It may be hard for those who have never played the game of cricket to understand its appeal. The game appears very slow, until one is facing a fast bowler, or facing the batsman while fielding close in. The ball is solid, covered with hard, polished leather, and only the wicket keeper wears gloves. It travels very fast, and one is expected to catch it whatever its speed, sacrificing life and limb in the process. But even more than the inherent dangers in the game, it is a team effort, a game of strategy, a gentleman's game. Test matches between county cricket teams, and between international teams, last 5 days. This gives the public the chance to become bar-side captains for several evenings while the game is taking place. The game has a myriad of rules, and its terminology for fielding positions, bowling techniques, and bat swings, has developed into a language of its own. The majesty of the game has led great poets to explore its place in English culture, ``Vitai Lampada, Play up, Play the Game.'' One plays not to win, but for the privilege of playing one's best in the finest game ever invented.

These noble ideals not withstanding, each year the Computer Science department faculty took on its students in a 20 overs cricket match. As the date of each match approached, the faculty got in a little training in the nets, usually resulting in a few strained groins and sore muscles. One or two of us could actually swing the bat with some style, although often without that critical element of timing, so essential for contact with the ball. Our lack of skills was not usually regarded as much of a problem, however, because the students were not much better and, in any case, by the change of sides, the beer would anesthetize those most determined to win into a more relaxed state, bordering on hysterical laughter. On one occasion, however, the students turned up predicting certain victory for their side and total humiliation for the opposition. Bets were placed, chests were suitably puffed out, cups and pads were secured, and the fun began. The faculty batted first.

It soon became obvious that the students had enlisted a ringer. We later discovered that one of their bowlers was an aspiring junior county player who could make the cricket ball do amazing things as it passed by at more than 90 miles per hour. Fortunately he was compassionate enough to keep the ball's speed in the visible light range, and on the on side, only occasionally swinging a low ball onto the stumps. The mere hint of a bouncer at that pace would have been regarded as an assault with a deadly weapon. Most of us stepped back, rather than into the path of the ball, and no one was injured.

As is often the case when a great battle takes place, unlikely heroes emerge to save the day. We had a 62 year old electrician, Larry, on our side who was a renowned squash player. He promised us cheerfully that he was just as adept at any bat and ball game. Once out on the field, Larry directed the activities of the other batsmen, as each came and went. Each was told only to get the bat in the path of the ball, not to try to score any runs, and just run when Larry said run. Larry tried to do all the work, making sure that he got a single just at the right time so as to switch ends and face the other bowler. Each bowler was only allowed 4 overs and, by the time their ringer was gone, we had lost 5 wickets, and Larry had scored 40 runs. By some miracle, Pointclaire saved face by getting four runs before his middle wicket was displaced about 12 feet. The rest of the side put up a good show, and we finished our innings with a respectable 85 runs on the board, 62 of which belonged to Larry.

Soon after the sides changed, the students brought out some welcome pints of beer. It was a hot day and Pointclaire was showing obvious signs of dehydration, his extremities beginning to shake visibly. Unknown to us, the beer was laced with an unhealthy dose of vodka. Some of the fielders got into a race to finish their beer before Pointclaire, others parked their mugs near their fielding positions and took occasional gulps. The effects of the vodka were soon felt. Running after a cricket ball on a hot day with vodka in the veins is likely to cause the world to tilt, and the cricket ball to duplicate itself. Legs gave way to gravity and fielders were seen either in prostrate positions or in fits of laughter, or mostly both. Pointclaire just got better, as is often the case with alcoholics, although, at his position, way out on the boundary, his very best performance was unlikely to have significant impact on anything but his ego. The only tea-totaller, Jeff Baker, did a fine job of running about displaying his sobriety, much to the amusement of everyone else, who could barely stand upright. But even Jeff's gallant effort in the face of unspeakable derision wasn't enough to save the day.

The day was indeed saved, however, if only because of a small error on the part of the vodka dispensers. The students lacing the beer were already three sheets to the wind themselves, and confusion set in when trying to keep separate the beer mugs for the two sides. Some students were affected at least as much as the faculty, and the match was over, as soon as the faculty found a single member that was still sober enough to bowl.

Mike West was keen to widen the competition for the cricket team and so he set about organizing an annual game with some faculty from Cambridge University. Each year we would alternate between playing at our ground and playing on the Queen's College pitch. The latter had a perfectly kept square that was lush green and grown of the finest grasses, cut very short, yet still spongy. It was a great honor to be allowed to play there; we all turned up in whites and tried very hard to stay sober, save one. The first time we played at Queen's, the grass turned out to be the main opponent. The ball would dig in ever so slightly on the bounce, and lose some momentum. It would also pitch up, just enough to rise above the bat, and either smack the batsman's hands, or hit the stumps. Each departing batsman would explain the strange phenomenon to the next man in, but the advice was mostly futile. Pads could not be changed fast enough to keep up with the rate of falling wickets. Our pitch was usually rock hard, and not very flat. This, plus the randomness of our bowlers, seemed to be adequate to provide us with home field advantage, and so that is how the games went. Both teams always won at home.