The day the rabbit struck back

SUNDAY, April 25, 2004, was a bright day, full of promise, and as the red hordes streamed ... hang on ... just give me a second.

Okay, we’ll try that again ... Sunday, April 25, 2004, was a bright day, full of promise, and as the red hordes streamed towards Lansdowne Road full of ... naw, sorry, can’t do it.

Like will-conscious relatives competing to see who can cry the most at funerals, it’s sometimes difficult to distinguish between genuine sorrow and affected sorrow. Which is why it seemed ridiculous to be unable to rationally analyse Munster’s Heineken Cup semi-final defeat to Wasps eight months ago ... yet I could not.

When sitting down and attempting to scribble, I always adhere to a few basic rules.

No exclamation marks - they are to writing what the custard pie is to comedy.

No Americanisms - ‘go figure’, ‘you do the math’ and ‘enough already’ are fine in US sitcoms but have no place in an Irish newspaper.

And, most importantly, don’t write about something if your heart isn’t in it.

Thus, I cannot regard that day in Dublin, momentous and all as it was, as a sporting high - it was just too damn disappointing.

So, I thought long and hard about a sporting occasion in 2004 which left me tingling with adrenalin and weak with elation, and there was only one ... the Munster Junior Cup tie between Cork Harlequins and Cork County - in cricket.

After years of exposure to the familiar scenarios of rugby, cricket was entirely invigorating in 2004.

It was all fresh, all exciting, an Alice in Wonderland journey where everything seemed to be labelled ‘Eat Me’ or ‘Drink Me’ and I was only too happy to oblige.

For an activity so outwardly sedate, talk of bitter enmity between amateur clubs seems out of place but ... no laughing ... County and Harlequins are the Celtic and Rangers of Munster cricket.

County, the traditional aristocrats with numerous titles and representative players, Harlequins, the smaller local club with a point to prove.

Such rivalry is what gives contests an edge and there was certainly an edge that August day in The Mardyke.

Truthfully, I had no right to be there. I had turned out for County in several games beforehand but they were of a non-competitive, development nature, alongside fellow hackers and, as Tolkien puts it, “those who had seen too many winters and those who had seen too few.”

This was different, both teams brought quality to the table, experienced cricketers who had played many times for their first team and in some cases, their province. However, an injury crisis meant I got the call-up on the Friday and, by Sunday, I was in tatters, riddled by the type of nerves not experienced since schools cup rugby 15 years earlier.

County batted first but, mercifully, I was well down the order, a place where, all going well, I would not be required to wield willow.

We began well and the runs flowed, a couple of wickets were lost but there was still sufficient quality in the middle order to allow me feign nonchalance and pretend to read the Sunday papers.

Then, County came apart.

I looked on in horror as our wickets began to fall like nine-pins, and before long I was instructed to ‘pad up’.

Five minutes later, I was in the dressing-room still trying to negotiate belt buckles with shaking fingers when I heard a groan from outside, followed by the shout: “Where’s the new guy?”

Still fiddling with clothing, I embarked on a slow, shaky walk to the crease and was met by the wolfish stares of the Quins players, savouring the scent of blood.

Then the sledging began.

Sledging is an ancient cricketing art involving the “verbal bullying” of opposing players, based on the premise that mental disintegration will inevitably lead to physical capitulation.

Experienced players can counter sledging, as in the celebrated case of Eddo Brandes when he was being sledged by Aussie bowling supremo Glenn McGrath.

“Oi Brandes, how come you’re so fat?” McGrath enquired of the Zimbabwean after sending another bouncer zinging past his ear.

Eddo, picking himself up off the dirt, replied, “Because, every time I screw your wife, she gives me a biscuit.”

I had no such confidence.

“Here we go lads,” said one of the Quins, “rabbit-hunting season is open.”

“Look at the state of him,” laughed another, “he’s sh***ing himself, c’mon boys, lets put this guy out of his misery.”

I suddenly realised how lonely a place the batting crease can be. Except I was not entirely alone. At the far end of the crease was the last of our established batsmen, South African Mike Reid.

He sauntered towards me. “You alright son?” he asked, which sounded strange, given that he was seven years my junior, but seemed entirely appropriate in these “I want my Mammy” circumstances. “Not really Mike,” I wobbled, “what should I do?”

“Just take it easy kid, try and survive, I’ll get the runs.”

And he did. For the next half an hour, I barely touched the ball. Reid was magnificent, stroking singles to keep the strike and then, when the right ball came along, smashing boundaries with a Gower-esque grace I could only marvel at from the far end.

The balls I did face either whizzed past to a chorus of “ooohs” and a fresh bout of sledging, or were somehow blocked courtesy of an extremely agricultural forward defensive stroke.

Then, through a combination of sharp fielding and lazy running, Reid was run out and I was joined at the crease by a fellow rabbit.

A brace of coneys for therejuvenated Harlequins to feastupon.

The next delivery flew past my flailing bat and cannoned into my left thigh.

“Hurts doesn’t it?” smirked the bowler.

Bloody right, I had a bruise for weeks afterwards, but the pain had a clarifying effect, and, abruptly, the nerves were gone.

The bowler charged in again, his face full of evil intent but by now, still on nought after 40 minutes, I’d had enough.

“F**k this,” I thought, “I’m having a go.”

It is said in sport, that when you hit the perfect golf shot, strike the perfect penalty kick or land the perfect upper-cut, you can tell by the sound that you have achieved the optimum result.

I heard it clearly ... “click.”

My eyes were closed when connection occurred but, by some freakish chance, the ball landed dead centre and when I opened again it was to witness the amazing sight of the umpire signalling that four runs had been scored.

It’s very hard to describe my feelings in the short time before the next delivery - an all-over tingle is about the best I can manage.

Of course, a few balls later I was trudging back to the pavilion after foolishly thinking I could replicate that one-off blow.

Harlequins, deservedly, went on to win the match, and I was soon back playing social cricket with the pee-wees and pensioners.

But, for those precious few seconds, on a dusty patch of grass in early August, I was as happy as I have ever been in 33 years on this planet.

Even now, writing about that freaky, flukey shot brings me out in a warm glow (I almost used an exclamation mark a few paragraphs back) and it makes me wonder how something so swift and ultimately inconsequential can assume such huge personal significance.

Go figure.