CRAIG BROWN: Owzat! Day I was out for a golden duck 

A village cricket team has earned itself a place in cricketing history, having been bowled all out for nine.

Elvaston Cricket Club Fourth XI’s final score was boosted by their opening batsman, Will Hobbs, who scored two of their runs. The other seven came from mistakes — five leg byes and two wides — made by their victorious opponents, the Risley Cricket Club Second XI, who took just two overs to win.

I realise that, for non-cricketers, all this talk of overs, wides and leg byes must read like so much gobbledegook. Some of you might even consider nine a highly impressive score, but then you would be confusing cricket with football.

The only reason I can bluff my way through the basics is that, between the ages of seven and 12, I spent five summers playing, or rather not playing, school cricket.

In cricket, as in life, the Latin motto Non Te Intromittas (‘Don’t Get Involved’) should be emblazoned on every cap. But even at a distance of 50 yards, one picks up the occasional clue as to what is going on.

Most of the time I managed to place myself as far from the action as possible, in a position close to the boundary known as ‘Long Stop’. This involved 59 minutes of staring into space and one minute of sheer terror, when the ball fell from the skies.

Our official team — the Farleigh House Third XI — had been hastily formed after a pushy new sports master noticed my group of layabouts putting the finishing touches to our daisy-chains when we should have been shouting: ‘Owzat!’

A village cricket team has earned itself a place in cricketing history, having been bowled all out for nine (stock image)

Imagining that an incentive was all we needed, he sent us off in a minibus to play a match against a rival Hampshire school called West Downs.

From the start, it was obvious the West Downs Third XI were going to employ every trick in the book. They held their bats with both hands, and kept hitting the ball — something we had rarely witnessed. They even hit some balls towards Long Stop, which meant I had to run as fast as I could to avoid them.

After a few minutes they had scored 210 runs, with only three batsmen out. For some reason — possibly good manners — they then decided to give our team a go at batting. This at least meant that, at any one time, nine of us would be able to sit in the shade.

Their fielding proved just as ruthless. They didn’t sit down to field, as we all did, but stood with their knees slightly bent. When it came to bowling, they took run-ups and even bowled balls overarm.

Sure enough, we didn’t last long. In fact, we were all out for eight, which is one better — or one worse, depending on which way you see it — than the score of Elvaston Cricket Club’s Fourth XI last Saturday.

The Farleigh House Third XI was disbanded the very next day and, with Stalinist efficiency, expunged from the official school records.

It so happened that, more than a quarter of a century later, I found myself playing my own son in the fathers’ match at his school sports day.

To my surprise, half my fellow dads arrived with their own bats, mustard-keen to win against their 12-year-old sons.

The only reason I can bluff my way through the basics is that, between the ages of seven and 12, I spent five summers playing, or rather not playing, school cricket

Our team fielded first. My fellow dads cheered whenever a wicket went down.

Rightly identifying me as hopeless, they put me down to bat last, which I took to mean that I would not have to bat at all. But we were one run short when the father before me was bowled out.

This meant that I had to go on. I set off to the crease with a confident stride. After all, I only had to score a couple of runs, and then my fellow-fathers would treat me as a hero!

I faced a tiny little 12-year-old bowler, who took such a long run-up that I could barely see him in the distance.

Just as I was beginning to wonder when I should lift my bat, the ball flew out of his hand and straight onto the stumps behind me.

I was, to employ an old cricketing term, out for a golden duck.

I never played again, though from time to time I have enjoyed going to the Oval as a spectator. What greater pleasure can life offer than relaxing in the sunshine knowing that, whatever happens, someone else will be taking all the blame?