How Not to Sledge

Ah, the simple art of sledging in cricket. The skill of getting under the skin of an opponent, to force them into an error that they wouldn’t normally make. The public face of sledging at the moment is a man who answers to ‘Pup’. The not so lovable scamp with the ridiculous nickname has displayed all the wit that made Oscar Wilde so cherished with his infamous taunts that were picked up on the stump microphones.

In village cricket, sledging is a completely different beast. It can be an opportunity to share a joke to keep spirits up on a freezing April day. It can be something that is deployed by a junior, desperate to show that they’re part of the team and have learnt the lingo. In many cases the odd comment can come back to haunt you.

Here is why I come in. I myself am a completely hapless village cricketer, whose occasional bouts of competence are few and far between. The day in question was a blisteringly hot Sunday afternoon in late May. One of the club’s most highly regarded members was preparing for a new life in Australia. He and a number of increasingly sozzled companions were toasting his farewell on the sidelines.

As the day progressed this bumper crowd became increasingly vocal, Rossington’s very own version of the notorious Western Terrace. In the middle, things weren’t going very well. Our opponents Brodsworth had found the short boundary offered by the pitch we were playing on rather to their liking. The bowlers suffered during a rather brutal onslaught.

The opening batter in particular was having rather a good time of it. He possessed three things; a good eye, a strong striking ability and a four leaf clover in his back pocket. He was dropped countless times but still carried along on his merry way, bludgeoning anything that came into his path.

Meanwhile a few wickets had started to tumble and our chief tormentor was beginning to look increasingly twitchy as he entered the nineties. Now apart from encouraging my own team-mates, I usually keep my mouth shut on a cricket field. I leave that side of the game to those who can back up their words with their ability. However buoyed by taking a sharp catch earlier in the game, I cleared my throat.

“Come on lads, he’s already had the frantic forties, now look at him stuck in the nervous nineties.”

Admittedly it wasn’t particularly original or witty. It mustered a few laughs, including a wry chuckle from the umpire. I settled back into my position on the square leg boundary, unaware that I’d just sealed my own fate.

The batsman was now on 94, knowing that one more heave into the legside would complete his 100. He picked up on a full delivery, going down on one knee and unleashing a slog sweep that flew towards the square leg boundary. It came relatively quickly and flat but at a lovely catching height near the shoulder. I steadied myself ready to seize the opportunity to bring us back into the game.

I think you can all guess what happened next.

The ball burst through my fingers, agonisingly landing just over the boundary. What should have been a relatively routine catch had proved an insurmountable task for me. I was left looking down at the floor, hoping in vain that it hadn’t really happened.

Helpfully neither the drink-addled supporters nor my teammates let me forget my moment of ignominy. My horror was compounded by the centurion going berserk in the final overs, ending up with an unbeaten 165. We still had to bat, inexplicably put in at three I managed to run myself out in suitably comical fashion.

From then on, I vowed to try to the best of my ability to keep my mouth closed. However sometimes I just can’t resist (especially if someone comes out to bat in one of those ridiculous cycling style helmets), anyway surely it can’t come back to bite me again…