Aberdeenshire in winter: plan your vacations now © Rene van Oorschot

All good things must come to an end; Dutch dominance of European club football, Zimbabwe’s steady progression in international cricket (although an almighty comeback appears closer than ever), Aberdeen Football Club’s start-of-season winning streak (we managed to string together an imposing two victories), the glorious years of being able to consume lethal quantities of alcohol without suffering from a slight tenderness in the domal region the next day (how I envy those student scum). As distressing as those all are, the items on that list all pale in comparison with the single most miserable date in my annual calendar – the end of the cricket season.

The end of the cricket season is always a strange sensation for me. I generally look forward to it with some satisfaction, mainly due to my customary end-of-season dramatic collapse in form. It is usually when I start contemplating whether to buy the latest Predators or stick with the Total 90 boots for the coming football season during my run-up that I know I have drawn a mental conclusion to the cricketing period. In fact a neutral observer could probably be able to tell what month of the summer it is by judging my reaction to an edge for four through third man: if I aim a barrage of expletives and personal abuse at that bat-wielding scumbag, odds are it’s the start of the season, probably the first few weeks of May, but if I simply shrug my shoulders and whistle on my way back to my mark, it’s safe to say that autumn may rapidly be approaching. Those are the endpoints on “Rene’s Scale of Batsman Abuse”, which contains a large variety of manners in which to respond to being hit for a lucky boundary, each representing a different month of the summer.

Of course you will now be wondering why on earth I feel so sad at the end of the season if I seem so indifferent in the weeks running up to it. That is because, without fail, in the very last game of the season I, or any cricketer for that matter, will at some point have a moment of cricketing enlightenment that will make you remember why it is such a brilliant game. This moment does not have to be particularly significant in the context of the game; it does not require any personal milestone such as a five-for or ton or even a fifty. It could be anything, from a perfect cover drive that pierces the off side for four (or in my case the perfect chinese cut that pierces fine leg for four), a diving catch at slip, a single delivery that nips back and sends off stump cartwheeling, or even just a bouncer that the batsman wears in his ribs. Anything that would give a reasonable sense of personal satisfaction in any other match is significantly enhanced by at least several factors in the last game of the season.

The glorious Aberdeenshire Second XI sans a pro triumphed in the Strathmore and Perthshire Union Premier League © Rene van Oorschot

The Scottish cricket season came to a thundering conclusion last Saturday as crucial ties all around the country were being decided (with just a touch of help from the elements). For the small isolated minority that do not follow the sporting grandeur that is Scottish domestic cricket (your loss), the impressive Edinburgh-based Grange Cricket Club took the illustrious Scottish Premier League title. Unfortunately, the bookies' favourite, the mighty Aberdeenshire CC, couldn’t repeat last year’s heroics of doing the double as a series of crucial injuries, unfortunate AWOLs and critical retirements took their toll on a stretched squad. The vacuum left by the talented Kiwi pro and amateur duo that dominated our batting and bowling averages the year before proved to be difficult to replenish. More importantly, however, I am sure that Cricinfo readers will rejoice at the news that our second XI, led by the notorious Buck Escobar Oakman, was once again successful in retaining their crown by winning the ever-competitive, and world renowned, Strathmore and Perthshire Union Premier League.

Oddly enough we still managed to get comprehensively annihilated in the last game of our season. However, having already won the league our sorrow was short-lived (there was a 15-second window during which we were truly inconsolable) and the remarkably familiar sound of carbon dioxide coming out of solution as a result of a sudden decrease in pressure (i.e. the opening of cans of lager) could be heard from the crease where I was playing a minor part in a not-so-heroic last stand. Rule of thumb: if I am needed to bat it can safely be assumed that the team is in trouble). My contribution to the match was pretty much limited to a few wickets and a bucket load of no-balls conceded during my opening spell. Unfortunately there was no financial incentive in my case; it was simply down to my inability to jog 14 paces without breaking stride. Although I feel I should add that I am very much open to bribes, preferably in the form of the aforementioned carbonated cans of amber liquid, in return I shall endeavour to bowl no end of wides, no-balls, beamers and long hops (cue riotous “not much different from your usual spell then” remarks).

The scorecard that won't be © Rene van Oorschot

Faithful readers may have noticed that I have thus far avoided talking about the lesser of the two of cricket’s great skills (Yes, two. Fielding is a little like the Zimbabwe cricket team. We all know it is there, but we do our best to avoid it). The more cynical among you probably suspect that this is because my batting achievements have not exactly set the world alight. Well, that is just not true. While my 52, scored for Mannofield’s 4th XI against Inn at the Park 3rd IX (not a typo), probably isn’t quite up there with Sachin’s ODI double-ton or Lara’s 400, their third-change bowler got some decent bounce for an 11-year-old, and their “spinner” was probably olde... I mean more experienced than our entire team put together.

I will put the trumpet to rest now, I promise. This week I will highlight the plight of repressed batsmen. They may be sadistic sods with an attitude to fair play that would disgust even John McEnroe, but believe it or not, they have feelings too. Batsmen, more than anyone else in cricket, are nerds at heart. In fact, had Bill Gates been born in India or in Australia, he would probably be opening the batting for them in Test matches. The reason that every true batsman has an inner Hermione Granger bursting to get out is that he is consumed by statistics. Ask any batsman worth his salt how his season is going and he will reel off his aggregate, average, strike rate, proportion of runs in boundaries, how he got out and various umpiring grievances for not just the current season but the five preceding. Ask a bowler the same question and he will grunt, shrug his shoulders and mutter something like “a’right” before shoving aside some batsman’s vodka tonic and grabbing his pint of lager.

CP (left), faithfully fulfilling his duties as the club's social secretary © Rene van Oorschot

Picture the scene: an early spring Aberdeen afternoon, on a hill overlooking the wonders of Aberdeen airport, 11 similarly dressed men are loafing about on a field, hands firmly in pockets and heads facing their feet. It has only been a few days since the snow has decided to pack it in for the season and has left in its wake an icy wind piercing its way through the earlobes of the athletes in question. It can only mean one thing: university cricket season is in full swing along with all its associated horrors.

As I stumble in to bowl, my numb hands are unable to find their way along the seam. The result is a wide long hop, which is firmly dispatched for maximum over deep cover by the St Andrews opener, who has a bronze tan (despite the weather) and an imposing chin. No complaints are forthcoming from yours truly as that delivery got exactly what it deserved. In fact, I am pretty content with the outcome: it was a legal delivery, meaning I have completed another sixth of this tortuous over. My team-mates greet the whole affair with a deathly silence, no doubt cursing the day my parents met under their breath.

Then, suddenly, from the regions of cover, a single supporting voice unexpectedly pipes up with, “No worries Ren, floor ‘im with the next one, aim for that runway he calls a chin. You could land a Chinook on that bad boy”. It’s our new recruit, a fresher from the village of Leek, near Stoke. I am stunned.

We are getting a royal thrashing by some… well... wannabe royals in Baltic conditions, and this lad manages to be as excited as a puppy just to be playing cricket. I am not sure what he is so upbeat about. He was out till all hours the night before and should be feeling the effects of that debauchery. I know that since I was with him doing Jaegerbombs (don’t ask) at four in the morning, and personally I feel like I have been hit by a steam train and then defecated on by a herd of diseased elephants, which, coincidentally, is also what I smell like. Oh well. Feeling suitably inspired by his behaviour, I gallop in for my next delivery.

It’s short, as suggested, aimed at the pseudo tan on the chin. The ball only gets up to his knees. It’s pulled for four behind square. I overstep. No-ball signalled. “Damn fresher”.

Did Dickie Bird ever have to make an umpiring decision involving a family member? © Getty Images

When one considers the many issues captains have to deal with, several stress generators immediately spring to mind: selecting a team, having to drop underperforming players, having to re-pick said dropped players due to last minute call-offs (always pretty awkward conversations), batting order, bowling options, explaining woeful results to the committee (a problem we solved at university by not having a committee), etc etc.

However, possibly one of the most crucial decisions, and one that is a constant source of migraines for many amateur captains, is which of your players to volunteer for the dreaded umpiring duties. Granted, this is not a decision that the likes of Andrew Strauss, Chris Gayle or even Ricky Ponting will worry about, but in more “casual” cricket leagues, choosing umpires wisely can give you that vital edge over your opponents.

Now, before I continue, I would just to like to point out that in no way do I, nor any team I have ever represented (even those captained by the infamous Buck and the Glaswegian fishmonger, despite claims to the contrary – especially concerning the latter) condone umpiring skulduggery of any sort.

Prior to sentencing them to their 15-over stints, we do not instruct our umpires to keep their fingers firmly entrenched in their pockets, as that would:

a) Make the entire idea of playing cricket rather pointless really, and...

b) Be equivalent to inciting a riot. They may, however, be advised to make sure a batsman is absolutely stone dead, a yard inside his crease, hit on the full on middle and off, bat miles away from the ball, and holding up the run rate anyway, before even contemplating raising that wicked finger and condemning the ill-fated batsman to the pavilion, where, regardless of the facts, the umpire will be the subject of much heated blaspheming and general abuse.

After which he will inevitably be replaced.