Ahead of this game, it had been made very clear by the committee that this affair should not, under any circumstances, degenerate into some sort of vicious grudge match fought on ungentlemanly terms. There was a real possibility of wedgies and wet willies and throwing Matt Spencer’s kit into the shower, and other such non-spirit-of-the-Plough outbursts.

All week, however — aside from a few messages here and there — the boys had all been rather well behaved. But on the morning of the game, 1st XI captain Duray Pretorius can’t help himself. At exactly 08:30, he texts 2nd XI captain Leo Nieboer: “You at the DSG yet?”

Duray knows all about my ridiculous pre-match rituals, and waking up 30 minutes later, confused and scared — like I do every morning, pretty much — it throws me in a big way. Should I be at the ground? Is he there, doing shuttle runs up and down the G? Why is Duray’s name the first thing I see when I wake up? Bastard. 1-0 already.

When I get to the ground, two hours before start time, Duray is not here. Nobody is here. It’s just me and our umpire for the day, David, who in my head I’m calling Richard, because to my mind every umpire is called Richard. He’s standing there, nibbling on a sausage roll, talking to me about the last game he umpired for us — that horrible league-deciding nailbiter against Epic CC — but it’s hard to make out what he’s saying.

Duray finally does arrive, along with Umar Iqbal, and Richard — sorry, David — is walking us through his eating routine: McDonald’s breakfast every morning at about 11, then whatever’s in the fridge when he gets home. Duray asks him if he has a glass of milk with his breakfast and it’s extremely hard not to fall about laughing.

Eventually, more players arrive. We all pretend to not know who everyone is, so there’s a lot of shaking hands with 1s players, introducing ourselves. Once again Nieboer loses the toss and gets sent into the field.

And once again, it’s a brutal start. Suri Poleboina and Eaton are finding the boundary far too easily. Aside from an excellent opening spell from Ritik Jaat, the 2nd XI bowling is wayward, painfully short, and they’re taking full advantage. The first wicket comes eventually, with 92 on the board, but in somewhat farcical fashion — a full toss definitely above hip height, looped up by Suri and caught by Nealon Francis AKA Champion Boss, nonetheless given out by our umpire for the day. I hear Suri’s anguished ranting all the way over there on the sidelines, every third word appearing to be “f*ck” or “f*cking”.

The score way too high for my blood pressure and overall sense of self-esteem, it feels like pace off is the way. Tom Glynne-Jones and Benny Cobbett bring some much-needed control, drawing false shots and half-chances, the latter prising out George Stanley.

Even so, the runs just keep coming, no matter where Nieboer puts fielders. Leo Connolly somehow manages to look both extremely in trouble at all times and also score 44, while Eaton just looks sublime, unimpeachable, the pair reaching their third 100 partnership together. They’ve got this terribly cringe tendency to tap bats between overs, which has Nicko Dowell and Nieboer howling and roaring with disgust.

Watching Eaton, I’m on the verge of having an aneurysm. It’s absolutely f*cking peerless, what he’s doing out here. Apart from one dropped catch from Oscar Sawyer on 80, he gives us sweet f*ck all to work with. His timing is phenomenal. He’s calm, almost buddha-like. Almost everything is with soft hands, played as late as possible. He’s perfectly ensconced in the precious Bubble, seeing it all in slow motion. One Cobbett delivery he lines up to drive, then changes his mind, rocks back, strokes it to third man instead. Jesus, I feel that aneurism coming on again as I type. Now I know how the French felt at Điện Biên Phủ.

Champion Boss, Jay Patel and Callum Daley all chip in with some handy bowling, but by this point we’re in a slipstream of shit. It’s just not consistent enough; we can’t build dots. Their batting has been ruthless. And Nieboer, still very new to this captaincy thing, is struggling to think clearly, out there in the dirt, sweating profusely under his pink bucket hat, never quite managing to set fields that make sense and plug the many holes on this boat, which is now almost fully submerged.

Ritik comes back on and bowls Duray for 33. Nicko, of course, does an Alex Carey dismissal, removing James Barron. Iskandar finally gets out on the penultimate ball of the innings. And as a final insult, Matt Spencer comes in for the last ball, and says: “Probably got enough here. I reckon I’ll just block it.”

It’s been a long, long few hours. We need 299.

The second innings starts and the whole thing could not be more different to what was happening an hour earlier. The sun is no longer harsh, now casting a dreamier more golden hue over the Nursery ground. Duray’s field resembles a normal cricket field — three slips, gully, point, mid wicket, square leg, mid on, mid off — as opposed to Nieboer’s, which, by the end, looked like a bunch of adult-sized dolls dropped from a plane, scattered randomly across the Dulwich area.

And Chris Roden-Smith, of course, is giving Nieboer absolutely nothing. It’s pure perfect channel, and all Nieboer can do is nibble and leave and mistime shots to point. For the man’s five over spell, Nieboer hits four runs. He bowled one bad ball, just a little too short, which Nieboer smacked through backward point, only to be stopped by Connolly, which felt somehow more demoralising than anything that came before today. It’s a complete impasse — a minus cancelling out a plus. In a text sent later, after he got home, CRS summed it up quite nicely:

The year is 2064.
The Earth is but a mere wasteland.
Nations and political tribes continue to wage war.
Civilians fight for what scarce resources are left.
All that remains, all that is constant, is that CRS & Nibbler continue to battle to an utter stalemate on the centre wicket.
Not one giving an inch.

At the other end, Champion Boss is starting to get hold of Matt Spencer. After being hit in the belly with some serious pace, he creams the former 2nd XI skipper for four, right after Spence was told that he couldn’t hit the ball through that area. Sadly, an over later, Nieboer calls him through for a bye, he reacts a little slowly, and Spence castles him with a direct hit — the only time he managed to swing the ball all day. Plough’s hope of a rollocking 200 strike rate start are gone.

Jay Patel and Nieboer work hard for 10 overs or so, but there’s just nothing to work with. Everything is painfully on the money. Whenever we do get something away, the ball either gets held up in the slow outfield or outright stopped by what I’m coming to understand is a very, very good fielding side.

Meanwhile, I notice my uncle Lachlan has showed up, patrolling the boundary and watching quietly with his airpods in, probably wondering why the hell his nephew is standing like that. It’s not quite like having dad come to watch, but it’s close. Wearing all black, with a distinctly quiet presence that’s far too heavy for a policeman or an official, he looks vaguely like an assassin, Oli thinks, or perhaps a Russian spy. Nobody in my family actually knows what he does. All I know is he was in Torchwood and Downtown Abbey, briefly, disappeared for a while, and now shows up at the DSG and nicks off our best batters for fun. Sean McGurn has started to view him as a near-satanic apparition.

Anyway, we’re getting sidetracked.

Eventually Nieboer and Patel, acutely aware that nudging and scurrying isn’t gonna get us anywhere near 299, both hole out trying to move the game forward in the 14th and 15th over, and once again things start sinking very quickly into a quagmire of misery and failure. Nicko cops an excellent delivery from Tom Lonnen, bowled for 1, Lonnen’s celebration less a send off and more just delight at being very good at cricket. Benny holes out third ball. We’re 37-5.

On the sidelines, I’m in a grim mood. Today has been less than good. I look over at Sienna, Maisie, and Jess (partners of Benny, Greg Willis, and Spence respectively) and notice how girls at the DSG consume cricket in a notably different way to the boys playing. They’re almost always sat down, leaning in towards each other, vibrating at a much calmer, lower frequency, dipping in and out, while the boys, I’ve noticed, are almost always standing, pensive, staring far into the distance, like someone watching their car being washed out to sea.

Maisie, who I believe is a teacher, is talking about “difficult 10 year olds”, and I take a bite out of it immediately.

“I’ve never met a 10 year old that I like,” I bark, still in that post dismissal funk, walking off.

I turn back, adding, “I should clarify: I don’t meet a lot of 10 year olds. I know, like, one 10 year old.”

In the middle, Umar and Callum are offering impressive resistance against spot-on Lonnen bowling. It’s an especially classy innings from Umar, the one shining light in our batting lineup, playing the ball with soft hands and timing it beautifully, running smartly, looking perfectly in control.

He’s eventually out for 35 — a brilliant catch from Lonnen — with Callum making 17. Things degenerate quite quickly, after all that. Oli Lonsdale, in at 11, has a bit of work to do, and lines up a cover drive that for a split second looks like it may kickstart the greatest remontada ever witnessed in the history of club cricket, but he slices it, caught by Duray, and the game is over, the 2nd XI not even making 100.

After a few stern words with the team, and a few even sterner words with myself, it’s time for showers — finally some sweet relief. And it’s an excellent run out, the first shower for a fair few members of the Shower XI. Oli comes in and we briefly become like those guys in Bay 13 at the MCG, all of us booming, “OLI OLI OLI, OI OI OI!!”

Matt Spencer drops the shower gel bottle. It’s the first time a 1st XI player has dropped anything all day. As poor as the 2nd XI have been, the 1st XI have been magnificent today.

Even after the game, over beers, I still somehow find myself losing to the 1st XI via pool. It’s Duray and Ashish Paul vs Nieboer and Lonsdale. The table is horribly slanted; balls bend painfully to one side. It’s an absurd affair. Finally Lonsdale is getting that late inswing we so desperately needed, out there, about five hours ago. And of course we lose.

“Table tennis?” Duray inquires.

“Please, no more games,” I say, running off to the toilet and away from this man who has been tormenting me for more than 12 hours now.

Indeed, no more games for now. Time to think for a bit, I reckon, and come into May 10 with lessons learned — and many lessons have indeed been learned — and a serious, serious fire in the belly as the 2nd XI start their league campaign.