When I was nine years old my brother’s under 12 cricket team had a sudden shortage of players and I was called upon to take the field. Standing out in a bright blue tracksuit in stark contrast to my new teammates’ more appropriate white, I was kept deep in the outfield where my lack of ability would do the least harm. I wasn’t a registered player, and so wasn’t allowed to bat or bowl, but still that marked the first time I set foot on a competitive sporting arena. I loved it.
I was registered shortly after, and finished the season as a regular player (complete with whites I got for Christmas that my younger self deeply resented as a Christmas present). I was impossibly nervous as I stood out to bat against much older boys with the painted white County bat I could hardly hold, but I still clearly recall desperately wanting to succeed – to impose myself on the match.
The next season saw, due to a worsening of the player shortage that led to my inclusion to the team, a change of clubs. My half a season the year before saw me somewhat ahead of the new crop of kids. If I’m being truthful, I liked it that way. Cricket is a good game when it’s going your way, and standing on the pitch clubbing the ball around the field gave my somewhat timid nature a healthy ego boost.