For a few glorious moments the other evening, I saw the future of English cricket. Not in South Africa, not in an indoor net, but in the safety of my own bathroom.
I have a two year old son. Bathtime usually involved me attempting to entertain him with a variety of bath toys whilst he attempts to throw the liquid contents of the bath over me.
On this occasion, I was attempting to retrieve a rubber duck which had been hurled into the passageway outside the bathroom when he suddenly stood up, shouted ‘cricket’ and threw a rubber ball.
Except that he didn’t throw the ball. He bowled it, with an almost straight arm (certainly straighter than some I could mention) and no extension at the elbow. The style was perhaps a little roundarm, but there’s time to work on that.
Was I euphoric? You bet! I made him do it over and again, just to make sure my eyes had not deceived me. I called my wife upstairs to witness the phenomenon and she narrowly avoided being cut in half by a full bunger*.
For 24 hours, jubilation reigned. My son was going to be a future England international, his good old British genes had won out over his American ones (my wife is from Kentucky) and everything about the future looked rosy.
You’ve guessed that there is a ‘but’ coming, haven’t you.
The next night, he stood up in the bath again, ball in hand. But instead of bowling it down the passageway, he looked across the room. “Arrrgh,” I thought, “Don’t hurl it at the mirror”. And he didn’t. Having glanced that way, he then, without looking, threw the ball overarm onto the landing. Like a quarterback hitting a receiver in American Football, right down to the eye-fake.
Oh well, they get paid more than cricketers anyway.
*Anyone wishing to make the ‘full toss in her crease’ joke can leave now, okay.
