking was required. But if there is one attribute I can claim to have it is swiftness... well not in actually running, or moving, [our two chief weapons.... I'll come in again]. I sent my navigator out to seek directions from the Wise Man in the petrol station - whose advice consisted mostly of 'Watch out for those &%$£ing speed cameras'. So we went on forever searching, and forever missing the mark.

Then the calls started - the captain (or should I say, commodore) who left 5 minutes before we did and had arrived at the ground wanted to know where we were. We said, we were a little delayed, but that we would be there soon. So we stopped at another petrol station. They gave us directions alright, and they were crisp and to the point - but they were to Aston University, not their sports ground which, we subsequently found out, was not on the campus. Another call from the captain, another disappointment.

So around we went again, passing such delightful places as the Speamint Hippo and signs to the M6. When the captain rang again I suggested that he just ask if he could bat first and ideally not get more than 5 chaps dismissed before we arrived, then the truth hit - due to the sizes of the cars, we fit most of the team's kit in our car. So it turned out that the other car held a total of 3 sets of pads - it was shaping up to be under 12s cricket all over again. Finally though I instituted plan k) or whatever we were up to at this point, and we pulled into a petrol station and looked at a map ourselves. Of course I couldn't resist keeping it interesting for the punters and spectators and so at one point I went around the roundabout several times 'just to make sure'.

Eventually we made it there and the game ended up being one of the most boring matches I have played in - the wicket was so soft that each ball left a divot as it bounced - a low tech pitch map if you will. We finished our 35 overs for 135 (TS Trudgian was again batting at number 11 [even more ludicrous after events of the previous day, to be elaborated on in the next post] and didn't get a bat). We rolled them easily, as the pitch was getting worse at a rate of knots... yep, let's roll with that... and of course the return route B'ham to Oxford was much easier than the initial voyage.

The only good to come from the came was watching 'Deal or No Deal' during the Tea Interval, and then playing that same game out on the cricket field. So a batman comes to the crease, plays a few shots and looks a little shaky. Naturally the keeper and slips might remind him of his bad luck at not settling in as smoothly as he would have liked. But the Deal or No Deal Gambit enters its own with a conference in the slip cordon, thus:

'What do you think? 20?'
'Nah, more like 15, 16.'
'OK 16, we'll give you 16.'

If the next shot is a flamboyant one and is successful a cry of No Deal is heard. If it is a swing and a miss - No Deal, but he's just picked the £10,000 box, what a shame. Or if it is a defensive stroke, Deal! But let's play on to see how you would have fared. The batsmen love it... in a way.

Losing is problem that MacGyver himself can't fix

Cuppers = Knockout Tournament; Balliol Cricket Team = knockedout.

Troubled times, I can equate it to the ANU 'Rebels' Side losing in the Grand Final in 2004/5 and the B&G team losing in the match that dared not speak its name.

We bowled first and, my newly found supple joints were enjoying keeping as we made a domineering start to have them 1 for 20 off 10 overs. But then they opened up: I had a stumping which was not given, which makes as angry as an enraged hippopotamus who has just returned from a long day at the swamp to find another hippopotamus in bed with his wife. Two tough catches went down and I felt as rubbish as the tip. Tough times. They made 224 off their 40 overs.

Our opening stand went well, and the action followed me around, as umpire, having to give an LBW decision even though it breaks the cardinal rule of umpiring against your own team. The pitch got a little more Mumbai-esque and we crumbled towards the end. With 7 wickets down we needed 50 runs from 5 overs - then the 8th wicket fell as a young T.S Trudgian (with a haircut taking off years of his looks and a skivvy, shirt, sweater combo [it was sunless and cold] rivalling the poster boys of cricket from the 1890s ) strode to the crease.

In another time, playing for the ANU 'Rebels' against ADFA in similar windy and sunless conditions, joining the captain at 6 wickets down to help steer the side through to victory... there was a sentence there, really, with a clause and a subject... but it all got rather confusing.

I was feeling it - striding out in casual attire, getting ready to execute the 'Matthew Hayden Walk' [charging but moving the back foot first and showing the square barrel chest to the bowler as intimidation], and indeed the number 9 gave my verbal affirmation that a win was a strong possibility. I said, yep, don't get out though - OK... Next ball the number 9 is bowled. Ah dear. Out strides the number 11. OK - get behind it, try to work it around. Number 11 is bowled. I am left with a stunning 0 not out off 0 balls, and a black hole of desire.

We are out of this tournament, but still have the league on Wednesdays, in which we ar currently undefeated. Ah well, moving onwards and upwards. With some 70% dark chocolate and a glass of Laphroaig, the night has become palatable, but barely. Certainly I can say that even Cod Liver Oil tastes better than defeat.

Supple Joints

Balliol's First Black Tie Ball in 25 years went down a treat. The words 'open' and 'bar' need to be placed together more often for a capital symbiotic relationship. And then, the 8th Deadly Sin on Sunday afternoon: man should never again have to play cricket after he has supped from the open bar fruit. Our big games this week are against New College on Tuesday (for the second round of the knock out CUPPERS tournament) and Wadham College on Wednesday (for the 3rd round of teh round robin [sits in the treetop all day long] LEAGUE tournament).

Also I have started taking Cod Liver Oil of a morning. When in the supermarket last week I was picking up some toothpaste and saw the bottles of the stuff on the next shelf. I remember the tales told in days of yore that people were made to take a spoonful of this material each morning and how it made them into the bastions of fortitude that they are today. It smells like... fish... fishing all day and cutting up your catch - you hands get that slimy feeling with that lovely smell. You of course don't put those fingers in your mouth, but if you did, you could imagine that taste - welcome to Flavour Country, Population: Cod Liver Oil.

It is advertised as providing Supple Joints to all those who partake in its wholesome aroma. I have never had Supple Joints and would quite enjoy the novelty, people will walk down the street and say, 'There goes Tim, gee his joints are supple', and so on. The taste has been tough to stomach and so the last few days have included a glass of Laphroaig with breakfast to drown out the taste.

But with time... anything is possible, including the omission of whisky at breakfast time.