I turned out for a schoolmaster’s XI against a bloody awful bowling attack. It was so bad that I scored 70 odd runs and retired 30 short of my hundred. A hundred spurned; some runs are unwanted and unsatisfying.
Ashis Nandy writes “the statistics of a cricket match tell one little because they are like notations in music. It takes something more than the score to describe an outstanding piece of music.”
Set in the heart of Westminster, Vincent Square is depending on your point of view, a beautiful setting for a cricket field or 13 acres of prime real estate. Westminster School and their old boys play their cricket here. The wicket’s not what it used to be.
But the boys are still staggeringly clever here. I met one who was roped in to play for the staff. On the morning of the game he translated Joyce’s Ulyssess into greek and during the game he was composing prize winning epigrams in latin.
Two shots, yes I’m recalling decent shots I hit again. One made the day and the other, the summer. There is no vanity in collecting such memories. They are rare and to be cherished. If you’re Lara or a decent cricketer, you have no need to marvel at the sweet wonder of a perfectly executed stroke. Good batsmen don’t dwell on good shots; they play ‘em again and again.
For striving averagemen like myself, a great stroke lingers long in the memory, like the scent of a loved old girlfriend. There’s a clip over midwicket I hit when I was 13. I remember it like June 24 1989 2.34pm because I’ve not played a shot like it since. And here’s the rub, I am not sure I would want to.
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