As I watched my nation’s heroes so diligently perform under the most extreme of professional pressure at the World Cup, I couldn’t help but think about myself.

What if that were me? What if I had really tried to make a career of it? What if that pulled hamstring in 2008 hadn’t held me back for 3 months despite doing no physio or prescribed strengthening exercises? What if I had stayed a little longer after practice to hit more balls? What if I had taken ten more catches at training? What if every umpire I’d had over the years wasn’t “completely fucked”? What if I was genetically gifted at birth with above-average-sized hands that literally make performing all sports incredibly easier?

The older I got, the less I idolised my country’s sporting representatives. At one time or another, we were contemporaries. Not in the ability or prospectus sense – just in an age group and birth year sense. We were born within similar dates and thus the superior athletes were forced to endure the necessity of age-group development until it was deemed that that was a waste of time for all and sundry.

The girl I occasionally asked to give me throwdowns was convinced that my jealousy stemmed from my birth sign, as if being a fucking Aquarius had anything to do with my crippling fear of the short ball.

I had grown up with some of these now men. Their paths were destined for fame and fortune and lionising and status and success and dream-realising. My path was more confusing. What do I do when I leave school? Should I get a job? How do I meet a woman? Property is expensive. Should I keep pouring 30 hours a week into this bottomless pit that is a pay-to-participate hobby? What would make my dad happy? Will this new 80k gig make him love me? Will moving to a new club mean they’ll appreciate me for the talented third grader I am?

In the midst of modern day confusion and spinning my wheels like a part time batter with a ring field between overs 25-35, I had just gone through the motions and realised none of those objectives.

I was caught between a dream and self-awareness.

Now I was just a twenty something year old man drinking on his own, enviously looking on as ten nation’s heroes did the thing that I had convinced myself I would one day do too; hit cricket balls for a living.

Fuck it, I’ll go to the gym in the morning and give this one last go.

~~ The Grade Cricketer

Edits: MinuteMusings