Get a Hundred

A few years back another innings had come to an end and my friend the sun stood behind me and cast its shadow over a lonely and sorrowful return to the pavilion. Moping back to the boundary, marshalled again by the same aching, emptying, head shaking disappointment that I have known all my cricketing life, I whispered to myself ‘why do I do this’?

Of course after every dismissal I mask the regret, take off my kit, wear a smile and pretend it doesn’t matter. Next time, the next game, that’s cricket. Keep going. And I do; all because I want to score a hundred. It’s only a number. Yet I cannot give up this bewitching game until I have done so.

I thought readers might want to see the story not just read about it. So I chose to vlog (video nasties of my innings) and blog my batting woes. Unlike other cricket blogs this one doesn’t dwell on the professional game. I aim to write about the lot of the average club batsmen. We are possibly the most deluded men on earth. We all believe that if we had more talent, we’d be playing test cricket.

This blog isn’t really about cricket. It’s about batting. I write about batsmen; the main protagonists of cricket. Batting is unassailably, unquestionably, unique. Nothing compares.

For every ball you face, there are 11 different ways to get you out. In 1 over a batsmen survives, there are 66 chances for his or her dismissal. The odds stink don’t they? And yet all batsmen think they can overcome them. This surely is madness. No sport offers its protagonist so singular and precarious a role. No sport offers such terrible odds and perhaps this alone makes batting utterly compelling and the most compelling part of any sport I know.

Is there another game that offers the defining reckoning between a batsmen and the bowler? Baseball offers three strikes. No such luck for batsmen in cricket. Golf gives you as many shots as you wish; boxing a count to ten; tennis, squash, point after point; other games give you chance after chance. Athletes run one race at a time. They also live for one moment but their opponents- other runners- face the same odds. The bowler, cricket’s antagonist, has any number of chances to get his man. There is sport, there is cricket and then there is batting.

Oddly being crap at cricket is an increasingly well covered subject. Marcus Berkman’s two books: Rain men and Zimmer men come to mind. He writes about a sorry and dreadful group of cricketers. I haven’t seen them play but know someone who has. I’m told that they are toilet. My bold claim is that I’m not as bad as Berkman’s men. I am one of many; the not good enough, the not hopeless but still not good enough. So then this is a grinding battle against mediocrity. In some respects I’d rather be very crap. When you’re crap you know it. You accept it. You don’t suffer the delusions of average players. But whether you’re a Rain man, Zimmer man or average man, this game is a mystery to all of us and long may that be . Cricket would be a terrible game if you mastered it.

No doubt this all seems rather petty and personal. The world burns, injustice reigns and tragedy stalks its next victim. Thank god for cricket. Yet cricket has not been a prophylactic against the gloom of life. The game has often mirrored the bloody world; a place with more downs than ups. That’s fine if you like a struggle but like many souls, I prefer life on easy street.

In late 2006, I started to keep a diary of my attempt to score a hundred. I thought I’d wait a year (3 years later..) before I put out the blog/vlog on the net. That way, I could scrap the whole thing if I lacked heart. I reasoned the less people that knew how often I failed the better. In the end I judged that since many of us live with crushed hopes, there can be no shame in sharing this ‘stuff’ on the net. One last confession: this is all a vainglorious bid for a miniscule part in cricket lore. It seems a bit unfair that Bradman, Lara, Sobers, Sachin and co should hog the limelight. There must be a little sun for the rest of us; mere mortals and dreamers of dreams.

There are some rules about this hundred. It has to be a perfect hundred. Define perfection. It must be against cricketers who rate themselves; against players who think they are better than you. It must come in less than fifty balls. There is a contradiction at the heart of this. If I wanted to score a hundred that badly, I’d have got one against the blind XI. The bar is set rather high. Why? Not to match my ego but to reach a level beyond my abilities; once this life will do.

Doubtless this reckless gung ho batting method is not very bright. Only an idiot would fail to spot that there might be another way to skin the cat; a safer way to get this hundred. But I don't want any old hundred, I seek a perfect hundred- which is a bit childish, self indulgent.

Many say it’s impossible to attack every ball but that isn’t true. Few of us encounter Lillee, Thompson, Warne, Marshall et al at lower levels of the game. Beyond first class cricket, nearly all bowling is staggeringly ordinary and begging to be cut down. But too many batsmen weigh risk; not to do so is reckless. This is the credo all batsmen live by. After all, we only have one chance, one life. From test to village cricket the best batters are wizened to risk. They learn when to attack. You can’t attack, attack, attack they say. All my cricketing life I’ve tried to attack; not tried to smash every ball for six but four, three, two or even one will do.

Twenty years ago, I needed a single for a hundred. Since then I’ve been in the 90s- I don’t keep records- half a dozen times; perhaps more. I remember the dismissal on 99. I crabbed across the stumps and tried to flick the ball through midwicket. I was on my way before the umpire raised his finger. I didn’t care though. There was no regret on missing out. No inkling that I’d be dreaming of getting a hundred twenty years later. I remember feeling sorry for the fielding side. They looked ragged and we had plenty. I’d not set out to score a hundred. It didn’t really matter. That’s how I felt then. Quantum mutatus.

So if I’d scored one more run, I wouldn’t have dreamt up a project where I write, speak and film almost entirely about myself. This all has a nasty whiff of egomania (hope that’s the right disorder) about it. Maybe I’ve got Toby Young syndrome- self love through self styled failure. But I’m not trying to make a buck out of this. Couch trip over. Readers can judge for themselves what this is all about. Hopefully some of you will think it’s about love; love of batting and love for cricket.