This content originally appeared on Trys Mudford's Blog and was authored by Trys Mudford's Blog
Cricket is a funny old game. Many find it dreadfully boring, particularly the test variety. To be fair, any game that can be played for five full days and not produce a result does sound like a practical joke that’s gone a bit too far.
It’s also a deeply frustrating game to play. It’s a team sport, but one where abject individual failure is almost guaranteed, particularly as a batter. The first scenario is you won’t actually be required to bat, because the batters ahead of you were good enough not to get out within the allotted number of overs. This is frustrating when you’ve spent the week practising or thinking about how you are going to play differently to the last game. The most common option is you get out to the middle, then get out, and have to trudge with a number of runs that you’re either content, or almost always, disappointed with. And in some very rare cases, you may still be in at the end of the innings, where you’ll likely be rue-ing not taking more risks and scoring more runs.
And yet, thousands of individuals put themselves through this pain each summery Saturday afternoon because there’s something addictive about bettering your score. It’s a sport that’s instinctively gamified, chock full of stats & averages.
Before Jacob was born, I was roped into playing for the local team. I was pretty terrible, but lucked one or two okay scores in the first season. The team weren’t too fussed as I was, and I quote, “another body on the pitch”. Despite a winter of practising and weekly summer net sessions, the second season was not any better.
After three years of absence, I was roped into another game on Saturday. I spent the week fretting, then preparing, then looking forward to it. I visualised exactly how I’d defend those first 10 or so balls to make sure I got my head back into the game. I went to the local nets with my wife and was very pleased with how solid my forward defense was, and even managed to showcase a few attacking shots with confidence and low risk.
And then the moment came where I strode out to bat. Expectations low, but with a real hunger to get off the mark and contribute something to the team. In came the first ball; a nice straight one. “Forward to it”, I thought; “head over the ball”. The bat came down to prod it back gently to the bowler, and all I heard was the rattle of the wooden bails behind me. To say I felt dejected would be an understatement. It wasn’t the game situation, nor the fact that family and friends were watching. It was the crushing realisation that cricket is not the game for me. A game I love to watch and dig into the nerdy details, and a game I so want to be good at. But it’s not happening.
I walked off and looked at my little family sitting on the boundary rope. My wife and I shrugged at each other and I headed back to get changed. I spent the rest of the innings in the park with Jacob, playing hide and seek and helping him up the climbing frame. It was wonderful.
I’m a much better Dad than I am cricketer, and that’s okay. I don’t need to spend my (and my family’s) Saturday afternoons getting mentally crushed by a game. Hobbies are good, particularly active ones, and I need to find a replacement. But I’ve got to the point of acceptance. Cricket’s not for me.
This content originally appeared on Trys Mudford's Blog and was authored by Trys Mudford's Blog
Trys Mudford's Blog | Sciencx (2025-08-19T00:00:00+00:00) Learning when to stop. Retrieved from https://www.scien.cx/2025/08/19/learning-when-to-stop/
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