Iz don’t like cricket, she loves it

My grandad played cricket, my dad played cricket and I played cricket (well I was bloody good at fielding and getting my whites dirty). Now it looks as if that baton, well bat anyway, may have passed down to Isabelle.

Many a childhood summer evening was spent on my mum and dad’s back lawn (with half the street) inbetween the kitchen window and bathroom window about to fend my makeshift wickets, a large piece of wood or a bucket, from a spinning tennis ball, with a trusty but battered old cricket bat that looked more akin to Robert Redford’s baseball bat from ‘The Natural’.

It might not have been Lords but it will also be my cricket field of dreams, which is rather ironic seeing that it is situated to a field that used to be full of corn – no baseball diamond though.

It was therefore rather fitting that this same arena would serve as Isabelle’s introduction to the cricket bat and ball and like me all of those years ago I’m proud to say that it was my dad who (underarm) bowled that first delivery.

Howzat!? Well, she hit the ball – with special thanks to mum – but I’m not so sure the self-clapping and bowing will get her too many runs.



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