It's Raining Bats and Pads by Jamie Magill

Author:Jamie Magill
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pitch Publishing
Published: 2022-06-15T00:00:00+00:00

10

I.D. Austin

I EAGERLY renewed my subscription for the 1993 season. This was an Ashes summer so there was that extra frisson of excitement in the early spring air – especially when the natty, pocket-sized, leather-bound membership book was pure Australian gold. Whatever its colour, that book answered all the questions and resolved all the arguments for many years when life was difficult (and I am eternally grateful) but why is it in life there is always that dichotomy – that underlying tension – between fun and duty? The baleful spectacle of A-Levels loomed over me like Caligula’s illness that early summer of 1993 but what do you do when Botham is batting and the new double-tiered F stand is being unveiled on the same day as your practical exam in chemistry? Do not go gentle into that good night for a start – instead you rage against the Manchester City copper sulphate and the Bunsen burners (which will never get you anywhere worth going anyway) and you get a half return to Oxford Road and the tram to Old Trafford, and a crate of Foster’s and ten B&H. And that is exactly what I did on Friday, 7 May 1993 with a mate called Guy Harewood. Durham were only a few down from day one so Botham would definitely be in. I had never seen him bat and it was pretty clear this would be his last summer – I had the balls to risk my future for something I loved and I am pleased I did. Batshit crazy? Quite possibly but there you go – you can’t have eloquence and common sense. Again, it’s for the love of the game I’d die for.

Botham arrived at the crease around midday with Durham’s position looking impregnable. Before he got off the mark he very nearly fiddled Mike Watkinson to a deepish extra cover – driving uppishly – and then some young upstart arrived at the bowling crease trying to bounce him! How dare he? Had he not seen Botham’s Ashes? He could have borrowed my video but the 1989 threads had now given up the ghost completely and snapped, probably at the point Terry Alderman was slapped into the confectionary stall and out again. Yet footballs echo in the memory: the 19-year-old parvenu was called Glen Chapple and he was definitely swift enough to hurry the now 37-year-old legend – indeed, a slightly quicker one Botham could only paddle round to Watkinson at a wide fine leg who took a spectacular diving catch: IT Botham c. Watkinson b. Chapple 3. And I missed my A-Level exam for those 20 minutes! Was it worth it? Too bloody right! I’d be disappointed if my own son did not do the same: follow your passion even if it makes you look a bit odd at times. Moliere’s Alceste was neither fundamentally mad or bad; he was just decidedly singular. That’s the way to be – find the courage and desperation to be you. And die trying if you have to.

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