Dear Cricket at the Plough,

You impossible, intoxicating, nerve-wrecking beast.

Just when we thought you’d given us everything — the collapses, the comebacks, the teas of varying quality — you saved your cruellest trick for one of the very last games of the season: victory on the final ball.

Our fingernails are gone, our voices hoarse, and our dignity scattered somewhere between the boundary rope and the clubhouse. And yet… we love you more than ever.

You gave us Liam Gray, who, after donating 25 runs in his first over like a confused philanthropist, came storming back with grit, guile, and a wicket that made us all forget (almost) about the earlier carnage.

You gave us Matt Spencer, who bowled with the venom of a man possessed — and with a broken toe, no less. Two wickets for 41 and proof that hobbling is just as effective as sprinting.

You gave us Jon Ryves, who endured a brief bowling nightmare (therapy sessions available on Tuesdays) but repaid it with two monstrous sixes at a strike rate of 139, reminding us that violence with the bat is sometimes the best healing.

You blessed us with Jo Hockings, who gave it his all on the field — a Superman dive that knocked the wind out of his lungs, his whites into “autumn brown,” and a great effort on the field. With the bat, he braved the opening bowlers and gave us a platform to believe.

With James Barron, we witnessed Jonty Rhodes reincarnated (minus the South African accent). Four crunching boundaries with the bat, he proved that diving in the field is not the only thing he is great at.

With Champion Boss, who threw himself around the boundary like a man allergic to runs and bowled five overs for just 16 — more miserly than a landlord with the heating bill.

You gave us Ajay John, who floated six overs of pure stinginess for just 16 runs and a wicket. He was soaring high… until he was bowled by a swinging full toss for a duck, and gravity brought him crashing back to Earth.

And, Cricket, you gave us the magnificent Damon Greeney, who now owns the Hollies so completely it’s been renamed The Greeney End. A 5-fer for the ages, delivered with the swagger of a man who bowls not just overs, but sermons.

And of course, our batting heroes:

Stephen Britto, whose sledging is loud, but whose straight drives are louder — 16 boundaries of pure class while carrying his bat like a man carrying the whole pub order on one tray. The backbone of the innings, and the banter.

And the one, the only, Angus Osborne. Wicketkeeper. Last-ball hero. Graceful 53 off 43 balls. Two catches. And the shot that secured eternal free pints. Angus, that final glorious swing, carried the weight of the season, the hopes of a team, and the collective anxiety of a WhatsApp group.

Last but not least, our ice-cold captain Leo Connolly, who radiated calm even as bowlers were dispatched into the neighbour’s gardens. He shuffled the deck, made the right calls, and piloted us to victory with the serenity of a man who’s definitely not panicking inside. The perfect Ploughmans skipper.

We also thank our opponents — You were fierce, fair, and occasionally cruel, and even lent us a sub-fielder who promptly took a catch for us. (We’re still deciding whether to engrave his name on the honours board). But without you, there’s no story — every hero needs a villain, and you played the part beautifully.

We cried. We laughed. We nearly lost our minds. And as the season takes its final bow, we can only thank you, Cricket, for the memories. For the drama. For the friendships disguised as fielding positions.

Hopelessly devoted, slightly traumatised but with pints in hand we stand.

Until next year,
Ploughmans Cricket Team (via Ajay John)