Like many games, this one really starts the night before. As usual, Leo Nieboer had been spending his Friday at Shadwell Basin, flinging himself into the water and drinking heavily, fending off waves of strange memories, when he receives a text from Fred Gumpert. Him and Michael Ainslie, plus Chris Butlin, will be gathering at the Railway Tavern in Tulse Hill to watch a couple of World Cup games — the second being Scotland’s clash with Morocco at 23:00.

That’s dangerous, Nieboer’s thinking. Very dangerous. But also unbelievably tantalising. It’s a great pub, a tasty fixture, and an excellent lineup of boys, so he feels compelled to go, albeit with an uneasy feeling in his stomach. Butlin has been at the Oval all day and is already battered, flitting randomly between catatonic silence and sing-song mode. And Ainslie is Scottish; he’s approaching this game the way every Scot, from Boston to Falkirk, is approaching this game, their brave brave Tartan boys one win away from reaching the World Cup knockout stages. Three members of tomorrow’s top four are having a fair crack here. We just hope that Van Naidoo, down at No.3, is tucked up in bed already.

The next day, it actually matters little, because Morden can’t find the ground and the start is delayed. Liam hands Nieboer his designated tossing coin, which lost about five in a row at the start of the season, but did win its last two, so supposedly it’s found a bit of form. Nieboer takes it out and tosses it in the air — really quite well, I must say, with some serious RPM — and loses. Form is temporary; lack of class is permanent, even with a coin, it turns out. Ploughmans are batting.

Nieboer and Ainslie, who arrived at the ground drenched in sweat, start pretty well, scoring 16 (37) and 32 respectively (39). On the sidelines, Narvin Ganesh, who hasn’t said a word to anybody yet, walks over to us and points at Giordy Diangienda, umpiring at square leg.

“I’ve seen Giordy wearing that same top for the last four days,” he says. “Giordy! I have some Persil, if you want!”

Van departs early, but nonetheless we have a nice platform for Butlin and Alex Jullienne, who put together one of the best partnerships the 2s have seen all season. Butlin makes 60 (47), producing some delicious Butlin-esque strokes, the boys cooing like pigeons on the sidelines. And Cakey Two Eyes, coming into this on a king pair, is masterful, unimpeachable, taking it all the way to the end, finishing on 73* (59), supported nicely by Tom Lonnen, who makes 22 (24). Plough finish on a commanding 232 — not bad at all for a team that was put into bat.

At tea, we have a new arrangement. Some nice lady called Lee has made our teas, all of them in these cute little cardboard containers. There’s halal, meat and veggie options, but each sandwich looks exactly the same, filled with this sort of potatoey green mush that looks unappealing but actually has a rather enjoyable spicy green curry sort of flavour.

The second innings is difficult to write about. And not only because of its wild fluctuations, its sheer box office drama, the threads and tangents of these long hours so colourful and dramatic they deserve their own 2,000-word report… but also because it was, for the most part, absolutely f*cking mortifying.

We bowl 36 wides in total – 36 runs and another six overs for them to chase this high score. At the same time, there’s some good bowling: Narvin is absolutely vicious; Damon Greeney is metronomic; Liam Gray and Giordy Diangienda have their moments, taking a wicket apiece. Nieboer comes on before drinks and bowls their opener with the slowest delivery he’s ever seen.

For the most part, though, it’s like being beaten to death with a teddy bear — slow and steady and incrementally breaking you down. Balls are flying through the field, byes are flying to the sightscreen, and Nieboer is thinking about flying to Vanuatu and never speaking to anyone ever again.

Even so, when it comes to the last over, they still need 12. Despite everything, Ploughmans are still favourites. Their set batter, Jordon, who it must be said batted amazingly, hits one clean to long on. Narvin is under it. The ball only just sails over him. And in that one moment it’s basically done. Had he got 5% less purchase on it, Ploughmans may have won. Cricket, man. A game of what ifs. A f*cking lobotomy costing £13.

And there are many, many what ifs to ponder, even now, sat here on Monday morning, sucking on my vape writing this torrid screed, heatwave looming, the colours and sounds of that day coming back like bats and demons looming up through the timefog.

For a good while, Nieboer is sort of catatonic, genuinely fuming, at himself, the game — everything, really.

But like I’ve said before: it’s impossible to be upset for too long at Ploughmans CC. Walking into the DSG, greeted by his fellow Plough, the scars and boils start to recede. Nieboer shows off his bush to Dom Scott and Chad Mace. Dom is horrified; Chad is full of admiration. Turns out Chad ‘serviced’ the 1st XI earlier, whatever that means. Dom is dreaming of a tour to Munich next year, for reasons best not explored here. Some other 1s players are telling Nieboer about how their No.10 was padded up while standing at umpire, despite them only being one down, for reasons that aren’t ever explained.

Sean can tell Nieboer is a bit down, and tells him to breathe, do meditation or whatever. Which feels very wrong; it’s like getting a yoga lesson from Robert Mugabe. Butlin brings out one of his new hits — a new song about Fred Gumpert, which goes:

“I saw him drinking down at the G,
Freddie Gumpert come play with me.
One chat with Grayzer and he said Well,
F*CK OFF MORDEN, I’M A PLOUGHMAN NOW”

Butlin then wheels away, doing what he calls ‘Beer Drogba’ — the classic Drogba celebration, arms pointing out wide, while holding his beer, so that the beer goes everywhere.

It’s a dreamy hazy June evening — the longest day of the year. Nieboer wants to stick around for longer, drink more beer, sing more inappropriate songs about Tom Lonnen, but he’s actually got summer solstice plans.

“Are you a f*cking druid?” Dom scoffs, shaking his head. “I knew it. I bloody KNEW it.”

Indeed. Nieboer heads Telegraph Hill way to stand in a circle, kill a goat, wear a crown of thorns, preserve the severed heads of respected ancestors etc., but mainly just sits there and thinks about What Might Have Been, in a game that had absolutely everything.