With the skipper’s new song, ‘Parklife’, still ringing in my head, we turned up to one of the most quintessentially gorgeous English village grounds you could hope to visit. It was like John Major’s wet dream: classic white club house, verdant surroundings, soft rustlings of rural life everywhere. If I lived here, I thought, I’d definitely be a calmer, saner person. But I’d also be without Morley’s, so, you know, swings and roundabouts.

Leon won the toss and batted — a no-brainer on what was something of a road. Sadly, Plough didn’t capitalise early on, Wright and Parks both falling cheaply. At 22-2, Leo Nieboer and Simon Crane had some work to do against a mixture of tidy stump-to-stump bowling and the kind of dobblers served up by geriatrics that will always haunt me way more than anything Oli Lonsdale or Drew Withers could serve up.

As most of us will know, Crane doesn’t like cricket. He fears it, in fact. All the stuff around the game — jugs, showers, nets, responding to printer requests — appeals, but the actual thing itself is terrifying to him. I could see it in his eyes, early on: the look of a man who knows execution is coming but can’t tell exactly when.

“He’s getting me out, this guy,” he said to me, thousand-yard staring straight ahead.

“Well,” I replied, “in which case, you may as well have some fun while you’re still here.”

And so he did. In fact he didn’t just have fun; he dominated the affair. What could have been a collapse was instead a free-scoring 90 minutes or so, Crane and Nieboer (38 off 68) manipulating the field as they amassed 80 for the third wicket, running relentless ones and twos and threes on account of a hilariously huge boundary on one side.

By the time Plough reached drinks, Crane still looked vaguely afraid, and also very tired, but his movements at the crease were that of a man who seemed impossible to dislodge. You wouldn’t think his best score, prior to this game, was 28. He drove the ball with conviction and elegance, finding gaps at will. He looked like someone used to scoring fifties, and it was something of a surprise — and a great sadness — to see him depart for 63 (77).

Another brief wobble followed before two new Ploughmen came to the rescue: Ean Smith and Bakary Saidi. Before this game, their best scores had been 8 and 1 respectively. Still in their first season of club cricket, still learning. And a few years from now, when they reflect on where they were and how far they’ve come, both men will look back on this day as a watershed moment in their cricketing trajectories. Smith notched up 12*, while Bakary scored a beautiful 23 off 21, including four fours — one of them a delicious straight drive against their opening bowler that fizzed to the boundary and had me punching the air.

A special mention to Smith for his entrance, too: he stood at the crease for a good five minutes putting on his gloves, and then, when he was finally ready, turned round to reveal that he was a left-hander, evincing laughter from both camps and forcing Banstead to rearrange their field. Sensational comedic timing from you, chef.

At 191-6, Leon felt Plough had enough on the board, and promptly followed the example of Ben Stokes by declaring with two set batters at the crease in true alpha fashion.

I could write 1,000 words on the tea that followed. I could write poems, songs, love letters. I’m still thinking about it now. They had honest-to-god Mac and Cheese that was crispy on the top. The red velvet cake threatened to bring Max Wright to the point of climax. Actual hot cumberland sausages were just there to take. All kinds of sandwiches were laid out in front of me, with posh crisps to ram inside at one’s leisure. Cordial ratios were phenomenal. The whole thing had my eyeballs rolling to the back of my damn skull. If the person who put that together is reading this (and why would you be), please call 07501280033. I’m a mediocre lover but a great listener.

On the field, Plough started poorly. Or perhaps Banstead started excellently; the home side hit boundaries all over the place, punishing any poor lengths. With nearly 50 on the board for no wicket, we had the first momentum-shift of what would become a second innings chase with more twists and turns than the Monaco Grand Prix. Uncle Nigel Stephenson dislodged their dangerous opener, and then Max Wright entered the scene.

With no gloves or runs to speak of on this particular day, Max morphed into a demonic presence on the field — a screeching banshee with a mastery of the long barrier. It was like Jonty Rhodes and a cheetah made a baby and raised it to be polite and great at admin. His pick up and direct hit to remove their opener was among the best individual moments I’ve personally witnessed on a cricket field — followed up, it should be said, by a celebration that made Imran Tahir look tame.

The next swing came, this time in favour of Banstead, their No.3 ringer — who turned out to be a bowler with an injured shoulder — making a mockery of Elmo’s bowling, smashing decent balls miles over his head, which Yanni and I considered rather rude. Elmo tried to get some chat going; the No.3 just battered him again; Yanni tried to get under his skin, but the guy actually turned out to be a really nice bloke, unsledgeable — the worst possible quality of a gun cricketer.

Back swung the pendulum in favour of Plough, courtesy of Giordy Diangienda. His first spell, by his own admission, had been shit. Bowling from the other end this time, the DJ came alive and brought the game alive. Banstead went from cruising at 120-2 off 17 to being on the ropes, with Giordy taking three wickets, bowling their No.4 and No.5 in quick succession, the other wicket caught by Ean at square leg (his first catch for the Plough).

At the other end, Bakary came alive, too, taking two valuable wickets to bring Plough within needing to take three wickets in nine overs to win. Both bowlers had started shabbily, but gradually, as the tide turned, newfound energy filled their bodies, and suddenly Banstead were going nowhere and the boys, as they say, were well and truly up and about.

A foregone conclusion had become interesting, then tantalising, then positively gripping. We had a game here. Cricket is a game of tactics and repetitions and cold logic but it is also, at its core, a phenomenon rooted in sheer vibes. Those who harness the energy of a game and use its force as their own are those who win, and those who fall under its tide get a broken fuckin’ arm. So it was here. Giordy’s tail was up, Max was frothing, and for a good half an hour every ball and every run meant everything.

Banstead’s No.8 counterpunched and looked to put the game beyond doubt, bringing his team to a point of needing four runs off 12 balls. One shot and it was done. Up stepped Elmo — another Plough who got licks early on and returned with vengeance in his eyes, bowling superb variations to dislodge the batter, caught by Baveas. Back came the Plough, hounding the batters. Suddenly it was 1 needed off 2 balls, with one wicket to take. The thing couldn’t have been closer. The Hundred, or even BazBall, has nothing on this kind of Sunday spectacle: placid picturesque ground dappled by fading summer light, people shouting on the boundary, blokes under the lid, 11 snarling hyenas converging on a pair of babushka dolls, stiff legs and jangled brains. This is why we do this; this is why we put up with all the ducks and wides and ruined Saturdays — for moments like this.

In the end, Banstead’s No.11 stroked a lovely late cut past Nieboer to win the game, but in a way the result meant little. We had lived, goddammit. We had been part of something whose entertainment value went way beyond Netflix or buying things or maybe even sex (it certainly lasted longer, in my case).

By the end, as jugs went down, the main feeling was celebration: not for the result but the Plough today who had the games of their lives — Ean, Bakary, Craney — and those — like Giordy and Max and Elmo — who battled through darkness and came out with their heads held high.

What a game. What a club. And what a set of levers on that bespectacled Kiwi we all love — now cursed to suffer through this game for at least three more seasons, thanks to that one knock on that unforgettable day in sunny leafy Banstead.

Until next time, kings. Plough the f&%k on.

Match Report produced by Leo Nieboer