Sensations
Maybe better called muscle memories. Thursday dinner, and yesterday's long long day immersing myself in other universes had a profound effect on me; found myself missing these (among other things) terribly...
The longing as we waited for training days, particularly Kallang ones. The impatient waiting for the day's lessons to end, and the scramble to grab bags and kit and rush down to the field/Kallang. The frequent detours to the county pit for some impromptu warmup. Grabbing a scanty lunch (frequently not at all, unless it was Kallang days).
Changing up, into those familiar comfortable outfits. The pride I always felt when i wore the black and green. The simple pleasure of seeing everyone clad in the same outfit. The warmup run with all the yelling and screaming. The stretches which some tried to shirk, and feeling the tingling anticipation of what is to come.
Fielding practise; repetitive and boring to some, but essential to the team. Short fielding, catching balls, diving and showing off to each other. making split second catches, entirely on instinct, hands moving before the brain fully processes what it is seeing, and feeling the hunter's roaring joy on pulling off a difficult one. Long fielding, with an entirely different set of challenges. Watching the ball fly high into the sky, submerging the rational mind that screams that it can smash ur bones, and snatching it from the air. The mad rush to position myself, the adjustments and uncertainty, the fixation on the small dot speeding down, and the thwack of it hitting flesh. Picking up grounders and letting fly a screamer; the familiar 2 step swing the arm back, and around and hurl it back towards the stumps. The exhilaration when it falls neatly into the 'keeper's gloves.
Still on the topic of fielding; the short period when i WAS the keeper. Feeling invincible in the gloves, and making ridiculous catches i'd definitely miss otherwise. No catch too low, or too high, or too hard.
On to the nets, measuring out the steps, then making the blazing run to the pitch, the explosive joy in releasing a fireball down the pitch. The excitement when a particularly good yorker or swinger defeats the batsman, and the sheer bloodlust when the wicket shatters. Once in a while, even in the nets, the special caught and bowled. And over long training hours, the quieter but no less deep satisfaction of seeing every ball go straight and true again and again. The ribbing and teasing at each other's mistakes or marvelling at our prowess.
And at the other end, in the heavy pads and helmet, with the solid bat in hand; taking up the familiar stance, feeling comfort in the repetition. The dance that all batsmen do; step forward
drive, step back block, step forward square cut, the graceful flick, the thundering charge down the pitch and smack the ball to the moon. And of course, the song of bat and ball; the solid thwack of a good cut, the barely there sensation of a flick. The powerful yet minimal backlash of a solid cover drive with the sweet spot, and the finger tingling sting of a nick. And once in a while, the muffled thud of ball on body armour.
Last and certainly not least; in our final year in RI, when we were mad with the desire to finally pull one over our cursed adversaries. How we pushed ourselves to the limit, how we whipped each other into fits of frenzy. How when it rained, we simply took off shoes and socks, defied the raging heavens and trained soaking wet on the astroturf. How the fire within us kept us warm and going strong. Those memories are nothing short of amazing, who we were.
Of course, with all these came the darker moments, of bruised fingers, broken teeth (for some!), welts over shins, over ribs, over everywhere else, of cut lips and throbbing feet. The shame of missing a simple catch, or flinging a ball well wide. Of bowling wide after wide or of getting your ball smashed out of the nets. Of gasping and wheezing while manfully trying to continue scoring runs.
Every time I think that these are all in the past, it comes back to bite me again with terrible longing sigh...
New month, new ward. Almost half way through this posting, but again I am stuck with a clown for a boss. Thank god the ward itself has been quite slack so far heh...
"A true batsman should in most of his strokes tell the truth about himself"
The longing as we waited for training days, particularly Kallang ones. The impatient waiting for the day's lessons to end, and the scramble to grab bags and kit and rush down to the field/Kallang. The frequent detours to the county pit for some impromptu warmup. Grabbing a scanty lunch (frequently not at all, unless it was Kallang days).
Changing up, into those familiar comfortable outfits. The pride I always felt when i wore the black and green. The simple pleasure of seeing everyone clad in the same outfit. The warmup run with all the yelling and screaming. The stretches which some tried to shirk, and feeling the tingling anticipation of what is to come.
Fielding practise; repetitive and boring to some, but essential to the team. Short fielding, catching balls, diving and showing off to each other. making split second catches, entirely on instinct, hands moving before the brain fully processes what it is seeing, and feeling the hunter's roaring joy on pulling off a difficult one. Long fielding, with an entirely different set of challenges. Watching the ball fly high into the sky, submerging the rational mind that screams that it can smash ur bones, and snatching it from the air. The mad rush to position myself, the adjustments and uncertainty, the fixation on the small dot speeding down, and the thwack of it hitting flesh. Picking up grounders and letting fly a screamer; the familiar 2 step swing the arm back, and around and hurl it back towards the stumps. The exhilaration when it falls neatly into the 'keeper's gloves.
Still on the topic of fielding; the short period when i WAS the keeper. Feeling invincible in the gloves, and making ridiculous catches i'd definitely miss otherwise. No catch too low, or too high, or too hard.
On to the nets, measuring out the steps, then making the blazing run to the pitch, the explosive joy in releasing a fireball down the pitch. The excitement when a particularly good yorker or swinger defeats the batsman, and the sheer bloodlust when the wicket shatters. Once in a while, even in the nets, the special caught and bowled. And over long training hours, the quieter but no less deep satisfaction of seeing every ball go straight and true again and again. The ribbing and teasing at each other's mistakes or marvelling at our prowess.
And at the other end, in the heavy pads and helmet, with the solid bat in hand; taking up the familiar stance, feeling comfort in the repetition. The dance that all batsmen do; step forward
drive, step back block, step forward square cut, the graceful flick, the thundering charge down the pitch and smack the ball to the moon. And of course, the song of bat and ball; the solid thwack of a good cut, the barely there sensation of a flick. The powerful yet minimal backlash of a solid cover drive with the sweet spot, and the finger tingling sting of a nick. And once in a while, the muffled thud of ball on body armour.
Last and certainly not least; in our final year in RI, when we were mad with the desire to finally pull one over our cursed adversaries. How we pushed ourselves to the limit, how we whipped each other into fits of frenzy. How when it rained, we simply took off shoes and socks, defied the raging heavens and trained soaking wet on the astroturf. How the fire within us kept us warm and going strong. Those memories are nothing short of amazing, who we were.
Of course, with all these came the darker moments, of bruised fingers, broken teeth (for some!), welts over shins, over ribs, over everywhere else, of cut lips and throbbing feet. The shame of missing a simple catch, or flinging a ball well wide. Of bowling wide after wide or of getting your ball smashed out of the nets. Of gasping and wheezing while manfully trying to continue scoring runs.
Every time I think that these are all in the past, it comes back to bite me again with terrible longing sigh...
New month, new ward. Almost half way through this posting, but again I am stuck with a clown for a boss. Thank god the ward itself has been quite slack so far heh...
"A true batsman should in most of his strokes tell the truth about himself"
-Neville Cardus
posted by SunderB @ 9:58 pm
2 Comments:
At 11:41 pm,
archana said…
LOVE this post! hopefully you'll be free for the tournament this year! then at least my cheerleading won't go to waste :P
At 8:29 pm,
Had Raven Aunt Van said…
ideally you should step back to square cut.. =P
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