The Vultures Gathered
The new batsman strode to the wicket with that seemingly familiar languid gait, like a Christian entering the colosseum to face the lions. Around him, his opponents gathered, like vultures, sensing further success. Yet he had a determined resolve.
Assuming his stance at the crease he awaited the bowler, who was positioned at the start of his run-up. Was I watching the great West-Indian, Clive Lloyd? Was I about to witness our own Ian Botham, or Andrew (Freddie) Flintoff at their belligerent best? No.
This was the early 1980's and I was umpiring a colt's match between my club, Gosport Borough, and Droxford; played out in a remote recreation ground deep in the heart of Hampshire, on a warm damp summer's evening. You know the kind we get in England?
The batsman? Young Ian Collins, a big-hitting fifteen year-old from Rowner, Gosport. A lad of few words, but very amiable. Even so, he was one that many lads of his age would have to think twice about before taking his last Rolo!
The Lion Panted
Everyone ready, the fresh-faced bowler set off, arms and legs pumping; approaching the crease he aimed his delivery and the right-handed Collins thumped it towards a very long leg-side boundary. A fielder gave chase as the batsmen charged from end-to-end. Youthful voices screamed instructions to the fielder, as a third run was comfortably completed. This crescendo of excitement only served to confuse; the ball was returned by the fielder but, nowhere near his team-mates - evading them all, it shot out towards the boundary on the other side; no-one was covering.
Briefly, the fielding side stood and looked at each other in confusion; the batsmen set off running again. By the time the fielders had galvanised themselves another three runs were nearing completion but, ……..hold-on! There was a chance of a run-out. The ball was now on its way in from the cover boundary and Collins, panting like a lion, flailed away in an effort to reach his ground safely.
Had Droxford learnt quickly? Not at all! The ball had been returned by the fielder but, nowhere near his team-mates - evading them all, it shot out towards the boundary on the other side; again!The batsmen, scarcely able to believe it or, for that matter, able to catch their breath, set off running yet again.
The Dog Barked
By now, noise levels had escalated. The batting team shouted encouragement from the boundary, to their team-mates running themselves silly in the middle; eleven fielders were still screaming at each other; their coach was tearing his hair out on the boundary edge and, some spectators (not that there were many) were rolling about laughing. All of which had excited a dog, who was sat over by the pitch roller and had joined in, barking madly. An apt phrase in the circumstances!
This time, though, the fielders restored some sanity and only two more runs were added before the ball was safely into the wicket-keeper's gloves. Even so, amidst the mayhem, Collins had managed to score an implausible eight runs from his first delivery.
The excitement calmed momentarily and the bowler set off once more from the height of his run up. The adrenalin, not just his arms and legs, was pumping now as he reached the crease. Straining with effort, he emitted a groan. The bowler's aim was slightly out, but Collins' aim was true. Straining with effort, he too emitted a groan. The ball was clubbed cleanly, sailing over the long-on boundary for six. It was a super shot. A proper cricket shot, if you like, not a slog.
The Frog Crouched
All the same, this was remarkable entertainment. Once again, I resumed my position behind the stumps at the bowler's end. The wicket-keeper crouched, frog-like, behind the stumps at the batsman's end. Fielders had assumed their positions. The spectators, the coach, and the dog sat by the pitch roller, were silent now in bewildered anticipation. Collins, steely-eyed, was ready. You could almost hear his heart thumping; and the bowler, ball in hand, set off.
It was impossible to second-guess what the treat may be this time? The expectation was palpable. In the event it was, sadly, a huge anti-climax. Collins attempted to repeat the feat of the previous ball. Not one to die wondering, he missed and the ball hit. His stumps were shattered. So, I think, were we all. Normality resumed.
He had been bowled just third ball for fourteen runs. Ian Collins had not scored the most dashing century I had ever seen; nor batted with the most style I had ever seen; nor put his side into a winning position by any means. Yet this was, and still is, the most incredible and unforgettable innings I have ever witnessed. In modern terms, a strike rate of 700 - that takes some doing, however long the innings lasts. Cricket is a strange animal at times!
ENDS
