Leo Nieboer rolls over and slinks out of bed, the sun already hammering at his windows. He sighs. At least he has a free house this morning; he can stumble around naked and dry heave in the shower and not worry about having to half listen to a flatmate while he plans out fielding positions in his head and wonders why on earth he does this every Saturday.

Hopping off the Northern line, at Morden, the last stop — a place he always subconsciously reads as Mordor, given nothing good ever happens here and it is effectively the end of the earth for someone who never goes outside the M25 – Nieboer sees Tom Lane, who is 200% more hungover than he is. The two hadn’t played together since the early days of Matt Spencer’s league winning season as captain, April 2024, when the pair chased down 123 against Northolt Manor and Lane scored 88 of them. Soon after he fractured his elbow in a bike accident; he’s hardly played since, spending the next summer playing Eric Dier in Dear England and presumably doing more interesting things than playing in Division 11 North. More recently, though, he and Iskandar Eaton have been playing garden cricket, so the man’s not coming in totally cold, which reassures Nieboer.

The ground is one of those hellish council pitches, the earth all brown and menacing, the overall back-alley ambience of the place decidedly bleak. The toilets are a good five-minute walk away, and when you get there it feels like the kind of place one might get murdered or violated in some other more lewd way. Nieboer positions the group at the other side of the ground, in the shade, but also the furthest possible distance from the children’s playground, for necessary legal reasons. Otherwise the ankle bracelet will beep all bloody day.

Nieboer doesn’t need that. He’s lost the toss and has been sent in on a foul-looking pitch — all green and pockmarked and covered in bald spots. It looks like Chris Butlin with malaria, this deck. And their opening bowlers aren’t missing; everything is full and straight and nipping away. Alex Jullienne falls for 0, Callum Daley for 1. Nieboer battles it out for 40 balls and can only score 4 pathetic runs. The idea of scoring runs here feels absurd, like a half-baked idea barely lingering on the horizon. Soon Plough are 30-5.

With Nicko and Lane at the crease, the game feels perhaps two balls from being over. Nieboer can smell pus and venom; we are, as George Clooney says in O Brother, Where Art Thou?, in a tight spot.

But slowly, by degrees, in that unique way cricket games seem to explode and then ossify and germinate before moving in the opposite direction, the pair fight back. Lane characteristically decides that blocking is for betas like Nieboer and Benjamin Barnard, and instead takes it on, scoring a valuable 24.

The rest of the innings is about our dear Australian friend. There is something very Ben Stokes about his performance — a comparison he’ll surely love. But it’s true. He’s scrapping and dictating proceedings and leaning over with exhaustion between balls as he navigates his Herculean task. And carefully, when it’s there, he’s also bludgeoning the ball to the boundary, knocking the life out of Raynes Park, going through gear after gear until a team that thought they were gonna win inside two hours are now contemplating the ogre of midnight, staring up at the mountain that is 199 to win.

At the same time, these guys chased 211 against us earlier in the season, albeit on the calmer pastures of the Griffin, so there is indeed much work to do.

By drinks, Ploughmans are in a rather healthy position. Giordy Diangienda, as he does every week, has removed their openers, including one superb catch from Rob Mead, right into the webbing. Ashish Paul is just relentlessly good, taking a wicket as well. Damon Greeney does his usual thing and hardly ever misses. Raynes Park are 44-4.

At this stage, the 1st XI, having smashed Croydon, are now here. Every one of them. With many many beers. This makes Nieboer a little nervous; it’s like dad has some to watch. Bad form to lose in front of dad.

But their presence is amazing. They’re all stood up, drinking cans, like some demented away end, cheering everything. Greeney takes another wicket and the away end is rocking. The difference between the two camps couldn’t be starker. Nieboer looks over and sees the Raynes Park players sitting there glumly, motionless and deflated; he looks in the other direction and sees a load of 1s players — plus a bunch of Cake’s friends and Matt Spencer and Jess — all having a wonderful old time. Ploughmans CC, man. No club quite like it.

And the entertainment has only just started. Nicko AKA Ben Stokes minus the criminal record comes on and, of course, takes two wickets with his first two balls — the latter an edge to Nieboer that he caught and then became somehow lodged in his thigh/crotch area. Nicko takes two more, including an amazing caught and bowled. Ploughmans are one wicket from victory and Nicko’s one wicket from scoring an unbeaten 100 and taking five wickets in the same match.

Giordy’s having none of it. At his end, he takes his third wicket of the day, and Ploughmans have won. Walking off, Nieboer french kisses Sean McGurn, who is unbelievably bristly. Nicko gets a guard of honour. Everyone wants to touch him. It’s been a performance we’ll talk about for years to come.

Something has washed over Nicko in recent weeks. This season will be his last for Ploughmans CC; he’s moving to Malaga in January. So these next six games — at the end of which the Ploughmans 2s could indeed win the league — have turned into a kind of holy war for him. Earlier in the week, apropos of nothing, he sent this message to Nieboer and Butlin:

“While I’m fully in week to week I kind of usually let these league things take care of them self. This week for whatever reason (probably the knowledge I’ll Hopefully play most games) has changed that and my final goal is to win this f*cking league. That’s what we are going to do. Let’s go to f*ckin work gents. That’s the bucket list.”

Jesus… reading that back, I’ve just gone and smashed my door off its f*cking hinges.

Time for Nicko to buy an exceptional amount of beer. We head to the Raynes Park Tavern and dominate a prominent section of the outdoor area; Sean actually asks some people to move, so we have more lebensraum. A constant stream of beer and chicken finds its way to our table. Nealon Francois AKA Champion Boss cleans up a wing with one comprehensive bite. When James Barron goes to do the same, he realises the thing is infernally not, temperature wise, like second degree burns hot.

The usual Boy Chat follows, as Livia calls it. We reminisce about the time we were here a couple of seasons ago and Giordy, who had left, was called by Sean and told to come back, because of a girl there who rather liked him. He strolled back in 10 minutes later, Conor McGregor style, like some WWE character.

No such luck today. Instead we’re trading stories about lady boy encounters and now into the Aperol Spritzes, castigating Michael Ainslie for choosing to go to the Hundred next Saturday rather than play for Ploughmans CC. Nicko nearly falls off his chair, hearing this.

People start to melt away. Many of us are now roaring drunk. On the train back, Daley invites us back to his, to kick on, but Nieboer thinks he’ll call it there because he’s struggling to see. He Limes home and gets naked once again and eats yet more chicken on the sofa, idly watching baseball on the TV. It occurs to him that baseball, while inherently inferior to cricket, does at least afford a quick death to the batters. None of this face 40 balls and get f*cking nowhere torture. It also occurs to Nieboer that he could strike Timothy Chalamet out in three pitches, no problem. Curveball into the dirt; of course he’s chasing it. Slider; he feels like he’s drowning. And then bang: 97 inside corner. You are out. You are out. You were out since the day you were born.

These thoughts usually mean bedtime, and probably the end of this report. The 2nd XI have six league games left and it’s all on the line. A truly dizzying and gorgeous prospect.