A Sunday morning in May 1993. I’m five years old and sans plans. My parents have dragged me to a car-boot sale in Bakewell, Derbyshire. Wandering among the bric-a-brac, memorabilia and mid-’90s estate cars with a weapons-grade sulk, I am stopped in my tracks. There it is. Propped up in the boot of a clapped-out, teal-coloured Austin Maestro that belongs to one of the town’s many grizzled elder statesmen. I vaguely recognise him – impossibly old and with huge sideburns. He nods knowingly, but not warmly, at my dad, who is holding my increasingly clammy little paw. “It’s a bit big for you lad.”

The old man has clocked my eyes darting from his sideburns and rheumy eyes to a small cricket bat propped up against a pile of old suitcases. The words “Gunn & Moore Diamond” adorn the top quarter in a pleasing font. The small blade is nut brown, its even-spaced grain running from top to bottom as if a team of highly trained ants has abseiled down its face. It has no grip but this only adds to its allure, with the string-work around the handle precise and taut. My dad hands over £5 and the bat is mine. This is the Damascene moment. Cricket is now my life. 

***

Growing up as the youngest of four brothers, there were a lot of hand-me-downs knocking about and plenty of sharing. Cricket bats were no different. It definitely helps to be the runt of the litter in this scenario. Not only are you exposed to the rigours of the game from an early age and playing against people who are, to misquote Daft Punk, harder, bigger, faster, stronger… older, you are forced to give as good as you get. Or better.

Kevin Pietersen recently stated that the rugby and cricket games he played on his front lawn against his brothers (he is the third of four) growing up in Pietermaritzburg were more competitive than some of the international cricket he played in his career. I’ve never played elite-level sport but the scars, detached retinas and smashed windows of the garden games we had serve to tell a similar tale. 

Age 24: Slazenger something or other, size Long Handle

Some bloke at the local club knew a bloke who knew a bloke who worked for Slazenger as a rep. The bloke at the local club came in one Saturday flustered and excitable, saying that his contact had somehow acquired all the bats that were rejected by Slazenger poster boys such as Jacques Kallis and Ian Bell, and that us muggles could own these “rejects” for a cut-down price. Most of the team dutifully and probably gullibly signed up and handed over wads of cash. A few weeks later the Slazenger hoard landed. Me and my brother shared custody (he paid) of a brand-new Slazenger bat.

We convinced ourselves it was one that just missed out on selection by Kallis. Not quite good enough for South Africa’s pre-eminent all-rounder was good enough for us, especially as it cost little more than a post-match round in the pub. Yet to be knocked in, with a huge bow and incredible lightness and feel to it. We didn’t like the garish stickers all over it so peeled them off and removed the clear protective sheath too. Once fitted with a yellow grip, it looked just like the bat that Steve Waugh used in the 2001 Ashes. The anonymous destroyer.

That was my last bat. It broke in an indoor net at The Oval last year and I cycled home with it on my handlebars, swathed in a bag for life. I remember thinking of the film E.T. as I pedalled by moonlight up Kennington Lane while balancing my swaddled willow corpse. I had to get it “home”. 

It remains behind the bedroom door, my girlfriend eyeing it suspiciously, especially when the wind blows a certain way and a waft of linseed fills the room. One day I’ll pluck up the strength to re-cycle it or put it out with the bins. One day. 

*Andrew was there when I scored my first century. Of course he was. He was always there. Andrew, my brother. The runs were for you. And so is this.