And the legacy lives on...

When a cricketer (professional, wannabe, pretend, fraud) gets hit on the box, or should I say unmentionables, the pain invariably reverberates through the television, blacks out your senses and flings you in the sea of pity. The former England batsman turned commentator David Lloyd once said it’s the one injury which brings tears to your eyes. Nobody’s had it worse than him on the cricket field, at least in an international game. Just don’t remind him of Perth 1974, when Jeff Thomson got one to kick up off a good length and…… you can finish the rest.

The box guard, or in other words the abdomen guard, is the first piece of equipment you need to insert or strap on before padding up. Now there are two types of abdomen guards – the one with suspenders and the one without. I’ve always felt comfortable with the former, but given that I hadn’t had a decent nets outing since I was 17, I had no option but to borrow one from the general kit. Disgusting, but true.

After excavating the kit, I found to my outmost horror, three box guards without suspenders. This can’t be true, I thought. How on earth am I supposed to go out there and bat? Summoning the courage, I bravely slipped one in and padded up. The ‘pretend’ batsman (I fall under that category), was too shy to admit his predicament. I ambled down the pitch, adjusting my trackpants in two-second intervals. O dear Lord what have I gotten myself into?

As the bowler ran up, a prayer flowed from my lips. ‘Please let him bowl a wide ball.’ Unanswered. The ball pitched in line with the offstump and, thank heavens, I defended it somehow. The guard began to slip. Drat! A quick adjustment of the tracks and it was back in position. Or so I thought. Nagraj came on to bowl. The ball landed in line with middle and on first impulse, I moved away and missed. The ball just sailed over the stumps. Next up was Prem, the quickest of the lot. The damn thing was slipping away again! Freak! I backed away and the ball cut back in and crashed onto the offstump. Strike one! Then came Sajan, who bowls, rather chucks, offspin. The ball landed just outside off and, assuming it would miss the stumps by a mile, I shouldered arms. I looked back and saw my offstump cartwheel back by four yards. Unbelievable. And as expected, the guard slipped away again.

There was a serious wardrobe malfunction happening on the pitch and it wasn’t funny. My endless backing away made me the prototype for the world’s worst tailender. No surprise though that my blog’s called Nine, Ten and Jack. Chris Martin would have batted better than me.

I adjusted my tracks for the 200^th time and resumed the humiliation. A yorker then flattened my offstump. I finally managed to connect a half volley, a tame scoop straight to short cover. Then chopped one onto the middle stump. In hindsight, they might as well have bowled to three stumps instead of a 6 ft 2 walking, trackpant-adjusting apology of a batsman. The uncensored stumps-expose show finally ended after five death-defying minutes. The dreaded inside edge onto the crotch never happened as well and my legacy was protected after all.

After the ordeal, I headed to the sports shop and promptly demanded a guard with suspenders. We were playing an intra-office match the next day and I was determined not to suffer another series of Kramer bloopers in front of the entire office. I was slated to bat lower down the order, which gave me ample time to pad up. So there I marched with my stuff about a mile away from the pavilion, choosing the most secluded bush to start the formalities.

A quick check. No women around. Back to work.

I strode out and positioned myself at the non-striker’s end as the batsmen had crossed. My flatmate George was on strike. He pushed the ball past midwicket and set off for the single. For some godforsaken reason, he called for the second. ‘Are you crazy?’ I saw who the fielder was and didn’t bother stepping out. But he was halfway down the pitch. I had to be the sacrificial lamb. Helpless, I was short of my crease by a furlong. Kramer Moment No. 76. Run-out without facing a ball. In hindsight, I needn’t have bothered wearing the stupid guard.

The forces from above didn’t just stop there in conspiring against me. I lost my phone the previous morning and shortly after a draining defeat in the match (my only contribution was sprinting from fine leg to long-on at the end of every over) I was diagnosed with malaria.

The curse of the soap-box shaped abdomen guard, as I chose to call it.

But on the bright side, the Kramer legacy lives on.