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school
The geek in all of us
last year, at the end of AugustWhen I was a rather pathetic geek of a teenager, I used to pass the time during advanced mathematics AS level classes, which I had somehow fluked my way into, by developing a system of calculator cricket, using the random-number generator button. Immense charts were drawn up to reckon the probability of dot-balls, run outs, even the odds of bad weather intervening. It used to take about one hour of advanced maths to play 90 overs so during the course of a term, several Test or first-class series could be completed and that meant conjuring teams to take on each other while I was pretending to be solving quadratic equations.
So says our chum Patrick Kidd in his greatest county XIs piece last week. Reminded me that we used to play Howzat using HB pencils, scratching modes of dismissal with our compasses onto each of the six sides. Simpler times. Let your inner geek out via the comments…
Stir your creative ingenuity and win a book
2 years ago, mid-September“You haven’t let me down, Will. You’ve let yourself down,” so said many a teacher to me as I ambled in, shirt untucked in a vain and failed attempt to appear nonchalant, cocky. But enough of my schooldays, the issue is you - for you have let both me and you down. An enticing opportunity to demonstrate your limerick skills, not to mention the chance to win a couple of books - apparently these are not enough to tempt the demanding Corridor reader. So come on - spend five minutes and produce your best. Your teacher would be disappointed in you.
After all, you wouldn’t want to let yourself down, would you? (didn’t you hate how teachers always ramped up the guilt factor?)
I remember once…
3 years ago, mid-JuneI was just making a comment about cricket at my school, and it reminded me of an occasion when I was batting (which never lasted long). A very tall, Asian bloke was hurling balls down impossibly quickly and me, the star number 9 bat, was expected to survive this onslought and see if we could get a draw. Out I strode, with my Dad vigourously shadow-batting on the boundary, trying to tell me to get my head over the ball and keep my hands low. I was just planning on sighting the ball, nevermind making contact. The first ball cut back like a vipor and hit me just above the family jewels.
“SHIT that was close - if this hurts, imagine if it hits me a few inches lower…but, where’s my box?” And I dropped my bat mid-pitch and sprinted to the changing rooms to find it! It’s always stayed with me (the story, that is) because when I got back, everyone thought I’d just given up: retired scared! I marched back, dignity and jewels safely err…locked up, only to find we’d been bowled out.
And the moral of this story is? Yes, exactly that.
