Posted by It is the final match of the season. We have to win and I have been entrusted with the pivotal number 11 slot. As the last batsman, all will hinge on my performance.
Our opponents bat first and I am permitted to field from the dressing room, where I can gather my thoughts and get myself prepared for the task in hand. I take a G&T to stimulate my mind and sharpen my reflexes.
Our reply gets off to a good start, but a flurry of late wickets leaves us needing five to win off the final ball with eight wickets down. In this most important of matches, Laurence Elderbrook is not going to grace his stage.
However, the final delivery is a massive front-foot no-ball. The batsmen attempt to take a single, but the non-striker is run-out before he can make his ground. I hear the crowd silently chant my name.
I take a moment to compose myself in the mirror. Resplendent in my cream flannels, I look immaculate. It is time.
Moments like this are decided in the mind. Fortunately, my mental strength is unsurpassed. As the bowler runs in, I already know that I, Laurence Elderbrook, will win this match. It is my stage. It is my moment. Four to win.
Like all great batsmen, I have always picked up length early. On this occasion, I am perhaps a little too early and am well into my follow-through before the bowler has released the ball. The delivery is fast and straight and it takes a bail off.
Foolishly the fielders celebrate. Maybe they know that I had a free-hit due to the front-foot no-ball, maybe they don’t. Whichever it is, they still think they have done enough.
But I know better.
As I played a shot, the ball is not dead. I watch it bounce over the rope and the umpire signals four byes. We have won the match.
I have won the match.
It is at this point that I take the only option available to me. I discard my bat, throw back my head and let fly a huge, bestial roar. It is a roar of superiority. It is a roar of victory. It is the roar of Laurence Elderbrook.
Later that night, as we celebrate, I suggest to the captain that I might bat at three next season, so that the team may make better use of my abilities. He concurs.
He admires my prowess. He admires me.
Sorry about that everyone and in particular to Laurence.
The closed comments were not deliberate, but were the result of some aimless clicking on our part.
Feel free to make up for the missing hours from now onwards.
I’ve just told the lads to stop for a pint.
You may be safe, but you never know with ageing, ginger, all-rounders, they’re unpredictable. Not quite Insane McGain unpredictable, but you know. Still dangerous.
I loved the picking up the length too early and the silent chanting of the name, but I really really enjoyed Suave’s ginja avengers and Brian’s splenetic frenzy. (I think btw that you can divert Chapple from regicide, Suave, if you mention Atherton’s name – good for an hour’s rant I shouldn’t wonder)
I’m just pleased that Laurence has got over his poor spell of form. And, make no mistake, a number three of his talents will get noticed sooner or later 🙂
Shouldn’t it have read, 5 to win off the final ball with EIGHT wickets down?
Are you saying that at one point it didn’t?
Tum-te-tum-te-tum.
The silent chant is a thing of beauty.
Very Zen. The sound of one cloud silently chanting. Or did that read “crowd”?
Tremendous result. Fabulously well played, Laurence.
Since last week I have been practising my own bestial roars in the car, which avoids all the attendant problems with the neighbours etc. But the seated bestial roar inevitably still comes too much from the throat, so perhaps I need a larger vehicle to enable me to stand and roar while on the move.
Still, enough about me. Today is Laurence’s day and I for one shall celebrate the victory with a large glass of vino as soon as I have finished posting this appeal.
Having closely followed Laurence’s season. I think its safe to say we are all happy with the way things have ended.
Must give this bestial roar a try.
I got the great word versimitude tonight at Scrabble having allowed both sim and tude earlier. It did say nine wickets earlier, i might cry.
Privately I confessed to King Cricket that I quite fancied Laurence Elderbrook when he was relegated to the tail and became all broody and Heathcliff-like.
He taunted me that I didn’t dare put this in a post.
I have.
Mind you, he’s a knobhead again now (Laurence Elderbrook, that is, not King Cricket).