First slip was called Matt. He was young, keen and attentive. That was the problem.
I have played 50 games at The Willows and I have kept wicket after a fashion in all but one of those games. That’s at least 49 first slips who have stood next to me to swap jokes. And most of those 49 have been over 49 years of age. Many have worn glasses and a pair of 1 970’s flannels that were stretched at the waistband like a catapult at the point of release. And they all fielded at a very fine first slip.
As a result I have become conditioned. If there is the remotest chance of my reaching an edge I go for it. My aim is not to catch the ball, but to prevent it from injuring first slip.
This edge was going straight to Matt. Furthermore, it was going to be caught by Matt. But I dived for it. When I say dived I wouldn’t want you to imagine a dive. Just imagine the Leaning Tower of Pise, then give it a shove. Nevertheless, I reached the ball and succeeded in deflecting it out of Matt’s neatly cupped hands into his less neatly cupped shoulder. From there it hopped down to third man and the batsmen took a single. “Sorry” I said . Matt proved to be a well bred young man. He just rubbed his shoulder and looked at me as if I were a very doddery grandfather who had just driven his car into a gatepost.
Encouraged by his escape, the batsman attacked. He hit several balls as high as the sky and out of the ground. Then he hit one as high as the sky but well within the ground. Indeed it seemed likely to come down within a few yards of him. When the ball went up the alert ear could have detected the sound of several fielders tiptoeing away from the landing area.
Wicketkeeper’s gloves confer a certain responsibility. This was regrettably one such moment. “Mine” I said.
At that point the alert ear would have detected a sigh of relief from half a dozen fielders, followed by the sound of hands being rubbed together in expectation of amusement. They were not to be disappointed.
There are certain skiers that you just know you are going to catch. In my experience these skiers went up about twenty years ago. Nevertheless I chose to imitate a confident skier-catcher. Cupping my gloves like a man drinking from an oasis I cunningly positioned myself approximately four feet away from the ball’s point of return to earth .
At the last moment I went into my Tower of Pisa routine again. The ball caught the end of my left middle finger then rolled innocently into a disused popping crease. The fielders proved to be well bred men. They turned their backs before giggling.
"Unlucky,” said Matt sweetly. “It doesn’t seem to be your day."
it wasn’t my day. I dropped two more catches. By the time the game reached the important beer drinking stage I had a vision of the future. That future lay at first slip. A very fine first slip.