A Life More Ordinary

For as long as I can remember, cricket has been a massive part of my life. Watching, playing and finally moving into coaching the game has presented me with many memorable opportunities that I look back on with fondness, pride and occasionally, a little regret. And now, as my cricketing journey begins to come to an end, I find myself reasonably content with my lot. There were more good days than bad, which I suppose must count for something.

The infamous Test at Headingley in 1981 was the first ‘jumping on point’ that I remember, although prior to that, my love affair with cricket was very nearly ended before it had properly begun. In our tiny back garden in Teignmouth (I would hazard a guess that it was barely ten yards in length), we would occasionally have small, family games. The only one that sticks in my mind, however, is the one where I received a frightful injury at the hands of my father.

Picture the scene, a short, rectangular garden with a shabby lawn on the right and an uneven concrete path running down the centre as the wicket. Three steps doubling up as ‘stumps’ at the end of the path (down the slope, a little like Lords!) leading up to the garish, yellow, back door and a coal bunker at short fine leg. A tricky deck to bat on, no doubt and dad was first up, a not unusual occurrence. I bowled the ball, in all likelihood with a suspect action at the age of maybe seven, proper cricket ball mind, no tennis balls allowed. The ball hit a crack in the path at no great speed but jagged off at an angle into my father’s shin. Did it hurt enough to warrant what followed? I doubt it, but as was often the case at 178 Kingsway, reason and logical thought scurried for cover and shepherded in rage and fury as their substitutes.

The minute that the ball had hit Dad, I knew I was in trouble. That was the way of things. I apologised immediately, aware of the futility of my protestations as he hopped around the garden as though Dennis Lillee had just snuck a vicious inswinger through the gate and caught him on the crease minus pads.

Eventually, the dust settled, Dad’s face resolute, his jaw set sternly as he pointed the bat at me.

‘Come and stand here,’ he said, indicating a position that even silly mid-off would baulk at. Suicidal mid-off more like.

I shook my head, butterflies blooming in my stomach and the palms of my hands beginning to sweat. He ordered me into position again and once more I refused. One more demand and I was left in no doubt what my punishment would be if I refused. My three older sisters watched on in silence, perhaps grateful that they hadn’t suffered the misfortune cast upon me by the crack in the path. I shuffled slowly to the spot that he had indicated, my feet like lead and tears pricking at my eyes. He threw the ball to one of my sisters, I couldn’t tell you which one and told her to bowl the ball.

You probably know what’s coming. I thought I did, but for whatever reason, I don’t think that what happened next was what my father had planned. Even now, I feel like I’m making excuses for it, trying to make it seem that it wasn’t that bad. But it was. What fills a grown man with the need to hurt his own child after he has been accidentally hurt by them still escapes and haunts me in equal measure to this day. He did have a difficult life and upbringing, and his actions were often a consequence of what he suffered as a child. But there is always a choice, isn’t there?

The ball was bowled slowly and I watched as my dad raised his bat to strike the ball. I tell myself that his intention was merely to replicate the injury that I had inflicted upon him, that maybe the ball hit the same crack in the path that mine had and caused him to hit it differently. The ball thumped into the middle of his bat and ricocheted off into my face, smashing into my nose and right eye socket.

Cue an intense, searing pain, the seeing of stars and the pouring of blood as I fell to the floor. I have no memory of anything immediately after the impact but I’m told that I couldn’t see out of my right eye for a couple of weeks and that the swelling and bruising was what they termed as ‘severe’ even back in the late seventies when nothing hurt anyone by all accounts and life was ‘so much better’.

So, realistically, I shouldn’t love this daft, old game that can see five days of play with no winner. The sport where you can take part, do nothing or worse, do something and fail abysmally yet still come back the following week for more. It’s a game where one will fail far more than they will succeed, but the highs, those ruddy glorious days where fortune favours the brave, the edges race to the boundary and the one-handed, diving catches stick make every bad umpiring decision, every mistake and every soggy afternoon sheltering from the elements worth it. I can’t explain why. I just find it’s best to believe it.

Copyright Alec Hepburn, 2026.