The whole game, from the very start, was hilariously village — a fitting curtain closer to what has been a sometimes glorious but mainly absurd few months. Even before play started, the affair had a notably unhinged feel to it. Chairman and skipper Simon Carson, just five runs off 1,000 for the club, told the group he would open the batting with keeper and good mate Nick Dowell and attempt to biff his first ball down the ground. On the day, he left his pads at home, making his morning a teeth-grinding frenzy. Meanwhile, Oli Lonsdale would be late due to the fact that his car had been stolen. All of this was laid out against the fact that the game would probably be over in 45 minutes on account of a particularly gloomy weather forecast.

Taking to the field having lost the toss, the boys, despite being almost unanimously hungover, were in good spirits. “IT’S THE FINAL PLOUGH DOWN!” sang Josh Kerr from extra cover, reminding us that this was indeed our last time in the dirt together until April. There was something kind of poignant about it, standing there, looking at all these Ploughmen who have morphed from strangers to family in a remarkably short space of time. What brotherhood one feels when they cross that white line. How I’ll miss it! Perhaps I’ll join a cult during the off season.

Opening up from one end, Lewis Wilby produced some lovely rockets, many of which beat the bat. He then decided to bowl his ‘change-up’ delivery — a rank full toss, hit straight down the throat of Dave Yates. From the other, Damon Greeney, whose calm languid presence I’ll particularly miss during my winter cult adventures, nipped the new ball around beautifully, taking an excellent caught and bowled.

With Addington 30-2 off 7 overs, the rain came, hammering down, and most of us thought that was it. Thoughts drifted towards a Sunday roast and 8 pints of Guinness. Oli finally arrived, a lone sad figure walking through the downpour. He seemed pretty sanguine about the car thing, although perhaps he was just repressing it, putting on a brave face.

In any case, the rain abated, and a full Plough side were back on the field. Rehan Raees, having scalped four wickets the day before, took two more in the same over. Yates — “open up the Pearly Yates”, as Josh put it — bowled with excellent control and took a wicket himself, working so hard that the bottom half of his shoe actually came clean off during an over. Never seen that before. Why bowl your socks off when you can literally bowl your own shoe off? Now that’s monster mentality right there. Wayne also got in the action, trapping their No.8 LBW, taking his wickets tally for this season to 15, putting him in contention for the bowling trophy — a honour he may not win, at least this year, but he nonetheless can take pride in the fact that no one else brought more vibes this season, not even Carl Vibes, which is saying something.

At one point, with the score 39-5, Hussein Selmi and Leo Nieboer, down to bat at 3 and 4 respectively, briefly wondered whether they would even need to put their pads on today. Carson and Dowell, we reckoned, could get this done themselves. That hubris quickly turned into dread as their lower order rallied, their No.8 and No.9 both scoring fifties, taking advantage of two drops off Ean Smith.

Carson had to turn to Nieboer (0-15 off 3) to stem the tide, while at the other end Lonsdale — freshly burglarised and somewhat undercooked having not played in two months, all while being viciously hungover — produced one of the longest overs I’ve ever seen, although apparently not the longest he’s ever bowled, ahead of finding his length, beating the bat often. The bowling changes didn’t work: Addington continued to plunder runs. And while Greeney came back to nab two excellent wickets, taking his season tally up to 24, the final score of 214 off 35 overs seemed far too high.

Carson, recognising the grim nature of his side’s predicament, decided against opening with himself. Instead he turned to Nieboer and Dr. Merch, who strode out with the sun beating down and the opposition full of noise and energy. The slip corden appeared to be composed of about 18 men, and they all had things to say.

“Three overs in and still no runs for this guy!” they boomed, watching Nieboer with amusement.

“Run rate going up here!”

“Why is he batting like that? What is he DOING?”

The deck, by this stage, had somewhat deteriorated. Balls stuck in the pitch; some kept low, others popped up. Their opening bowlers hit good lines and lengths, Merch controversially trapped LBW for 0 after four overs. Raees came in and looked fluid, and for a few overs, the pair gradually started to build some tentative momentum. That was then well and truly fucked into the ground when Nieboer got bowled by a ball that quite simply did not bounce — a fitting end to a chaotic and sometimes humiliating season — and it was on Carson, coming in at four, to land a return blow for his team.

Our chairman fought hard out there, folks. He faced 20 balls, scoring one run, bowled as he looked to smash a good length ball back towards East Croydon and reach the promised land of 1,000 Plough runs.

“Next year,” he muttered as he came off. That’s a comforting message to anyone out there who feels they haven’t performed in the last few months: there’s always next year, champ.

From this point onward, Plough’s batting turned into a joke without a punchline. It was genuinely quite funny. Raees and I went half mad, sitting in the sheds, pondering our life choices. Wayne Kerr looked excellent in the throwdowns, even doing a few shadow paddle scoops. He asked us which garden we wanted him to pick out. First ball, he was bowled. How good is cricket.

In the end, Plough were all out for 58 inside 20 overs — extras the top scorer, Nicko next with 10. A very mid-September innings: blokes who have gone beyond insanity due to constant cricket since April and now seem only capable of cannibalising themselves, like dead-eyed soldiers walking straight into the bullets, not caring if one goes straight through the skull.

God, okay, that’s a bit dark, actually. Collapses happen. They bowled well. The pitch was poor. Ean Smith racked up a beautiful 2* (22). Even better, Lonsdale discovered his car wasn’t stolen — he’d just forgotten where he parked the thing. Some silver linings on this morbid day — another being that we had a rather spacious pub just a couple minutes down the road.

For the last time this season, the Plough sat together and drank, laughing away into the night. Merch gave our Chairman some detailed medical advice. Wilby and Nieboer told some dirty stories. The group pondered which rule they’d change in cricket, if they had the chance. Mine would be: give the captain power once a season to choose one opponent batter who, if dismissed, is out FOREVER. Make things interesting.

As a final act, Chairman gave me a lift out of deep Croydon, alongside Nicko, and the two were treated to more dirty stories. We passed through South Norwood, home of my favourite Caribbean spot, Flavaz First, and grabbed some not-so-deserved heavy scran (Carson orders the oxtail, in case you were interested).

And just like that, it was all over. We shall go no more a Ploughing, so late into the night. No more runs, no more wickets, no more collapses. No more fun. We shall have to remember what normal people do on weekends, and try to mimic them. We shall wander fearfully and aimlessly, like a lost child in Tesco, into the season of darkness by 4pm and pumpkin spice enemas and seeing your own breath in your kitchen. A grim prospect. It’s been an honour playing with you all and writing these obscene screeds. Best believe you’ll get more next season — bigger and better and weirder than before. Until then, take care, lovely people. I miss you all already.

Match report produced by Leo Nieboer