Playing for the love of the game

Northern Advocate editor Craig Cooper demonstrates the gulf between his cricketing ability 30 years ago and now.

I never took cricket too seriously as a young man.

Often, I'd front for the game after a few hours of sleep. The social scene in Whangarei in the early 1990s was based around Friday night drinking, after work.

It never occurred to me that my cricket might improve drastically if I delayed my partying until after the game.

Once, a little worse for wear, I fell over after delivering a ball which nicked out an opening batsman. I didn't appeal as I lay in a heap on the ground.

The umpire said not out, the bowler's disinterest in the wicket a factor in his decision.

The arrogance of youth meant I would snigger privately at the older players, who struggled to fire the ball in from the deep.

Me, I loved diving about in the outfield attempting impossible catches.

I tried to bowl as fast as I could, and smash the ball as hard as possible when I batted.
I was there for a good time, not a long time.

I love cricket, and kept the game up, but all my mates and my girlfriend were at the beach. That's where I wanted to be.

Fast forward 30 years and I am one of the older guys struggling to throw the ball in from the deep.

Along with the weak arm, I have a bad back, and two swollen, sore knees.

In my first game, I stood at first slip and realised I couldn't bend down far enough to catch the ball if it came at me low.

I caught three catches that day - one miraculously stuck as I threw myself sideways, the other two were straightforward.

It was a one-off. Since then I have struggled to bowl, bat, field and run.

On Tuesday I had physio at 7am. And a chiropractic appointment at 8am.

The physio has fixed my dodgy left knee before. He now sees it again on a regular basis.

This time, it is likely a surgeon will have a poke inside to remove whatever it is that aggravates me on a regular basis. But not until the season is finished.

In the first competition game, I bowled one over. My head said "bowl slow medium". My body tried to hurl the ball at the batter as fast as possible.

I lost count of the runs the batter smashed off me. I didn't bother walking back for a second over.

The team does not need a 48-year-old medium slow bowler.

Second game, and I batted for 20 minutes or so. There was a lot more running involved than I had anticipated. I looked away from the team and spat out some vomit.

It hung on the grill, I wiped it away with my glove. I wanted to puke.

By Monday, I could walk unaided into the physio's clinic. By Friday I was mobile enough to play on the Saturday.

Game three and my son and I collided in the outfield, both looking skyward, running toward the ball. He was winded, and couldn't breathe.

I could see stars, and ripped some muscle in my chest.

It hurt like hell. When I swung the bat a week later, it tore again.

I couldn't hit the ball. Not because of the torn muscle, I just couldn't see it.

The ball thwacked into my body and I ran.

Fielding, I tore after the ball as it headed toward the boundary. Bang. Luckily, it was a minor achilles strain.

I hurled the ball toward the keeper at the far end, the ball stuck in my hand and just missed the stumps at the opposite end to the keeper.

By Monday, I could walk unaided into the physio's clinic. By Friday I was mobile enough to play on the Saturday.

Two years ago, the physio shook his head as he worked on the knee I had injured training for a half ironman.

I had just explained I didn't really like the water, hated road biking and wasn't that fussed on running.

"You should just do things that you love, that you really enjoy," he reckoned.

He's right - that's why I took up cricket again.