Well… goodness, where do we even start?

Right. With the wake up. The morning howling fantods. On this occasion, Leo Nieboer is rudely woken by the sound of a half-marathon happening outside his flat. It’s an especially jarring sound: this mixture of the announcer’s disembodied voice, droning away, like some state-sponsored broadcast, and the disturbingly loud and disorganized sound of the runners — a hellbroth of slapping pounding feet.

Now sitting at the end of his bed, trying to crack his neck and figure out which pair of boxers on his bedroom floor hold the most luck for today, Nieboer thinks about the nature of marathons and shrugs. That’s a chickensh*t endurance sport, he thinks. Try winning Division 11 North.

Now walking gingerly around the flat, Nieboer shakes his head. It’s still not done. He feels like Michael Sheen in Apocalypse Now. Saigon... shit. I'm still only in Saigon. How, after 4.5 months of churning around various grounds in Morden and South Wimbledon and f*cking Mitcham, can it still not be done? Week after week of teeth-grinding endeavour, from selection to monitoring weather, to drinking jugs and navigating the new ball, for what has felt like several lifetimes, and it’s still not bloody done. It could all still unravel today. Ploughmans need to beat Southwark Park to guarantee a league win.

Getting to the Griffin for the last time in 2026, Nieboer notices how the colours here look more… pronounced, somehow. It makes him think about how, apparently, when a soldier is bleeding out on a battlefield, the greenness of the grass and the blueness of the sky looks way more profound, as if magnified and enhanced — one last little bolt of eye candy before they hit the stairs. It could also just be because we’ve finally had some rain recently.

In any case, the first 30 minutes do indeed feel a bit like bleeding out in some Vietnamese jungle. After (amazingly) winning the toss and going into bat, Ploughmans are not just 21-3 but also a man down. Suri Poleboina has top-edged a full toss right into his face, and there’s a lot of blood. There’s a lengthy pause while he’s unsuccessfully coaxed into coming off and strapped up like Terry Butcher. He doesn’t last much longer. The bowler at the other end is not bowling full tosses; he’s pretty darn good, a 1s player, firing in late induckers from a low height. He removes Poleboina and Nieboer, and Iskandar Eaton is out nicking off as well.

Panic. It crept slowly up Nieboer’s spine like the first rising vibes of a dimethyltryptamine frenzy. All these horrible realities begin to dawn on him. His mind shoots back to a conversation with Duray Pretorius the night before, at the Hanover Arms.

“You can lose a game in the first 10 overs if you bat first,” he was saying. “If you bowl first, though, it’s hard to lose a game in the first 10.”

Nieboer thought for a moment, then shrugged it off. Our situation was different. All year, we have batted first and won games. Alongside Chris Butlin and Nicko Dowell, we have embarked on a crusade to confound the dogma of Ploughmans as a ‘bowl first club’ — a leftover from when they played in the Surrey Premier League and players like Matt Bolshaw, Liam Gray, and Oli Lonsdale ransacked opponents for double figure totals.

And while Nieboer was back in the shed, concluding another season of three good months and one bad one with the bat, Butlin and Nicko were still out there. And, by god, how to accurately convey what happens over the next two hours?

On a day when everything is on the line, when it matters most, these two boys spread Southwark Park’s bowling attack on a cracker like some bloody hors d'oeuvre and bite down on it. They go from absorbing pressure to inflicting blunt force trauma, over and over again. They put on a partnership of 200 — the highest league partnership this season and the 5th highest in the club’s history.

Standing at umpire, it’s especially joyous watching these two different styles go to work and turn Southwark Park into a mute, shellshocked wreck, out there in the middle. While Nicko is fundamentally a dog, not so much hitting balls as punishing them, as if they’ve offended him personally, Butlin is cat-like — elegant and nimble, quiet and intense, guiding balls through the field like a surgeon probing for metastases in a sick body. And while Nicko constantly looks on the verge of death, calling for painkillers and anti-chafing cream, Butlin shows no signs of discomfort at all. Nicko is gregarious and calm, talking often with Nieboer; Butlin is all business, just occasionally mouthing: F*cking come on. At one point, when Nicko acknowledges his young daughter on the sideline, holding a sign that says “Go Daddy!” (not an ad), Butlin pulls him away and says: “Come on. Concentrate. Next f*cking ball.”

Nicko’s 100 comes up so fast it gives us all whiplash. After brutalising one ball so hard it goes over the net (a first in all the games here) and then going after its friends and distant relations, the now-rather-large crowd on the sideline erupts, and Nicko lets out a primal roar that gives Nieboer goosebumps. This has been a personal crusade of Nicko’s, this campaign, with him moving to Spain in January, and here was his apotheosis, the reward for all that hard work and toil and failure. It’s an unbelievable but also totally fitting way for a man we love so much to round off his Ploughmans career… for now.

Butlin’s 100 comes in even more dramatic circumstances. With Leo Towers now out there, he needs three runs off the last over. Problem is, Towers can’t get off strike. He even attempts a filthy scoop that goes nowhere. Butlin now has one ball — the last of this wild innings — to score three runs. And, of course, he cover drives it for four. The boys on the sideline go ballistic. Biblical scenes. No longer will Butlin need to dine out on Malaga 2022. No matter what he does, no matter where he goes, he will always have Southwark Park 2026.

Good god, Nieboer thinks. This is a bloody fairytale. Not even Hollywood would come up with this — it’s too damn glorious to be believed. The whole thing feels almost cheesy, trite, not original, like some Marvel knock off. This kind of thing just doesn’t happen. Ploughmans just need to defend 279 and they’re champions.

The next couple of hours play out in a kind of dreamlike haze — a rare moment when reality is so sweet and scintillating and weirdly serene that there’s no way it could be normal life. It’s the stuff you never forget and can’t quite believe happened. The 1st XI, having won their game in about 90 minutes, once again, are now here, pushing the spectator number to about 40 people, all splayed across the sidelines, riding every ball, having a bang up time on the sidelines. Some people, like Yanni Baveas and Callum Daley, have been here since 12pm.

Just as an aside: it’s truly bizarre and utterly heartwarming that the denouement of the 2s campaign — the last five or six games — has been observed, loudly and voraciously, on the sidelines, by our 1s, almost every time. I strongly doubt that many club 1st XIs would come to watch the end of so many 2s games, and then stay to drink with them afterwards. Never have I ever felt the ‘One Club’ philosophy more potently, in higher technicolour, than being in the field and having every member of our 1st XI cheering every ball of a 2nd XI game. So an enormous thank you to Sean McGurn, the 1s captain, for making that happen. I hope they had fun watching us. It looks like they did.

But nothing will touch that feeling of being out there, in the dirt, for those those last two hours, with your brave, brave 2s boys, who have sweated and suffered and simply endured for months and months, and are now bringing it home — finally getting that celestial bacon of all bacons.

It was done in the way we’ve done it all season: discipline, energy, smiles on faces, and bowling on the stumps more often than they did. Ashish Paul and Damon Greeney — quite the duo to open up against when you’re chasing 279 in 40 overs — both hit the stumps, setting us on our way. Then a slight fightback from Southwark Park: their opener, Sandeep Panchal, has 600+ league runs this year, and is absolutely no mug. He smokes 39 before being totally worked out by Puff, who drags the ball wide and coaxes him into drive, knowing he can’t resist, spooning the ball to Nicko at mid off, where he seems to take catches every bloody game. Nieboer tells everyone to (1) stay humble and that (2) we can win this before drinks, which confuses Butlin so much he actually gets quite angry.

Ben Millward-Sadler comes on and unleashes hell. The ball is staying low this end, and he’s blowing off front pads with the sort of precision even Lee Harvey Oswald would be proud of. He ends up with three wickets, including one absolutely spanked at Nieboer, at mid wicket, which somehow sticks and shocks everyone. Iskandar, keeping wicket, remarks to Nieboer how easy this bowling thing looks.

“You just aim it at the stumps. That’s all you do.”

Nieboer nods. “As Stephen Britto likes to say: the stumps don’t move.”

“They really don’t.”

“When was the last time you saw the stumps move?”

“I honestly can’t remember them ever moving.”

“Mm.”

They are seven down at drinks and absolutely nowhere near the total.

Narvin Ganesh, from the top end, like he’s done all season, smashes some stumps. Now we need two wickets. At this stage, Puff, his ankle nearing breaking point, wants to come off for one wicket. Ajit Prasad will come on; he gets into Puff’s whites. The next ball, Iskandar, thanks to a wayward Nicko throw, has to throw the ball behind his back, at one stump, and still hits. Bedlam on the pitch and on the sidelines. The Prasad effect. Gosh, we’re one away. My gooch feels funny.

Tom Elmslie, who didn’t bat earlier, has the honour of taking the crowning wicket. And, of course, it’s caught by Nicko Dowell. Ecstasy. Disbelief. Celestial trumpets and angel trombones. Gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh. Wonder of wonders. We mob each other and it’s pretty pointless attempting to write how that felt.

Coming off the pitch, prosecco sprays everywhere. Everyone hugs everyone. There are some tears. Nieboer is lifted on Narvin’s shoulders and leads the chant: CHAMPIONES, CHAMPIONES, OLE OLE OLE!

We are handed beer after beer. Nieboer sits down with the boys and tells them how grateful he is for all of them, but the words never feel like enough. It’s hard to explain how some random cricket people, from all parts of the word and all walks of life, end up feeling like more than brothers. Those who have been there and heard that fine high white sound will know what I mean.

And now, yes… showers. Oh, it’s a bad, bad day to be a shower, let me tell you. Sean brings a jug into the steamy euphoric haze. Yanni and Callum, who have played no cricket today, are part of a sensational soapy lineup that sings and dances and never, ever wants to leave, truly resplendent in that wet tiled paradise. People even take turns washing Nieboer, him standing in the middle, naked, arms aloft, accepting the friendly foamy rubs. Narvin makes a shower debut that none of us will ever forget.

The night descends into a blur of jugs, singsong, heavy petting, and true heartwarming goodness. Rahul Nair keeps bringing out shots. Even Suri Poleboina, who has spent all day in hospital and received no fewer than 23 stitches on his face, has turned up. We serenade him with a new song, to the tune of the Macarena.

“Arrives on his bike and it’s name’s Poleboina,
Smokes Marlboros and his name’s Poleboina,
Gash on his face and his name’s Poleboina,
Ayyyyy Poleboina!”

He looks quite confused. But very happy.

We all are. Winning the league is not easy, and requires so much more than the 11 who take the field every week. It’s something everyone has touched, in different ways: whether it’s Harry Wright electronically scoring games all day, Yanni Baveas’ 10* vs Team Mitcham, the selection committee, Ean Smith digging out a 0* (12) in a crucial win over Beddington, Callum Daley gleefully accepting TFCs and buying jugs afterwards. I could go on and on.

The night, as inevitable as rivers flowing into the sea, lurches towards Hootannany, which is more or less never a good idea. We sit outside and cover a range of subjects, from the Meaning of Breakfast to which Morleys locations give you diarrhoea, to which despotic dictators would be best suited to opening. I’ve had so many drinks I briefly think I spot the ghost of General Pinochet at the bar, but it’s actually just a man with a moustache and a mean face.

Inside, Sean is doing his normal routine of going non-verbal and playing pool, game after game. Van Naidoo keeps beating him. In an earlier game, the week before, Sean had promised that Van could captain the 1s for a game if he beat him a second time. Van did. Sean, as of yet, has not fulfilled his side of the deal.

But so much for all that. Time to close the book on this awful establishment and end this unbelievable league season.

In the Uber home, Nieboer plays back moments from the season in his head. That Max Gumpert innings against Alleyns, who ended up 2nd. Giordy Diangienda, every game, our bowler of the year. Narvin loping across the field exactly like a panther. Ritik Jaat getting two direct hits in one over. Nieboer’s two 50 partnerships with vice-captain Butlin, in consecutive games, to start the season. Nicko Dowell sometimes just doing it all by himself.

Ah, so many moments. But what really sticks out, more than any individual cricketing achievements, is the sheer brotherhood, the unmitigated f*cking vibes, of this club. And when November rolls around, as it inexorably will, and I’m walking home from work at 5:30pm in total darkness, wading through the cold in a sort of subhuman funk, it won’t be the cricket I think about. It will be all of you, my Plough family, all the unbelievably outrageous and hilarious and sometimes downright deranged personalities, that wash over my troubled mind when I think back on 2026 — a year forever etched on my brain and this club’s memory.

So thank you, Plough. I miss you all already.