Sir,
Much has been written in your columns and correspondence page about the Spirit of Cricket, but I feel I must share this with you.
Cricket, in its purest form, is a game that is punctuated by meals. During a recent holiday game of beach cricket, my girlfriend (also occasional third umpire and tea lady) had just opened her well-endowed hamper, popped a champagne cork and arranged scones, sandwiches and slices of pork pie onto picnic plates.
Understandably, but prior to an agreed cessation of play, my fellow protagonists began to drift off in the direction of this gastronomic finery. I was left to bowl to her 6 year old son, who (un-Bell-like) showed absolutely no intention of leaving the crease.
In order to be relieved from my duty of 5th change bowler before the fare had been entirely consumed, I came in off my long run, sending his stumps to all parts. The promise of membership of the illustrious Primary Club did little to allay his howls.
My girlfriend ruled that unless he was re-instated for the post-tea session, not only would I be barred from the fruits of the table but fruits of all sorts would be off the agenda for the duration of the holiday.
This, to me, was a summary lesson in The Spirit of Cricket and thankfully one, which in keeping with events at Trent Bridge, was not shared with the crowd.
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