Walking into the ground way earlier than needed, holding a Redemption Roasters coffee that’s way too expensive, I notice how the vibe at the Griffin today could not be further from what I had here last time, back in September, when the 2nd XI played Southwark Park. On that day, the gates were firmly locked — Benny Cobbett actually tried to guess the five digit combination — the sky was grey and ugly, and there wasn’t a soul to be seen in any direction. The place felt like Inner f*cking Mongolia.

Today, though, the gates are very much open. The weather is perfect. And there are many, many people here: girls playing cricket, parents watching, nattering about their mortgages or whatever the hell parents talk about. Boys warm up for a football match. One bloke is drinking a cider at 11am. The atmosphere hums with a relaxed happy Saturday feeling that Nieboer is in no way experiencing himself.

Because, of course, this date has been in my head for a long time, and now that it’s here I can’t seem to generate an acceptable amount of saliva. There’s also a lot of admin to do: find all the stuff in this new place, be nice to the staff, get the rope out, the 30 yard circle, sight screens, be nice to the opposition as they arrive, check on the showers, see how many Plough they can hold at one time.

Thankfully, my fellow Plough are all extremely helpful, and before I know it everything’s ready and we’re batting first. As Nieboer and Stephen Britto get ready to head out there, John Walton wants to know what the rules are with the bouncy castle behind us, which is packed with children screeching at all sorts of unbearable frequencies.

“You get five minutes of bouncy castle time per hour,” I tell him.

His eyes light up. “Can I save them up and have a big bounce session later on, then?”

“Yes, why not, Wasim.”

15 minutes later, Nieboer is back in the sheds, bowled after completely messing up his trigger movement. I disappear into the sheds for the obligatory sulk and come out to see Suri Poleboina and Britto taking the attack apart, picking out gaps all over the place, racking up century partnership that makes me think whether I’m even needed in this damn team, at the top, with batting like this. Britto, in particular, looks unimpeachable, reaching 75 in the 18th over, and quite frankly throws away what could have been a colossal 150*.

In fact, apart from captain Nieboer and vice captain Nicko Dowell, everyone is in scintillating touch: Suri with a bold 34, Umar Iqbal with an elegant classy 18, then Joey Anderson and Nealon Francois with a rapid 69-run partnership at a time when Plough may have on another day got bogged down in some middle overs line-and-length stuff.

They’ve taken the score from 178-5 to 247-6, still with plenty of time left, setting the stage for Benny and Ritik Jaat, who proceed to spread Wallington’s bowling on a cracker like some sort of canape and just bite down on it, driving them right into the ground — Benny with one especially delicious cover drive and Ritik, of course, pulling out a ramp shot, because this kid simply has no fear of anything at all.

On the sidelines, Liam Gray is delivering a scoring masterclass, despite the occasional gusts of wind.

“I f*cking hate wind,” he’s saying. “Wind is my least favourite weather, out of all the weathers, by far.”

I ask him if that’s why he abandoned Devon, the land of his birth and presumably quite windy with all that Atlantic drift knocking about, and traded it for Shadwell, which famously has no wind.

“Exactly,” he says, shaking his head, thinking back to those days as a child getting blown in all directions during those ridiculous February beach walks.

Grayzer has another form of wind to deal with in the form of Britto, who is sat next to him now and has a number of questions — mainly about scoring but also anything else that happens to come into his head, including queries regarding Nieboer’s wider authority here at the Griffin. To his credit, he does wait to ask his questions, as requested by myself and Grayzer, so as to not overload the big man. He makes a note in the scorebook:

“Britto DID wait to ask his questions”.

Ploughmans finish on a walloping 315-6, Benny on 33* and Ritik on 37*, which could definitely be described as “competitive”.

For tea, instead of the standard tuna sandwiches and salt and vinegar crisps, we have actual honest-to-god green curry, which is so good it’s hard to believe. It’s the last thing I expect: this perfectly balanced thai dish with chicken that falls apart and a perfect sauce consistency, plus properly done rice. Jesus, I’m starting to sound like that wanker Greg Wallace. I’ll leave this food stuff to Ajay John.

Buoyed by this culinary triumph, the 2s make a ripping start in the field. Ritik is producing molten lava, really pouring through the crease with a wonderfully mad look in his eyes, and Wallington can’t handle him. He clatters the stumps of both openers, plus their No.5, with little more than good old naked hostility and raw speed that gets through them before they’re even halfway into their trigger.

And don’t the boys love it. Nieboer only has two men on the leg side: Britto at fine leg and Champion Boss at silly mid on. Everyone else is crowding round the bat and making various animal noises, the corden whooping with feral delight when another lightning bolt flashes past the edge and thuds into Suri’s gloves. John Walton is doing some impressive bird sounds. Liam points out to the batter that there are indeed two kinds of leave, and several subsections within those two kinds, many of which contain additional clauses.

The initial idea was to give the boy four overs, then save him for later. But of course you have to give him a fifth, when he’s bowling like this. Then he takes a wicket, so he should probably get a sixth, right? And after the sixth, he begs for one more, outright insists on it, just one more. And the one more is so good that Nicko just looks at me and spins his hand around. Straight through, brother.

By the time Ritik’s done, there’s no longer a contest. We’re just in the death throes here. At the other end, Walton has found some lovely line and length, removing their No.6 with a cleverly disguised slower ball, wheeling away with a seagull celebration, further adding to the avian theme of today. He then leaves the pitch to change his socks, for some reason.

Now it’s time for the spinners, Cobbett and Anderson, the pair going for barely any runs at all. Benny’s locked into this total impasse with their No.7, who, despite needing to go at nearly 15 an over now, seems happy to just block it, use this game as a net, which Benny doesn’t exactly appreciate. At the other end, Anderson takes perhaps the best 1fer I’ve ever seen, producing multiple Gatting balls.

There is now a weird feeling to the affair. The game was probably won 15 overs into our first innings, and now everything is eerily quiet. The screaming children are gone. The football game, happening on the adjacent pitch, ended hours ago. All the parents are discussing their mortgages somewhere else now. Nobody is here apart from these two sides, playing out this foregone conclusion, the light fading and a constant stale drone of a megaphone over on the velodrome next door, some very English-sounding thirty-something saying “LET’S HEAR IT FOR [INDECIPHERABLE]!”, followed by no change in the decibel levels whatsoever.

Nicko comes on and mops up the tail inside three overs, bowling one that hits the top of off so perfectly that he actually appeals, such is his confusion. Benny drops a catch — a phenomenon so incomprehensible, so out of step with reality, that I briefly wonder whether I’m actually in a medically induced coma and the last few hours have been a fever dream of some kind. He later attributes this drop to the possible intervention of his new ADHD meds, and we have a weird discussion about How To Best Medicate Benny On Matchdays, which I really don’t think is within my remit as captain.

It’s been a good win. And a weight off the shoulders. With 20 points sealed and everything put away, it’s time to have a look at these Griffin showers. It’s just myself and Umar this time — a lovely intimate moment with a lovely intimate man — and the water pressure is SENSATIONAL. Almost too good, in fact. A man could get ideas with those showerheads.

Back outside, some 1s players have arrived, fresh from their own win, here to experience post-game Griffin beers for the first time. Sean McGurn gives me a big hug and then murmurs a series of truly obscene entreaties into my ear. Champion Boss is seemingly constantly on the phone, discussing Business, and Sean and I agree that he’s way too cool for this club. Umar hands me a hunk of homemade banana bread. Dom Scott, fresh from bowling nine overs of spin on the trot, mentions how such an activity can be quite tiring, and Britto is having absolutely none of it.

“What would his Strava look like?” he hisses. “Barely touching 1km, for crying out loud!”

As the light fades over this beautiful space, more Plough trickle off — some in the direction of kebabs, others towards Clapham, for Bob Keogh’s birthday celebrations. Nicko, Umar and myself stay put for a bit, poring over the day’s events.

We’re interrupted by Sean coming back into view. His Uber’s late, so he’s gonna test out the lavatory facilities. As he comes out, we ask him whether it was a good poo.

“Average, had better,” he says, then wheels off.

A minute or two later, Joey Anderson also appears, harbouring the exact same intentions. He comes back out and we ask him the same question.

“Fantastic,” he beams.

And today has indeed been fantastic. Lessons were learned. Runs were hit, wickets taken. Straight balls were missed. Jugs were consumed. Last minute poos were done. And while the 2s will no doubt have harder tests this year, they have sent out a serious message to the rest of Division 11 North right from the off.