A. Falk of the Ancient Mariners was bowling accurate wrist spin to the feet of novice batsmen and it was working. He’d just clean bowled the last fellow, clipping the leg bail with a ball that pitched on at least off stump if not outside.
Clapping the new man toward the crease from a squarish mid-on, I was sure there would be an attempt to get bat on the next ball. My stride towards the wicket widened as I saw the chap taking guard with inappropriate black training shoes. This was every inch a village cricket number 10 batsman.
Walking in, I was perhaps 8 feet short and square on the leg as the ball pitched, turned with a pop and was glanced down to leg by the backfooted batsman. It was with a jump and a stretch but not a leap I descended towards the path of the cherry projectile.
My knee dug in to the turf as the ball would have grounded, save for my fingers underneath it. The prize came up in the claw and was offered to the umpire, but the sighs of the batsman and cheers of the fielders spoke for him.
I looked to see the new Primary Club eligible walking, distraught, his plight shared by all who have also suffered a first ball dismissal. Still, catcher and bowler, then fielders celebrated on, “Mariners! Hat-Trick Ball…”
Though the master spinner never got his hat-trick, he got his five-for and it was a winning performance which made four victories in a row. Our late august form was blossoming.
Jugs anyone?!