One of the
highlights of my young life came when I bowled my old PE teacher middle stump three
years after I left school. I was then a
callow youth of nineteen years. The PE Teacher’s
name was Mr Currie and he was a sadist of the first order. He made the Marquis de Sade seem like Mrs Mopp. I could never climb a rope in the gym. He would position himself under the rope and,
if you couldn’t shin up the thing out of his reach, he gave you a whack on the
behind with a gym slipper. I could never get out of his reach, so I ended up every
week with a stinging backside and a feeling of abject humiliation. These days, he would have probably been placed
safely behind bars for behaviour like that.
Three years
later, on a balmy June evening, I was playing in a friendly when, to my
amazement, who else but Mr Currie came out to bat for the other side. He didn’t recognise me. After all, why should he? Hundreds of spotty kids
had succumbed to his prisoner-of-war tactics over the years. He probably thought we all looked the same.
In those
days, I was a pretty quick bowler, if a little erratic. One ball would land somewhere near the spot,
whilst the next would hit backward short leg full toss on the knee. Later, my bowling was likened to that of an
elderly waiter serving soup from a tureen with an exceptionally heavy ladle but
things were so different back then.
As Mr Currie
scratched around the batting crease, I
moved my marker back several paces, so that my run-up was almost thirty yards
long. My old gym teacher was by now in his
forties and probably a little myopic. He
still had that vindictive look on his face – he hadn’t lost that since I last
saw him. He took guard on middle stump. I charged in like a rampaging rhinoceros and
flung the ball as fast as I could. Amazingly,
the delivery was perfect. Mr Currie moved back and across, the way you are
coached, and shaped to play a defensive shot, but his bat came down a split
second too late and slightly across the line of the ball. The middle stump cartwheeled out of the
ground and landed beyond the wicket-keeper, who was almost as startled as Mr
Currie, or, in truth, myself. He was out, first ball. He had landed a ‘golden
duck.’
I let out a
great screech of delight, and yelled at the top of my voice ‘Now I’ve got you –
revenge is a dish best served freezing cold!’ as I performed an Indian
war-dance around the popping-crease. Mr
Currie stalked off, giving me a rather peculiar look on his way back to the
pavilion. I didn’t care. I was in complete heaven – years of resentment
channelled into a single delivery had gained me glorious revenge.
After the
match, which we won, our captain drew me aside.
‘We’ve had a complaint from the opposition about your over-enthusiastic
response to that wicket you took. I have
to say, I was not too pleased about it, either.’ I drew myself up to my full
height, and faced him belligerently. ‘Tom,’ I said, for that was indeed his
name, ‘That man I bowled made my life hell for five full years, and, to be
honest, if I could have, I would have bowled him a beamer that would have
knocked his head off. I think my
celebration was actually quite muted.’
I explained
the circumstances and Tom listened intensely.
‘Let me give you a piece of advice,’ he said. ‘In cricket, as in life,
dignity is everything. The real test is
being able to bottle up your exuberance and to behave and act like a normal
human being instead of a raving lunatic.
First slip didn’t know your backstory, neither did mid-wicket – in fact,
the only person who knew anything about it was you. So, when you erupted like Mount Vesuvius, your
team-mates probably thought you were having a fit. You showed about as much
dignity as Lord Lucan and this cricket team doesn’t like people behaving like
idiots. Now, reflect on that for the future.’
I felt suitably chastened, for Tom
was a man of mature years and the sort of dignity shown only by Mr JG Reeder in
fiction and David Gower in cricket.
I changed back
into my day clothes and prepared to leave the ground. On my way out of the pavilion, I ran slap
bang into Mr Currie. He looked at me
curiously. ‘I’ve a feeling I know you,’
he said, severely. ‘Have we met?’ I
shrugged my shoulders and gave a polite little Roger Moore half-smile. ‘No,’ I
said, humbly, ‘I’ve never seen you before in my life.’
