The Shot Heard Round the World

[Match reports used to be a major feature of this blog. There was always an element of "sing when you're winning" about this. The glory days of the blog coincided with a rich vein of form for the club, while there are few things more depressing than having to relive yet another heavy defeat, find yet another euphemism for collapse.

Over the last couple of seasons, as results have improved, the reports have reemerged as a feature of the weekly availability emails - behind the "play wall", if you like. The Secretary thoroughly approves of this development. There's been some excellent reporting, not least from Dave Windram (or Windrush, as the Carlton scorers named him this weekend, possibly in tribute to his love of West Indian cricket). And the more limited distribution saves hours of editing to keep us the right side of ESCA's Social Media policy.

But every so often something wonderful happens and someone describes it so well that it should be shared with a (slightly) wider audience. So here, very lightly edited, is Ken's great moment as narrated by Dave, who is too modest to mention his own three wickets, including that of the centurion, Iain Hathorn.]

Sporting moments when you get to say "I was there" are rare. Headingley 2019, I had thought, would forever be mine. A sun-drenched afternoon which ended with me spewing out of Dan Shaw's car window. Heat exhaustion or adrenaline overload - who knows and frankly who cares? Meadows 2023. The location and year. That is all it will take to recall another of those "I was there" days. Another day of baking hot sun, another day of late evening spewing (this time in Hectors). Heat exhaustion or adrenaline overload - again, who cares?

There was no sign of any earth-shattering activity as Robin's 2s navigated the quidditch games, multicoloured pelotons, interpretive dancers and over-zealous young lovers of the Meadows to take on Carlton 5s.

On this day, the game was to become an irrelevance, but, for completeness, we won the toss and chose to field first. Matt and Ashish P set about trying to prise out Carlton's opening, and league-leading, father-son partnership, the disgustingly correct technique of the younger batter proving a real depressant to the HX team, whose average age was about four times his.

Some clean, crisp hitting from Dad took the score beyond a hundred at drinks, and had some Crossers begging for home time. However, the introduction of Ashish V, JB and Keith assisted in squeezing the run rate and a total that looked certain to balloon was restricted to a run over 200, leaving us a target of 202.

The chase started promisingly, Robin lifting us well above the required rate by smiting the first ball of the innings to the boundary. Surely, the Skipper asked, that was a six? No, said Ken umpiring at square leg, just short. Perhaps an inspiration for what was to follow.

Ken keeping on the day. Photo: Stewart Gray.

We rattled along at a good clip against some very good young bowlers with 20s and 30s from Robin, Ziggy, Keith, JB and Vijay, leaving us requiring 38 from the last 4 overs for an unlikely victory. The Meadows crowd, which had surrounded the pitch all day, could sense something special on the horizon.

A couple of big overs followed as Vijay, who could no longer run, dealt more or less exclusively in boundaries, but when he was finally out we still needed 24 and with just 11 balls left. Enter El Presidente to join Dave at the crease. First delivery, dot ball, ah here we go. "Come on, Coastal, get me on strike, son."

And then it happened. The bat pulled across the body. A shotgun crack. S**t, he's middled that, by the way. The ball shooting like a comet towards some poor unsuspecting soul in the long grass. Ziggy's arms aloft. Is he celebrating or signalling a six? Probably both.

You wait 57 years for your first six and then it's over, just like that. Back to task. 16 off 10, 8 off 5, all Prespectfully defended. 5 dot balls to finish. Back to task.

It has been long established that cricketers are masochists. Why do we give up a day every weekend during the summer for this? Earlier that afternoon, as I lay flat on the ground in the middle of the Meadows, yelling as many expletives as possible at the blazing sun, that very thought ran round in my head. Keith, who thought he'd just made the key breakthrough, was probably wondering why as well. Twenty five overs in, a hundred-odd for none,  and I'd just dropped a dolly off a 12 year old who is already much better at this ridiculous game than I will ever be. A few minutes later, a typical Meadows bounce and the ball clipped me on the jaw. "It's really not your day," came the comforting from Ziggy.

And that is exactly the point, very rarely is it our day. The sooner we accept that, the better. But what draws us back, week after week, is that occasionally it's going to be someone's day. And it it's not our day then it feels just as good, maybe better, joining in celebrating with someone who's day it is. Those days are rare.

Standing at the non-striker's end, as Ken bludgeoned the ball over the square leg boundary the  joy at seeing it clear the spray-painted line felt like my own. Arms aloft at his career achievement, the embrace that followed in the middle was the only natural response. The youthful opposition looked on, baffled at the scenes in the middle, given the fact that we were still almost certainly going to lose. It will all make sense in 57 years, lads.