A CHERRY IN THE SUN

Once upon a time, about thirty years or more ago, and for no particular reason that I can think of now (other than that which I am about to impart, obviously...), I went into a sports shop. Now anyone who knows me would find this unusual in itself for I was not known in those days (or for that matter at any time since) for having any particular interest in the noble art of sporting prowess.

I dabbled because I was required to dabble in the educational establishment that I attended, but it was not a thing of joy for me and I sadly underwhelmed at the physical pursuits, although I don’t remember being particularly picked on or bullied for my lack of skills in that area.

I did occasional feel slightly fearful when people told me apocryphal tales of walking home and being set upon by gangs of football supporters who (apparently) would cruise the highways and byways of the town I inhabited and leap upon unsuspecting young coves and demand of them to which of the myriad football teams available they were currently choosing to lend their support. If the reply was a disappointment to them, or was at odds with their own personal beliefs as to whom “the champions” should be, then a “sound kicking” was usually the order of the day for the poor unfortunate who had fallen into their nefarious clutches.

As I had no such allegiances, and knew little even of the names of such organisations, I used to walk the streets fearful that a dreadful drubbing was likely to be coming my way at any time, especially if a vehicle containing a number of testosterone-fuelled young gentlemen happened to pass me by.

Happily I survived my schooldays without such an incident ever befalling my person, and I tottered merrily into adult life unscathed and without any baggage of footballing fanaticism to lower my spirits or raise my ire. International Tournaments of great import would pass me by unnoticed and uncared about. Results and statistics would be mere obstacles delaying the onset of my own greater obsession, the televisual delights of a Saturday evening.

And so, the sporting life escaped me. Later on I would briefly and misguidedly dally with a weekly squash game, but this faltered on the altar of mammon when a desire to earn overtime overwhelmed any scheduling possibilities on those humiliating Saturday mornings.

So why, you might still be wondering after all this prevarication, did I enter into an establishment like the sporting goods emporium which I mentioned during my opening remarks this morning?

Well, I had got the notion into my head that I wished to purchase for myself a Cricket Ball. I have, in previous ruminations from here in Lesser Blogfordshire, regaled you with tales of my burgeoning interest in that particular pastime at around that stage of what we rather amusingly refer to as my “life” and so it came to pass that I imagined that such a splendid object might well be a rather jolly thing to have in my possession. The lovely gleaming polished red leather surface of it would stand rather proudly upon my desktop as I continued with my studies, reminding me of long lazy summer afternoons as I busied myself throughout the winter months.

Consequently, I took a number of my hard earned pennies, which I had been paid during my long Saturdays stoking the cement mixer at the Gnome shop, and, on nothing more than a sudden whim, I headed through the door, keenly looking about me to avoid catching the eye of any leisurewear sporting salespersons who might notice my presence amongst them.

Happily, without any outside assistance, I was able to discover the spot where they chose to store these objects of my desire and I happily assessed the price and selected one before hurrying to the sales counter with my potential purchase, paying for it, and escaping outside and back to civilisation without being signed up for any gymnastics society, physical activity group or footballing club.

For a number of years, this shiny red leather “Cherry” did indeed sit in a prominent spot in my bedchamber as I had intended, getting the occasional juggle as it came in useful as a prototype stress relieving implement. As and when I moved away for my further education, it was one of the precious objects from home that I carried away with me, and it loyally sat upon another desk, in another place as my artistic endeavours were vigorously and occasionally not-quite-so-vigorously pursued.

It never even crossed my mind that I was depriving the sad object of its true purpose, and that, of all the Cricket Balls that had eagerly sat in that box upon that shelf on that fateful day that we had been brought together, only this one had probably never attained its proper destiny.

All that changed of course one bright and glorious afternoon around Whitsuntide in my second year of study. I was in my rooms, busily proceeding at successfully procrastinating with my current projects, although it was a “reading week” and so there was little need to head out much, when there came a rapping upon my door.

I didn’t get that many visitors to be honest, never having been at the centre of things in most people’s lives, so this came as a bit of a surprise, and in later years I might have assumed that everyone else had been out. However, someone had got hold of a cricket bat, and within a few moments, after pausing mere seconds to persuade my neighbour away from his toils, the three of us set out towards the nets that were set up on the far side of the Campus. We had a tennis ball, but, considering only momentarily my own cricket ball’s untouched and virginal shiny loveliness, a facet I believe we both shared back then, I suggested that I might have something better and went back to my study room to collect one of my prized possessions, that lovely, hand-stitched leather ball.

A lovely, lazy, sunny afternoon passed, one of those days I look back on fondly and one of those days when I started to come to the conclusion that the best part of any British summer is usually in April and May, a feeling that seems to have been confirmed (in my experience at least) in more recent years.

So my humble, cosseted little cricket ball got to soar far and high and fly around with giddy joy and fulfil the purpose for which it was originally created.

It was of course never quite the same after that day. My “Cherry” had lost its cherry. Its battered ruby red surface no longer had the shine and unbroken veneer that it used to have, but that didn’t mean that it was now unloved. I still have it, safely tucked away in a shoe box, alongside all my other small treasures and souvenirs from those faraway days.

But it did once have a glorious day in the sun…