Ping Yi

The sun blazes overhead, and heatwaves shimmer in lazy spirals from the field. The 2 squads huddle in distinct groups, casting occasional wary, contemplative glances at each other. They run the gamut of characters; from the grizzled veterans to the fresh faced wide eyed greenhorns, neither extreme to take part directly in the battle to come, yet their hearts beat not one beat slower than those who will step forward today.

There is no indication that this will be a day he remembers forever more; the sun looks no different, and there is no epic music in the background foreshadowing earthshaking moments to come. Their equipment lies scattered hopelessly all around, exactly like any other matchday, and the familiar words barked by their leader sound the same. Looking over at the opponents, one tall lanky bowler catches his eye; an uncanny mirror image of a bygone (and fearsome) captain.

They warm up in the customary fashion, and enter the field. Ping yi wins the toss, and elects to bat first. The innings proceeds, not exactly terribly for the men in green, but certainly not well. At the end of 25 overs of hard work, the score stands at 115. Reachable, but not an easy score by any chance. Still nothing out of the ordinary.

It is the rafflesians' turn to reply when things start to change. The openers do reasonably at first, but then one falls for 15. The captain, that backbone of the team, that one man war machine who has destroyed so many teams, falls for 27 shortly after, and from there wickets start falling with shocking regularity. With the score barely past the half century mark, the rafflesians are reeling with half the team sitting glumly at the sidelines wishing this day could be fast forwarded. And it is his turn to step forward.

His helmet is stifling in the heat, and he can barely see. Sweat runs down his forehead and his legs feel stiff and bulky in the pads. He has never before scored in any match; in fact he can count the number of matches he has played in the fingers of one gauntleted hand. As he marches onto the pitch, swinging a familiar weight, his teammate hisses "Stay in!". But the sound seems to be coming from a great distance, and his vision has narrowed to a small slit. Feeling otherworldy, he takes up a familiar stance and waits for the inevitable.

The first ball is blocked, and the 2nd slashed wildly somewhere for a single. No longer afraid of a ignominious duck, he calms slowly. Somehow the expected shattering of the wicket, the nick into the eager hands of a fielder, doesn't come in the first few balls, nor the first over. Nor the 2nd. And slowly, as these horrors recede, the adrenaline takes over. And he continues onwards, the scoreboard ticking.

He is fighting a raging tide; the opponents have smelt blood, and wickets at the other end continue to fall regularly, but somehow things at this end seem to be perfect. The shots connect, the bat beats out its glorious rhythm and the ball reaches the boundary with heart warming regularity. Not for nothing is it said that to the on form batsman, the cricket ball seems as large as a football; he square cuts and cover drives with equal ease, and it is the ping yi bowlers (including the one who he secretly fears, for no good reason) who now hesitate.

And the rafflesians, watching this most hapless of players suddenly start performing, begin to cheer once more. It's straight out of a movie, and in their minds, they dare to hope...

Alas life is not a movie, and there could only be one conclusion to such a story. With just more than an over to go, it is not fatigue that does him in, but more a sense of recklessness. One tempting ball is smashed high; right to the boundary, where it drops into the hands of the fielder. And he trudges to the boundary, with a mixed feelings of utter defeat and burning pride. Hoping against hope that it was enough.

It isn't, and Raffles loses to Pingyi by less than 15 runs. He has scored 43 runs; never before and never again will he ever reach those heights. The rest is history; Raffles goes on to be 2nd in the group, encounters their arch rivals in the semis and loses resoundingly. To all intents and purposes, though he didn't know it at that time; his cricket career is over. And many are the days and nights he wonders what would have happened had that final ball travelled just 10 metres further.

In RJ i have no recollection of playing matches for the school team; isn't that unusual? I'm sure there must have been 1 or 2, but for all i did might as well have sat out and kept score haha...

Looking through old photos, and thinking of old events. Nostalgia is a tempting drug, one i often indulge in. This wasn't from that day, btw; but i absolutely love it, how typical it is of us. Thanks bang, for the photo!

Let's see if anyone still remembers this; or the great lady who said it!

"Ego is only for men; and it's reflected in the word itself. Ego-testicle!!"

-Noorizan Albar