I wrote this blog last night…. see update at the bottom.

I shall call this post ‘my husband the hero’.

Many years ago (approximately 18.333335) my husband John was a phenomenal cricketer who played for a local cricket team. He was well known for his ‘swing bowling’ (whatever that means) and I’ve been reliably informed by many folk that he could have played cricket at county level at least!

Alas John succumbed to beer and women and his cricketing days came to an abrupt end.

Fast forward to 2018 and John is feeling massively motivated by watching his boy play cricket. Billy is following in his dads footsteps and is really quite good at it, or so I’m informed because to me it looks like a glorified game of rounders with the only difference being I have to remove grass stains and red marks from cricket whites (whoever thought playing any sport in white clothes was a good idea is seriously a weird one).

John is enjoying watching his son play cricket so much he is reminiscing of his glory days and after many texts off his former coach he decides he’s going to come out of retirement and play cricket again.

Although cricket is like watching paint dry I am pleased because I know how great John was in his hay day, I know how much he enjoyed it and it’s another sport the boys can enjoy together. It also gets me out of anything to do with cricket because I have quite enough with football thank you very much!

So with John busy at work all week I make it my one woman mission to get him all the gear he needs to actually play. This involved deciding if the colour white was actually ordinary white or cricket white and holding up ‘a box’ wondering if johns meat and two veg would actually fit inside it.

Yes folks this is what my life has become.

So Saturday comes along and even
if John had no idea, he definitely had all the gear!

I congratulated myself on being such a good cricketing wife and feeling smug I waved him off on his first match back.

I waved Billy off too as grandad picked him up and whisked him off to support his dad who was going to show him the stuff that legends are made of.

Billy kept texting me updates and all was well in the cricketing world.

Cricket takes hours….. and hours but eventually the boys returned home from their long day in the blistering heat full of tales of wickets and fielding and other such strange terminology that I tried to look knowledgable about.

John remembered exactly how to play cricket just like I knew he would, much like riding a bike. It was like he had never found booze and women. It was like he had never stopped playing.
He bowled like a true professional and played like he was 17 again……….
Only Johns not 17, he’s 35!!

He may have had a smile on his face and a spring in his step but the spring in his step was more of a limp and the smile had a faint appearance of a grimace.
He has the biggest,swollen and bruised knee I’ve ever seen in my whole life, through diving for a ball and four huge blue bruises on his other leg where he stabbed him self with his own shoe studs as he dived for said ball. His little finger is purple and blue and looks slightly out of shape once again from diving after rock hard balls travelling the same speeds as bloody cars on the road!

I have to admire his sportsmanship though as he informed me ‘it was worth it to get them out’ and ‘it was brilliant Gem, my finger bent backwards and my knee twisted the wrong way but I caught it’ – true professional right there.

Billy has always thought his dads a legend but now he’s some sort of cricketing hero too and I’ve been relegated from the top parent spot. Even Isla keeps hugging her dad saying ‘my hero’.
I’m quite bored of being second favourite parent to be honest.
John might be a top cricketer but I can mop the floor, wash up, drink coffee and talk on the phone at the same time, now that’s the true stuff of legends!

Today I’ve had the pleasure of trying to remove stains from John’s cricket whites and watch John hobble around the house like he’s either just returned from battle or shat himself.
Poor guys in agony and his knee is a lovely shade of beetroot, but he still insists as he’s rubbing pain relieving gel in to every muscle he has that ‘it was worth it’ and he’s still smiling.

Normally I’d think he is just an epic wolly and he is but he’s a very happy, smiley epic wolly who is enjoying cricket again and who am I to put a dampener on that?
Instead I’ll support him as best I can whilst trying not to laugh as he makes ‘oooooo’ sounds whenever he moves and walks in the shape of a question mark.
I’ll also be praying he doesn’t dive like that ever again, not to save himself from impending agony but to save his wife from the grass stains from hell and the earache he will get off me should his whites come home green again!

UPDATE – Today john has stiffened up. He’s walking much like I’d imagine an Egyptian mummy would. His bruises have bruises and the echoes of ‘argh’ and ‘eesh’ can be heard all over the house.
He’s managed to recline his chair and lift his legs up. Now he’s sat saying he needs home help. 🀣