The dwindling hopes of Scottish cricketers, keen for some
action, have been further dashed with the announcement by CricketScotland that
all national competitions and regional leagues have been cancelled for this
season. There will be no cricket of any other
sort before 1 July. Whether there will
be any even then in what remains of the summer, must be open to doubt. But no true cricketer will abandon all hope.
Noting Fantasy Bob’s disconsolate sighs Mrs FB has been nothing but supportive.
‘For goodness sake’, she said, looking up from her equestrian magazine, ‘every season at this time you say that you can’t go on. So what are you moaning at?’
There are some times when FB thinks that the much touted feminine intuition and psychological insight are much overstated. But he did not have time to interject as she continued, the article about grass sickness temporarily forgotten.
‘At least you won’t be coming in on a Saturday evening with your tail between your legs giving me some cock and bull story about getting the only ball all afternoon to shoot along the ground from short of a length to hit the bottom of your middle stump. Honestly, what a fuss about nothing – you usually go on about that for a whole week.’
FB was about to say that some of his team mates would go on about it all season and indeed one person he played with for many years made it the defining experience of his whole career and developed such a myth of victimhood that early retirement was the only option.
But Mrs FB was in full flow.
‘And at least you won’t mope around all Sunday muttering that you were triggered and the ball pitched outside leg, or was missing leg, or took an inside edge or was too high or something equally inconsequential.’
FB was about to say that in that case in point it was all of these things but not necessarily in that order. But Mrs FB had the wind in her sails,
‘And I’ll be spared your self-pity at having yet another catch dropped off your bowling. I never understand why you just don’t hit the stumps.’
FB was on the point of acknowledging the merit of this coaching insight, but Mrs FB had drawn breath and continued,
‘And don’t come shuffling around complaining that you sat in the pavilion for 3 hours waiting for the rain to ease with only the chat of the juniors about what level they have reached on Doom Eternal to dispel the silence. I bet you ate the chocolate cake anyway.’
At this Mrs FB picked up her magazine and re-engaged with the fascinations of equine colic.
FB knew when it was wise to maintain silence. One word out of him at that point and Mrs FB would pointedly have said that since he had nothing to do the grass needed mowing.
‘For goodness sake’, she said, looking up from her equestrian magazine, ‘every season at this time you say that you can’t go on. So what are you moaning at?’
There are some times when FB thinks that the much touted feminine intuition and psychological insight are much overstated. But he did not have time to interject as she continued, the article about grass sickness temporarily forgotten.
‘At least you won’t be coming in on a Saturday evening with your tail between your legs giving me some cock and bull story about getting the only ball all afternoon to shoot along the ground from short of a length to hit the bottom of your middle stump. Honestly, what a fuss about nothing – you usually go on about that for a whole week.’
FB was about to say that some of his team mates would go on about it all season and indeed one person he played with for many years made it the defining experience of his whole career and developed such a myth of victimhood that early retirement was the only option.
But Mrs FB was in full flow.
‘And at least you won’t mope around all Sunday muttering that you were triggered and the ball pitched outside leg, or was missing leg, or took an inside edge or was too high or something equally inconsequential.’
FB was about to say that in that case in point it was all of these things but not necessarily in that order. But Mrs FB had the wind in her sails,
‘And I’ll be spared your self-pity at having yet another catch dropped off your bowling. I never understand why you just don’t hit the stumps.’
FB was on the point of acknowledging the merit of this coaching insight, but Mrs FB had drawn breath and continued,
‘And don’t come shuffling around complaining that you sat in the pavilion for 3 hours waiting for the rain to ease with only the chat of the juniors about what level they have reached on Doom Eternal to dispel the silence. I bet you ate the chocolate cake anyway.’
At this Mrs FB picked up her magazine and re-engaged with the fascinations of equine colic.
FB knew when it was wise to maintain silence. One word out of him at that point and Mrs FB would pointedly have said that since he had nothing to do the grass needed mowing.
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