Disclaimer
This blog entry contains traces of cricket, football, Father’s Day confusion, German cultural scheduling, parental pride, junior sport mathematics, and one potentially malfunctioning Play-Cricket scorecard. It is not medical advice, although anyone voluntarily watching children’s cricket after a late-night World Cup match may require fluids, observation, and possibly a quiet side room. No Upper GI organs were harmed in the making of this match report, although my understanding of cricket statistics did suffer a minor perforation.
This weekend, apparently, was Father’s Day.
I say “apparently” because I did not know this.
This may sound like a shocking failure of paternal self-awareness, but in my defence Father’s Day moves around internationally like a middle-order batter who has been told to “just rotate the strike” but interprets this as “wander vaguely around the pitch looking uncertain”.
In the UK, Father’s Day is celebrated on the third Sunday in June, largely following the American tradition. The modern version is often linked to Sonora Smart Dodd, who wanted fathers to have a day of recognition after hearing about Mother’s Day and reflecting on the effort of her own father, who raised children as a single parent. Which is fair enough. Fathers do quite a lot. Mostly driving, carrying bags, assembling flat-pack furniture, pretending to understand school admin systems, and providing emotionally stable commentary while a child explains why the wrong cricket bat is a human rights violation.
Germany, however, does Father’s Day differently.
Germany celebrates Vatertag on Ascension Day, which means it usually arrives earlier in the year and on a Thursday. This explains why I was fairly sure Father’s Day had already happened somewhere in my cultural operating system. German Vatertag is also traditionally less about handwritten cards and more about groups of men walking around with handcarts, beer, snacks, and a sense of national efficiency applied to dehydration. It is Father’s Day by way of pilgrimage, agricultural history, and mild chaos. Very German. Very Thursday.
So, in summary, British Father’s Day arrived this weekend, and I was caught completely unaware.
Luckily, Longleat Safari Park was more organised than I was.
They had an offer on: dads go free. This is exactly the kind of promotion that makes one suddenly remember the sacred value of fatherhood. Not for personal gain, obviously. Purely for anthropological reasons. So we took the opportunity and visited Longleat Safari Park, which I had never been to before.
That adventure will be covered in the next entry, because it deserves its own chapter. Any day that involves wild animals, family logistics, and the phrase “dads are free” requires careful literary handling.
But before Longleat could be fully processed, there was cricket.
Because in the Richardt household, weekends do not gently unfold. They are scheduled, bowled, batted, graded, coached, driven, rehydrated, and occasionally played in whites.
This morning was the home match for Ilton against Ilminster.
Now, preparation for elite junior cricket is obviously important. Early night. Balanced breakfast. Calm mindset. Kit packed. Hydration sorted. Tactical discussion over toast.
Naturally, none of this happened.
Germany had played Ivory Coast in the World Cup the night before, winning 2–1 in a match that did not finish until around 11pm UK time. Our son therefore had a late night, because international football waits for no U10 cricket fixture. Especially when Germany are playing. Cultural obligations must be respected.
The result was predictable.
This morning had what one might politely describe as a “late start-ish” quality. Not disastrous. Not elegant. Somewhere between “we are completely under control” and “why is nobody wearing socks?”
Nevertheless, we managed to arrive at Ilton for 9.45am. This, in junior sport terms, counts as a successful deployment.
There was also a major development in our son’s cricketing career: he now owns cricket whites.
Actual white cricket trousers. Actual white cricket shirt. Actual transformation from “child who plays cricket” into “miniature county professional who may or may not understand where fine leg is”.
My wife and I had both been off on Friday as I had tickets for the cricket against Warwickshire. We used the opportunity to visit the shop, which had a sale on. This is how most parental sporting purchases happen. You go in for one small thing and emerge having invested in the future of English cricket.
Or at least a pair of trousers.
I am never quite sure what to make of children in cricket whites. Do they look better? More professional? More likely to bowl straight? Or do they simply look like they are about to attend a very formal paintball match?
Only time will tell.
Ilton had a late illness-related dropout, which meant we needed reinforcements. Two All Stars stepped into the breach: Rupert, who had already played against Beaminster in our first game of the season, and Josh, who was new to the team.
This is one of the lovely things about junior cricket. Someone drops out, another child appears, gets handed a role, and within minutes is fielding as if they have been part of a county development strategy since conception.
Ilton won the toss and elected to bat.
Henry opened the batting because he had to leave later for another match in the Taunton League, playing U12 hard ball. This is the sporting equivalent of finishing one NHS shift and immediately starting another, except with more pads and fewer Datix forms.
I would love to provide a detailed, forensic account of the batting order, but I cannot. For much of the innings I was engaged in conversation with other parents, which is an essential part of Sunday cricket. Parent-side analysis is where the real tactical nuance happens. Also gossip. And weather monitoring. And collective uncertainty about the rules.
Our son batted in the third pair.
He also kept his personal streak alive of being bowled at least once.
This did not please him.
To be clear, he was not happy. But he was also not entirely broken. He continued, with the facial expression of a child who had suffered a grave injustice but had decided, for the sake of the team and possibly his future autobiography, to carry on.
This is progress.
In junior sport, resilience is not always glamorous. Sometimes it is simply not throwing your bat into another postcode after being bowled.
After 16 overs, Ilton had reached 323 runs, minus 4 wickets.
In pairs cricket mathematics — a system clearly invented to keep parents mentally humble — this meant a final accumulated score of 303.
Not bad at all.
In fact, it was a very respectable score. Last time out against Beaminster, they had put up something similar, but over 20 overs. So Ilton had given themselves something to defend.
Then came half-time.
I am not sure if cricket people call it half-time. They probably call it “the innings break” with a certain calm superiority. But as a German-born observer still partially translating cricket into football, I shall call it half-time until formally corrected by someone wearing a club fleece.
There was a quick drink, a quick team talk from James, and then everyone knew their positions.
This is another fascinating part of junior cricket. One moment the children are drinking water and asking unrelated questions. The next moment they are spread across a field in a tactical arrangement that appears both random and highly specific.
After 8 overs, everyone had bowled.
And the game was tight.
Ilminster needed 40 runs from the final 8 overs. Not impossible. Not easy. Just close enough to create parental tension and enough nervous sideline murmuring to power a small village.
I am not sure whether James had planned the endgame in advance, but the final three bowlers were our son, Ted, and Beauden.
This, as it turned out, mattered.
By the 13th over, Ilminster needed only 6 runs. They were edging towards the win. Not cruising, exactly, but certainly approaching it with the slightly annoying confidence of a team that senses the finish line.
Then our son came on to bowl.
And in that over, he took over the match.
He dismissed both batters.
Both.
The chase went from “Ilminster might sneak this” to “Ilton have breathing space again” in the space of a few deliveries.
The equation changed dramatically. Ilminster were pushed back to needing 16 runs, and suddenly the whole match felt different. Not safe. Cricket is never safe. But safer. Which, in children’s cricket, is as close to calm as you are going to get.
It was a proper pressure moment. The kind of moment where the team needs someone to step up, bowl straight, hold their nerve, and not become distracted by the fact that they were probably still slightly tired from watching Germany score a late winner the night before.
He did exactly that.
Ted then bowled the next over and did not give away a run. He was also close to dismissing a batter or two himself. A beautifully controlled over, and the sort of over that makes the batting team realise that the required run rate has suddenly started wearing steel-capped boots.
Then came Beauden for the final over.
He gave away only 3 runs.
And that was that.
Ilton won by 13 runs.
A tight affair. A proper contest. A Sunday morning drama played out in whites, grass stains, and parental blood pressure fluctuations.
Now, there was one small issue.
The Play-Cricket app or website appears to show our son having taken only one wicket in his statistics.
However, the ball-by-ball clearly shows two dismissals.
Technology, eh?
We live in an age where phones can recognise your face, satellites can guide you to a farm track in rural Somerset, and artificial intelligence can write suspiciously confident emails about things it may not fully understand. Yet a child taking two wickets can still become a digital mystery requiring parental investigation.
Somewhere in the system, one wicket has gone missing.
Perhaps it is in the cloud.
Perhaps it is in the same place as missing school jumpers, spare water bottles, and the instruction leaflet for the IKEA item you assembled confidently but incorrectly.
But those of us who were there know.
Two dismissals.
One over.
Game changed.
The official statistics may currently disagree, but cricket history is not always written by apps. Sometimes it is written by parents on WordPress with an axe to grind and a decent broadband connection.
It was another successful day for Ilton, who now travel to North Perrott next week.
That match could be a big one. North Perrott are currently 2 points ahead, so a win for Ilton would not only put them level, but would also serve as excellent revenge for the defeat earlier in the season.
Revenge, obviously, in the most wholesome U10 cricketing sense.
No sledging. No bitterness. Just controlled bowling, decent fielding, and perhaps fewer batters being allowed to score freely. Very civilised. Very Somerset. With just enough competitive edge to keep the parents invested.
As for Man of the Match?
Our son was voted for “Man of the Match” – because he stepped up when the team needed it. He came on with the match in the balance, took two crucial dismissals, and changed the direction of the game.
That is sport.
Not always perfect. Not always tidy. Not always correctly recorded by technology.
But sometimes, after a late night watching Germany, a rushed morning, a new pair of cricket whites, and one bowled-out batting moment to emotionally digest, you get handed the ball at exactly the right time.
And you deliver.
Happy Father’s Day, apparently.
I still nearly missed it.
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