ANYONE for cricket? No, me either. Not normally anyway.
But when a Kevin O’Brien-silhouetted Bat-signal went up a few weeks back seeking out volunteers for a road trip to the third and final T20 between Ireland and India, a summer-long inertia was suddenly, shockingly sent for six.
It is perhaps a sign of how little our group of 40-somethings has going on that excitement built as the day neared, the totally reliable Apple weather app reassuring us from a week out that all would be well. Rain may have affected play in the first of India’s two wins to date but, hell, it wasn’t going to ruin this dead rubber!
And what a day it was.
Leaving Belfast around lunchtime for the first ball at 3pm, five friends hit the road in a car barely big enough to contain them all, the shackles of work and family life cast aside as motorway miles disappeared in the blink of an eye, stories flowing freely and laughing like kids until around Castlebellingham, when conversation started to dry up and the lads turned to their phones. One even put in AirPods.
The weather app wasn’t so cocky now either. Having predicted blue skies and soaring sun, there was a bit of light rain forecast for 5pm. Sure we’ll be grand, it’ll probably just be a wee skiff. Nothing to worry about.
It was as we pulled off the M1 towards Swords, headed for the grandeur of Malahide, that the all-too-familiar swirling, mizzly, pissy sideways rain began to fall – and it didn’t stop, no matter how we willed it to.
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The start was delayed on our way through Malahide demesne towards the cricket club, before being greeted by the sight of sodden punters – mugs clearly regretting their misplaced trust in the Apple weather app too - huddled together in the Heineken tent while others walked around aimlessly, lost dogs in search of a scent, raindrops tumbling from hastily-purchased ponchos onto artisan pizzas as refuge from the elements was sought beneath trees of all shapes and sizes.
Hardy souls took their seats in the stand regardless, staring out at the slippery sea of green while we headed for the sanctity of the nearby Avoca emporium where a slice of cake costs seven euros, and anything you might think of bringing home as a surprise gift is swiftly returned to the shelf upon further examination.
And there we sat, drinking tea for two hours, following the latest updates on Twitter (sorry Elon) where international relations between Ireland and India were plummeting by the second, such was the understandable frustration at our pathetic excuse for a summer.
At times it was like a north Dublin version of Apocalypse Now as, wearied by the day’s events, someone would convince themselves the downpour had stopped. Look, over there! Can’t you see! There’s no rain!
Except there was rain. And with it washed away any lingering hope of seeing a bouncer, an LBW, or even a googly. Whatever that is. By 5.30pm there was no choice but to declare. Official confirmation arrived an hour later.
As we pulled out of Malahide, having trudged through the fields en route to the car, the rain ceased as the promised sun finally poked its head out from behind grey clouds - the Apple weather app enjoying one last laugh at our expense on the way back up the road.
The whole sorry episode got me thinking about the last game of cricket I was at, in the similarly salubrious surrounds of Saintfield, County Down. An unlikely venue for a clash of international heavyweights Bermuda and Oman, granted, but it was here they went to war in an ICC Trophy clash on June 29, 2005.
Perhaps because it was a Wednesday afternoon and the schools had just finished up, or perhaps because the Freddie Flintoff-fuelled Ashes frenzy was still weeks away, but people didn’t seem that interested in watching Bermuda v Oman in Saintfield.
#OnThisDay in 2007, Dwayne Leverock. Iconic pic.twitter.com/P9tNEwyfvj
— ESPNcricinfo (@ESPNcricinfo) March 19, 2021
Myself and a friend - one of the Malahide Five 18 years on - were the only ones in attendance. Two men, not even a dog. Whatever was going on was largely lost on me, as I spent more time sending text messages from my new Nokia 6230, because it was just about the only thing it could do.
About half an hour in, though, a burly Bermudan player was walking around the perimeter and, clearly bored, stopped for a chat. If this isn’t top level sport, I don’t know what is.
“You guys enjoying the game?” he asked, a warm smile beaming beneath a black moustache.
“Yeah, it’s great!” came my friend’s overly enthusiastic, and quite frankly untrue, response.
The big man smiled and nodded, wishing us well, before returning to his station. Oman won by 10 runs, and everybody moved on with their lives.
Fast forward 21 months, though, and our new Bermudan friend would be big news.
It is now March 19, 2007 and the Queen’s Park Oval in Port of Spain as the World Cup consumes the cricket-mad Caribbean. Bermuda’s 17-year-old star Malachi Jones is at the top of his mark, preparing to bowl at a star-studded Indian batting line-up. Oman, they were not.
On paper, it is a complete mismatch. On the field too. That India ended up winning by 257 runs, the fifth-highest margin of victory in one-day international history, tells its own tale.
Yet nobody remembers that. What they remember is, with the game six deliveries in, Jones’s delivery catches the edge of Robin Uthappa’s bat. It looks set to creep through the gap as India’s tally ramps up, until the familiar figure of Dwayne Leverock – all 20-plus stone of him – leaps instinctively to his right, plucking the ball from the air.
Engulfed in the euphoria of the moment, Leverock performed a lap of honour, dancing and blowing kisses to his adoring fans. A jailor back home, used to ferrying hardcore criminals around the island nation, this was perfect release - the madness of the moment perfectly captured by David Lloyd’s head scratching analogy.
“The big man - the fridge has opened!” screeched ‘Bumble’, “he’s flown like a gazelle!”
Although Bermuda were hammered, his was the image that flashed around the world. The unexpected brilliance of the catch, David momentarily slaying Goliath, the wildness of the celebration, it struck a chord with people from all corners.
In a sporting world that has become so serious, such joyous moments are an all-too-rare occurrence. That day, Dwayne Leverock’s 15 minutes of fame were secured. He had come a long way from that afternoon spent in sleepy Saintfield.
