First Tests and Final Chances

James Wallace returns, and so does Test match cricket. You know the feeling...

The opening batter sits in the storied old dressing room. Outside, that famous hum floats through an open window. A plummy-voiced man announces something over the loudspeaker and the ambient noise of the crowd ramps up a notch, did he say the coin toss is just minutes away?

The young batter’s stomach roils and churns. There are those nerves again. He’s struggled with these feelings in the past, fallen victim to the insistent murmurings of the ‘man on the shoulder’ but he sought help, spoke to professionals, learnt to sit with the anxiety, to embrace it even. He knows now that the nerves are necessary for him perform at his best.

But still, this is different. This is his Test match debut, at Lord’s – ‘the Cathedral of Cricket’. Everything is heightened, the backslaps and encouraging smiles of his new teammates feel unreal, like they are happening to someone else. He thumbs the rim of the embroidered navy cap in his hands and gulps down a few breaths.

*

Over in the stands the opener’s parents are shown to their seats by a smartly dressed steward. They’ve watched their boy play plenty of times before but this feels surreal. The ground is teeming, the impossibly green pitch populated by dozens of people in sports kit but also numerous photographers, TV and radio crews - their cables snaking across the turf, adjacent to the painted emblem of the corporate sponsor splashed across each end of the ground . All around them a hubbub of greetings and pleasantries by people who seem to be taking all this in their stride, other parents who at one time or another resembled themselves but have now done this many times before. The opening batter’s parents glance at each other, breathe out and break into nervous smiles.

Up at St John’s Wood tube station, a throng of spectators spill out and hurry their way down Wellington Road. Amongst the avalanche of cream chinos and pockmarks of red corduroys a young dad uses one hand to hoick up a picnic laden rucksack onto his shoulder, the other is gripped tightly by his five year old daughter. Their hearts beating like castanets, the excited questions and wildly sporadic conversations of earlier in the morning replaced by a concentrated silence. The dad glances at his watch, they’re going to make it, they’ll be in their seats for the first ball.

His daughter’s first cricket match, it was worth bunking her out of school and taking a day of precious annual leave for this, he reasons with himself again. It was worth the money, he hopes. A month later and they’ll make the same journey for the first ever women’s Test match at Lord’s. His daughter points excitedly as the North Gate entrance comes into view. They squeeze each other’s hands tighter still.

*

Back in the home dressing room a bowler fusses with his boots to steady his own nerves. His mind whirling with memories of the few times he has played here before. That debut Test five years ago where he felt so at home on the pitch, taking wickets and getting runs only to have the rug pulled from under him moments after leaving the field. Historic social media posts from a decade ago dredged up and released in time to sully his special moment. The shock and the shame. He knows he’s grown up since then. Physically and mentally. He’s in a better place than he was during his last Test match, at Ranchi, where another back spasm and some indiscreet podcasting suggested that despite the numbers looking right on the pitch he wasn’t really ready for the rigours of the game at this level. He looks around the dressing room, it takes the shape of last chance saloon.

*

Out on the field the blue-blazered and conquistador-bearded captain strides out with his opposite number, a coin in his pocket. He knows this is something of a reset, to put the ghosts of winter behind him. It’s a chance to prove to the doubters and to himself that this side is still capable of special things, that they can take the breath away, seize the moment. First and foremost, he knows that they need to chalk up the wins. Do that and the rest will take care of itself.

***

The football World Cup is almost here, and there is no better companion than friend of this substack Jonathan Wilson’s The Power And The Glory, just deservedly crowned Sports Book of the Year at the Charles Tyrwhitt Sports Book Awards. It’s brilliant, and it’s out now in paperback. You can get it here and here.

***

Up on the balcony a stocky man in purple kit and sunglasses watches on. He’s thin-lipped and wears an inscrutable expression but the shades and the relaxed body language belie a man who deep down knows he is lucky to be there. Who thought perhaps that his race was run after a disastrous winter, plenty of others simply would not have survived. He goes to put his feet up on the ornate balcony railings, catches himself and thinks better of it.

*

Across the river, seven miles south. On a Clapham sofa sits a short auburn haired man alongside his taller, fair haired friend. This time last year they both made centuries in the first Test of the summer and the future looked bright and full of promise. Now it feels as if it has got away from them, it’s ungraspable, uncertain. Both men struggled to make the most of the chances afforded, deep down they know they didn’t do enough to remain one of the eleven names now being read out on the television. It’s nice to think of them together but realistically, they probably aren’t. In reality they probably aren’t watching either, too painful. Or maybe they are, more painful still.

*

Back at the ground, the coin is flipped. The result announced. The young opening batter and the returning bowler catch each other’s eye. The Test match summer stretches out like a blank canvas, yet to be painted but somehow still flickering with brushstrokes of the past.