Absolutely Plumb: On a Dark and Stormy Night
Created | Updated Oct 5, 2006
On a Dark and Stormy Night
Last Wednesday evening was thoroughly miserable, the Devon equivalent of a tropical typhoon. Dark at 7.30pm, with a strong easterly lashing rain into my bald spot and me trudging my way through the backstreets with water pouring into my shoes. It wasn't a day to feel happy to be alive.
As the rain threatened to suck my contact lenses out of my eyeballs, I reflected that just a couple of months ago the evening would have been rather different. Half seven on a Wednesday; now, if I wasn't working, I'd have been just coming off the boundary for a sneaky smoke and glass of juice between innings. My biggest worry would have been that the sun was getting low and might affect my view of the crease from square leg or that the old boy in the scorebox had nadgered things up again1. None of this hiding away in the snooker hall or pub; just a glorious green field and all the sounds of summer that cricket relays so perfectly.
The funny thing was, as I passed B&Q, I realised that the summer was finally over. The weather and memories of the summer combined to consign me to one dramatic realisation, which hit me with a horribly depressed thump. Even the thump reminded me of ball on pad. Thoroughly miserable, I stood under a leaky drainpipe at the ATM and got dribbled on. Bloody autumn.
You see, cricket follows the summer almost perfectly. The late spring is time for friendly matches; dusting off the cobwebs between the inevitable showers, remaking old friendships and rivalries. When glorious June arrives, cricket is in full swing, bowlers are grimacing at clear blue skies and the cool teas in the pavilion are welcome relief from the heat of the day. By the time August comes, teams are battling relegation or fighting for promotion and titles and the odd wet day only adds to the drama.
All too soon, the nights draw in and the award ceremonies pass. What is the cricket fan to do? Look forward to a winter of darkness and
rain, perhaps giving the uncouthness of the footballers a passing glance — and if that sounds harsh, compare the sportsmanship of Gilchrist walking after a nick with the apparent imbalance of Ronaldo falling for penalties. The winter tours never feel the same — having to wake up at 4am for the start of play in India always hurts — even the Ashes in Australia are more of a five-day stamina test for the Englishman. For what other sport would a grown man spend the whole night, every night, for almost a week on the sofa before rising after a smidgeon of sleep for work?
I got out of the rain, won at snooker and — this being Devon — by the time I left the sky was clear again. I got home and threw the souvenir ball from my first game as umpire from hand to hand for a few minutes, smoothed off my white coat and hat, smiled and shut them away in the cupboard for a few months.
Roll on April.
