With the September sun spraying its gorgeous unexpected rays all over London and the twos getting a rare opportunity to play at their beloved DSG, the boys were beyond keen for this one. The Whatsapp group crackled and popped all week, occasionally veering into disturbing areas but always underpinned by a sense of dizzying anticipation of one last crack at the strange beautiful and occasionally painful beast that is the Surrey Premier Division.

Anticipation levels ratcheted up a gear when our dear captain, Matt Spencer, won the toss and got the chance to bat — the only possible option with the sun beating down and the Burbage track looking, like the earth itself, extremely flat. London Welsh clearly felt similar: ahead of play starting, five of them were padded up, practicing their front press, which was bizarre at the time but in hindsight should be acknowledged as quite a clever bit of mind games. “We’re ready whenever you want it, champs,” they were saying, “because we fucking LOVE a bat.” Whatever, I thought. That wisdom cuts both ways.

Leo Nieboer and Chris Butlin stepped out to open the innings. Immediately they were under the pump. The first ball of the match went straight at Nieboer’s face and there aren’t many things, legal or not, that make you feel like that. Extreme pressure and intensity from ball one. The air shimmered with heat; everything was on the line. Yes… the good stuff. The painful stuff — a special kind of public humiliation hard to find beyond the confines of a cricket field.

For those first 10 overs, both batters fought hard to keep out an impressive attack, composed, it turned out, of their 1st XI, who conveniently didn’t have a game that weekend. Nieboer ducked and weaved and blocked; Butlin counterpunched with one of his trademark cover drives, so good it makes me salivate just thinking about it. Balls kept flying by Nieboer’s head. With each block or miss or leave, the field closed in, like hungry vultures waiting for a goat to fall off a hill and die. Shouts of “CHALO CHALO” abounded. We were in a battle. And we weren’t winning it, either — each batter was pinned down at their end, only managing 20 runs in the first 10 overs. They are still getting used to each other as partners, this being just their second time opening together. It’s a strange combo, Butlin and I. One is almost impossibly calm, monk-like; the other is all teeth-grinding mania. Two very different wavelengths: like a sleepy koala trying to communicate with four iguanas in a feeding frenzy.

Frustrated at the lack of progress, Butlin found himself stumped for 10 (30), ushering in Umar Iqbal, who started nicely ahead of chopping on for 7 (21). At 38-2 after 15 overs, Plough were in a precarious position. Steve Britto arrived at four and put some pressure back on the spinners, but Nieboer struggled to offer much more than dogged resistance, which is not quite enough in a critical league game on a good pitch. His 11 off 60 balls, although extremely on brand, left Will Curtis and the rest of the middle order with a tough job at the halfway stage, the score 49-3 after 20 overs. Curtis, that gorgeous blonde deep-voiced spectacle of pure cover drives and vibes, came into the team as a late call, in for the injured Harry Edmonds, having not played much cricket this year — perhaps somewhat out of love with a sport that promises so much and gives nothing to so many. But on this day, alongside a busy Britto, he was elegant as I’ve seen him against tough accurate bowling, racking up an impressive 27 (46). Sadly, after a Britto run out (23 off 31), the middle order — perhaps feeling the pressure conferred on them by Nieboer’s unfortunate decision to eat up 10 overs for 11 runs — failed to make inroads. The only exception was Spencer (20* off 10), whose innings involved hitting his second ball down the ground for six and loudly flirting with his lovely fiance, Jess, as she walked along the boundary — the exact kind of big dick captain energy that any good league team needs.

On the sidelines, meanwhile, Giordy Diangenda kept telling me about his trousers. They belonged to Joe Denly, apparently. They were supposed to be his; the lanky former England No.3 just never bothered to use them — a fact my legal team are still working on ascertaining and are yet to verify. At the end, Plough were all out for 141 — nowhere near good enough but also, in theory, defendable.

After the very first ball of the second innings, 141 felt… less defendable. Matt Bolshaw bowled what seemed like a good ball; it went straight over Nieboer’s head at mid-wicket for a one-bounce four. The newly married man was then hit for three sixes in a row — not the thing you want when returning from honeymoon, where that kind of thing presumably doesn’t occur. The batter doing the damage, the bringer of absolute unmitigated dismemberment, was called Muhammad Abdullah Khan. A powerful name: it loosely translates, in Arabic, to “Worthy of All Praises, Servant of Allah and Ruler/King”, which seemed pretty accurate for a guy who ended up hitting 83 runs off 37 balls, all while wearing grey whites and disappearing immediately after getting out to a smart Benny Cobbett delivery to go to work. TO WORK. Imagine hitting that and then popping over to do a shift! Salutations to you, sir.

There really are two different kinds of openers, and one of them wins games a lot more than the other. In the field, Plough could have done better. Catches went down. People got a tad cranky, at times. While all bowlers acquitted themselves, especially Umar, nobody really hit their lines enough. Only Benny got on the board, taking three in quick succession near the end, rounding off a superb league campaign with the ball during which he abandoned seam and, just like that, became a spinner averaging about 14. That takes some gonads — and cricketing IQ. It’s like a landscaper deciding to become a lawyer in the middle of a job, or me opting to bat side on with a closed grip. You just don’t DO THAT.

In the end, it was all over inside 15 overs. A sound beating, and a harsh lesson. No team deserves to go up if they bat how we did. We came up against tighter and more aggressive sides this year. There’s no harm in that. In fact it’s a good thing: we saw what was possible, with a little more work, time, and talking to each other. And after a glorious and much-anticipated team beer in the showers — an event I really really should have chubbed up for first — we sat down in a circle, a la Phil Brown against Manchester City in 2009, and did exactly that. We talked. Those 10 minutes may be my favourite of the season. Led by Spence, players spoke honestly — in ways I hadn’t heard all year. Plenty of “I feel” statements. People opened up about their fears, what holds them back, where they believed they can be better. We all heard things that were difficult — but important — to hear.

We discussed how this team can be more clinical. Britto spoke harshly but fairly: getting bowled out for 67 and 141 in successive games isn’t good enough. We’re better than that. We will be better than that. There was something rather moving about this particular circlejerk. We had men talking with other men about how they felt, without filter, which I guess is a small victory in itself. And while there was no victory today, only an anticlimactic fourth place finish, the twos should be proud of what they’ve done this year. Led by the compassionate and fastidious Spence, the role thrust upon him unexpectedly in June, the twos are unrecognisable compared to last year. They have an identity. They have a feel and a vibe and most of all they have chemistry, a genuine bond. That bond will only intensify next year. We have taken Ls this year, but we are no losers. We are a proper, proper team. We have learned things. And we will be back for more next season, like the pack of demented masochistic good-looking wildebeests that we are. Until then, kings. It’s been a pleasure. I love you all.

Match report produced by Leo Nieboer