I need help. I think cricket is taking over my life.
It has become so bad that I’m seeing everything that happens to me through the prism of the game.
I wake up ready to face a new day and peer through the curtains. Ominous clouds suggest a patchy session; bright sunshine could mean a chance to make hay.
I commute from dressing room to crease. Deep breaths, getting my head right, picturing the first delivery from my boss, angled across my desk and shaping in a fraction.
In the office, I am Nasser Hussain at Lord’s in 2004. A self-centred, driven senior player, too wrapped up in his own career crisis to enjoy being part of a young and exciting team.
I keep my head down, focus on grinding out another ugly win and occasionally let slip a grumpy expletive when something – or someone – malfunctions.
Sometimes I know it’s not my day before I even take guard. My confidence is shot, my technique is in tatters. I can’t get moving. Maybe I want it too much. Think late period Ramprakash, or poor old James Vince and his recurring cover drive.
The phone rings. I leave it alone and hope I can get off strike.
Occasionally it clicks. I’m invincible Vaughan in ’02, fearless Freddie in ’05. Pitching ideas to management, zinging one-liners to colleagues and hitting my deadlines right between the eyes. Everything is coming off the middle of the bat – I never realised the game could be this easy.
Back home I am Graeme Hick. A real trier, essentially a good guy, but prone to silly mistakes which provoke howls of exasperation in those around me.
I can almost hear the commentators now. “He’s put the washing machine on the wrong setting again.” “What a waste. So much talent.”
See what I mean? It’s getting worse.
When I was a kid I would spend hours in the back garden bowling to imaginary opponents. Walking down the street, I would turn my arm over with a Warne-esque cock of the wrist, follow through and glare at the lamppost which wasn’t good enough to edge my invisible zooter.
I thought it was just a childhood phase. I would grow out if it. Real life is more important than silly old cricket.
Anyway, must dash. My wife wants me to mow the lawn, take out the bins and hoover the staircase.
I wonder if I can claim the extra half hour?
This piece was first published at The Full Toss.