J&J v GSK, Brentford - 8.7.10

The Worst Shot in the History of Cricket

On the 28th of June 2009 I played for RUASCC against Southampton University in one of the most dismal performances of all time. Having collectively dropped no fewer than ten catches we were then bowled out for 83 to lose the match by a massive 99 runs. On a personal level, it was my first game back after missing six weeks with a broken bone in my left hand; I dropped two of those catches and was bowled for a sixteen-ball duck.

I mention this game because, as I write this, it was 54 weeks ago and it remains the last time I was dismissed when batting for RUASCC. Towards the end of 2009 I scored my first half-century (61 not out) and in 2010 I’ve managed a handful of unbeaten 0s and 1s - even in my extra-curricular Twenty20 games I’ve scored 31 not out and made a couple of scores in the 15-20 region without getting out. If I was the sort of person who could ever start to feel invincible I would have started to feel invincible.

That was until the catastrophe of July 8th 2010.

Batting second in a Twenty20 game chasing a rather imposing 173, I was asked to go in unexpectedly high at number four. I watched batsmen two and three get out caught for a duck apiece and found myself on strike after 3.2 overs. The inauspicious match situation only makes what happened two balls later seem even more criminally incompetent.

My first ball was full and straight and I played my favourite shot, the forward defensive, patting it back exactly the direction it came from. No problem so far. The bowler was quick but not brutal; the field was set with the sort of respect you would normally afford a number four batsman. My batting partner, an Aussie, had already played one sumptuous extra-cover drive and was looking comfortable. I had a bit of time to enjoy myself, to get in and play without pressure. The bad ball was bound to come, and I would be ready for it.

The second ball was shorter and, I thought, a bit wider. In that instant my thinking changed from “play yourself in” to “must... smash... everything.” At the time I decided I had plenty of time and space to cut it, but by the time it reached me it was higher and much straighter than I had realised. My “shot” resembled a koala attempting to return a body serve from Andy Roddick and the ball popped up pathetically into the covers where two fielders played paper-scissors-stone (best of 3) to decide who would have the honour of catching me out. It was, without any doubt at all, the worst shot ever played in the history of cricket.

The delivery itself was ok: quick enough to rush me, possibly cutting back in off the pitch and definitely getting up higher than I expected. But I’d already bowled four overs on the same wicket so I knew it couldn’t be trusted, and even on a perfect wicket there is no excuse for playing a cross batted poke-jab at your second ball when it’s 10-2.

As I walked off, using my cricket bat to much better effect gently cracking the side of my head, I felt the sad and empty desperation of failure. Before that shot I could at least console myself that my batting has been OK this season (my bowling has been dire, more on which later) but now I’m heading to Peppard this afternoon an empty shell of once mediocre cricketer. Maybe I should start bringing my coloured pens and become a full-time scorer.