6 for 54!? Damn, make that 5 for 60!

Bomb disposal squads, double agents and Michelin-starred chefs endure a certain amount of pressure and stress in their professions. Maybe the relentless need for excellence to preserve their livelihoods keeps them sharp.

But a Sunday cricketer is an unlikely chap to need counselling for post-traumatic stress or a "keep your chin-up" from the Samaritans.

There are, of course, exceptions.

Given the choice of A) being under a steepling 300ft high catch nine inches inside the boundary or B) feeling the sweat bead on your forehead as you sit in a ditch on some rusting Luftwaffe ordnance with a pair pliers thinking "B*ll*cks! Do I cut the red wire or the blue one?" - I'll take the unexploded bomb every time.

And after a particularly testing day in the field at Bolney, I'd go so far as to say bomb disposal is a piece of p*ss!

Lack of concentration (a recurring theme of my cricket career) had already caused me pain and the derision of my team-mates earlier in the innings. Nodding off at square-leg of all places, I was brought rudely to my senses by an agricultural slog that caught me right on the breast bone and I'm sure temporarily interrupted my normal heart rhythm.

Banished to the farthest boundary, I was soon more interested in the surrounding flora and fauna than the contest unfolding in the distance. But a monumental, ululating scream of "CAAAAAAAATCH!!" ended my reverie.

"This'll be good," I thought. "I know that voice, and it means some poor old sap is going to have pouch a real corker or the owner of That Voice is going to tear them a new one with some very loud and inventive invective."

So why was everyone looking at me?

Peripheral vision leaps into action, adrenalin starts to flow, soft buttery fingers begin to twitch. But I can't see anything remotely looking like a cricket ball heading my way.

I begin to relax.

But a sixth sense makes me glance skywards. Nothing. Well, except for that speck on the stratosphere. Probably just a mote in my baby blues. Well, except for the fact it is getting a bit bigger. Is that a seam?

The deep-seated, alligator part of my brain has recognised the missile and the danger it poses. But the reasoning section insists "don't be absurd. No one can hit a ball that high."

Too late, reason flees the building. It's just me and the alligator left with a few drops of spent adrenalin to fuel us. It isn't enough.

Hands cupped hopefully, the five-and-half-ounce pill slams into my collar bone at terminal velocity with a nauseating crack. For a split second I wonder if it will count as a catch if the ball is irremoveably fused with my bone structure.

No need to check with Wisden - the ball is disappearing over my shoulder. It's a six. Had I run away as I wanted to, it would have hit the floor and dinked over the line for just four.

Through my pain a hear The Voice. I'm informed my pain is just a precursor to longer-lasting pain. Pain my children will inherit until Judgment Day.

He had a point, though. 5 for 60 is still a good return. How was I to know 6 for 54 would have been a personal and club record?

"It's only game," I offer. The Voice is silenced. But the owner is on the move in my direction. I do one. Sharpish