1992

The years that define us rarely feel definitive at the time.

1992 was my breakout year. After five years of playing some, then carrying drinks more, I finally figured it out. Don’t know why. The pitches seemed flatter, the ball bigger; perhaps they just bowled in my spots, and Gray-Nicolls sent me decent sticks. Or maybe it was Mum’s cooking. I’d given up my Didsbury flat so Danny Morrison—Lancashire’s overseas player in 1992—could enjoy South Manchester life away from Old Trafford.

A friend of mine, another reluctant barfly, kicked 100 goals in a season for Geelong back in the day. The year before—or the year after—Larry kicked ninety-something. He once told me he wished he’d either fallen short of 100 in 1976 or kicked another five in 1978, when he finished on 95.

Why?

Because he’s remembered as the bloke who kicked 100 once.

As if it were a flash in the pan. An accident.

I had a chance to make 2000 first-class runs in that season—it’s been done before, but not often. The last game of 1992 we played Durham at Gateshead Fell, the coldest place on God’s earth. I got to twenty-odd and couldn’t feel my hands. Out, we made a million, and didn’t bat again. That was that.

I’ve often felt the same about my 1992.

Laz, see you for an ale Saturday afternoon?

Nick

Photo by Claudio Schwarz on Unsplash