Unlike our previous game, which featured sunshine, warmth and vague optimism, this one was peak English cricket weather: cloudy, windy and absolutely baltic. The sort of day where sensible people stay indoors under a blanket with chai and spicy pakoras while questioning every life choice that led them to Britain. Instead, we turned up voluntarily to play cricket.

Belair was our home for the day, and a quick pitch inspection raised several important questions, chiefly: “Who reported this crime scene to the ECB?” We’re only three weeks into the season, but this pitch looked like it had already hosted two Ashes series, a tractor rally and possibly a small war. Green in the middle, craters near the popping crease — the kind of deck where batting first feels less like strategy and more like a disciplinary measure.

Still, skipper Elmo was confident. He’d won his previous two tosses and was strutting around like Ricky Ponting with a lucky pound coin. But then came the toss itself. The entire London Fields team gathered around for it like it was the FA Cup draw. Elmo looked rattled immediately. Unsurprisingly, he lost the toss, and London Fields kindly invited us to bat first — which in hindsight was the cricketing equivalent of offering someone the first sip from poisoned wine.

No matter. We had the in-form Leo Towers and the human firework known as Cake opening, with Ben Fletcher at 3, Bharat at 4 and yours truly at 5. Looking at that lineup, I made the wise decision to volunteer as umpire. Surely with this top order I’d have enough time to complete a degree course before needing to pad up.

Sadly, this became the shortest umpiring stint in recorded cricket history.

First ball: Leo bowled by an absolute ripper that tailed in like a guided missile. I barely had time to process this before chaos erupted again. Ben followed shortly after, bowled by the same assassin masquerading as an opening bowler.

0 for 2.

At this stage I was less “next batter in” and more “hostage being summoned.”

Bharat joined Cake and the pair managed to steady things somewhat, dragging us to 26 before the opening bowler struck again. Bharat gone, caught and bowled for 11. By now I was walking to the crease with all the confidence of a man entering a haunted house.

Facing Shubik for the first time, I discovered that not every ball he bowled was a demon. His first delivery to me was low and on the pads, and I happily flicked it away for four to long leg. A boundary never felt so much like surviving a near-death experience.

Cake and I added another 14 before Shubik struck again, trapping Cake LBW for 12. 40 for 4 quickly became 40 for 5 when Qammar produced the 2nd golden duck of the day LBW first ball. At the end of the over, Shubik had 5 wickets for 11 runs. At this point we briefly checked whether he was secretly on ECB’s payroll.

Thankfully Ihtesham arrived and together we finally produced something that vaguely resembled competent batting. I scrambled my way to 47 off 39 balls with 10 fours and the occasional sympathy single, largely because every time I considered lofting the ball, I could hear Tom Lonnen’s voice from two weeks ago echoing around Belair like an angry cricketing guardian angel: “KEEP IT ON THE GROUND!” Given the condition of the pitch, this also seemed like the safest strategy if I wanted both runs and functioning kneecaps.

On 47, however, I was given LBW to an off-spinner. Personally, I felt it was climbing, and possibly heading towards Dulwich — but apparently the umpire disagreed. Such is life.

Elmo then arrived at the crease while Ihtesham soon departed for 14. Bisi came in and immediately began batting like a man who’d accidentally selected “T20 mode.” A couple of fours, a six, plenty of agricultural intent, and then caught behind for 18. Standard Bisi innings: entertaining, confusing, brief.

Then came the funniest moment of the day.

Shubik returned to bowl. He begins his run-up. Simultaneously, Oli Fletcher begins backing up at the non-striker’s end. Unfortunately, Oli keeps backing up. By the time Shubik reaches the crease, Oli is basically halfway to Herne Hill station.

Shubik stops.

Oli stops.

The two stare at each other.

Oli looks genuinely puzzled, like a Labrador being shown a card trick.

Meanwhile, older brother Ben is absolutely losing it on the scorer’s table, informing everyone that Oli probably has no idea what a Mankad is. To his credit, Shubik mercifully allows Oli to wander safely back into his crease before later trapping him LBW anyway for wicket number six. Justice, eventually, was served.

Si Carson then arrived and promptly guided his first ball to the boundary before casually wondering what all the fuss was about. “Batting seems easy enough,” he declared, approximately 90 minutes too late.

Elmo batted well for his 27 before edging to gully, and somehow — through resilience, chaos and occasional competence — we reached 156. Frankly, at 40 for 5 we’d have accepted 80 and emotional closure.

After teas, hope returned. The weather remained horrible, the pitch somehow looked worse, and Qammar charged in bowling absolute rockets. He deserved better than the support he was getting from the other end, where unfortunately runs were leaking slightly faster than government budgets. Still, Qammar picked up two wickets in successive overs, while Bisi chipped in with one.

But London Fields had batting. Lots of batting. Their skipper/opener played an absolute gem and smashed a century while chasing our target down comfortably in 25 overs.

A tough outing for the Plough at home, but as always there were laughs, beers, and several deeply inaccurate post-match analyses shared afterward. We also took comfort in hearing about successes elsewhere across the club, which helped dull the pain slightly.

No sentimental nonsense to finish this report. We lost. The weather was awful. Their opener was annoyingly good. Shubik briefly transformed into Glenn McGrath. Oli nearly got Mankaded into another postcode.

That’s cricket.

Hopefully next weekend the sun remembers England exists and we get to do it all again.

Match report by Ajay “The Chef” John