THE CRICKETER'S MOMENTS OF 2019 - NICK FRIEND: Harmer ran, arms aloft, joy unconcealed. Bopara walked until he stood motionless, slowed by his disbelief at a mission accomplished. It was a fitting contrast for an ending that was appropriately mental
There does come a point in the life of most young club cricketers when delusion catches up with you.
There is an intangible line that separates naked ambition and frivolous pipedream that, at a certain moment in your latter teenage years, many cannot help but overstep. You realise that you were probably never half as good as you wanted to believe and even further from making a reality of your fantasy.
And just like that, you go from aspiring to a career in professional cricket to a curious semi-resentment of what might have been. You watch those you were once better than race past you, you wonder whether you were ever better than them at all, you resent your genetic makeup that has left you six inches shorter than those with whom you once competed.
In my case, I yipped up and my left-arm wrist-spinners just disappeared; a trusted skill became a foreign object in my hand over which I suddenly had no real control.
For a long while, it was confusing and not altogether straightforward to deal with; bowling became a mildly scary activity – I would wonder who was watching; I would wonder whether it would either be beamers or double-bouncers being served up among the day’s pies; I would wonder – in essence – how badly and how amusingly – this could go.
And so, I came to focus on my batting. And writing. A lifetime of doing this was always a dream. This summer, for a long time, became the end goal – a World Cup and an Ashes series on home soil, a once-in-a-generation peak. And then, here I was, immensely fortunate.
We all know what happened next and the endless drama that swept through its every move. It would be easy for me to relive it here, as it has so often been by writers, pundits, players and fans – both hardcore traditionalists and those casual supporters – of whom cricket needs more, who heard that England were in a World Cup final and allowed themselves to get bitten by its bug.
Essex won the T20 Blast for the first time since the competition was introduced in 2003
Instead, I want to recall T20 Blast Finals Day – a curious choice, perhaps, in this year of all years. I had never been before; I had watched it each year and marveled at the iconic occasion it has become, but I had never found myself basking first-hand in its unmitigated chaotic glory. A day that began with a 6am drive and ended back at home three games, 20 hours and much caffeine later.
It is one of the paradoxical triumphs of this remarkable annual date that T20 cricket – first introduced to provide something short, snappy and different – ends up producing a whole day and night of unbridled theatre.
The press box is a privileged position; the view at Edgbaston, up among the gods and looking down onto – basically – everything, is a rare thrill. The Hollies Stand – a bouncing pen of fancy dress, singing and dancing – was all that it has been hyped up to be. I missed most of the mascot race, I must confess, but even catching a glimpse of its final throes was enough to appreciate the attraction of this unique day.
Nowhere else in English cricket – and maybe this is a good thing – does a full house stop in its tracks to cheer on fully-grown adults in one-piece animal costumes. But for a single day each year, it happens. And the world is better for it. If my memory serves me, Freddie the Falcon took glory this year, with David Lloyd providing commentary. It isn’t for everybody, of course, but it’s fun and it doesn’t take itself too seriously. And that, to a large degree, is what sport should be.
An extraordinary day. And then silence. pic.twitter.com/i0vuuKKhfM
— Nick Friend (@NickFriend1) September 21, 2019
On the field, Nottinghamshire conspired to lose a game that they had spent 37 overs dominating, with Worcestershire performing an extraordinary late heist. When Peter Moores and Alex Gidman sat down to talk us through what we had just seen, neither questioners nor answerers seemed fully certain themselves. Both coaches offered a wry chuckle; one called it the best finish to a game he had seen, the other saw it the other way.
There was an odd moment as Essex eased to victory in their semi-final against Derbyshire. Tiredness overcomes you for a brief instant; it’s coming up to 6pm, the sun is disappearing behind the stands and there is a hushed lull in the crowd. And then you remind yourself that the final is yet to come.
And then, there were narratives aplenty on the line: Worcestershire, who only appeared at Finals Day for the first time in 2018, with the chance to win back-to-back titles. Or Essex – a side in the midst of a golden generation used to winning silverware, but never this particular trophy. Ravi Bopara and Ryan ten Doeschate – teammates in this format for 16 years, ever since the Twenty20 Cup was introduced in 2003 – had never won it.
Until now. Assisted by Simon Harmer’s heroics with bat and ball. Just after 9.30pm, he squirted Wayne Parnell past point. It had come down to the final ball; two match reports – one for each side – became one. Harmer ran off, arms aloft, joy unconcealed. Bopara walked until he stood motionless, slowed by his disbelief at a mission accomplished. It was a fitting contrast to a denouement that was appropriately mental.
Hours later and the longest of days reaches its climax. It is so much a never-ending thrill that it is hard to see it as a truly solitary moment. But whatever it is, it is unmatched.
OTHER MOMENTS OF 2019
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