That's what friends are for . . .

My mate was having a rough time. Needed distraction from a few things that were dragging him down. Needed his mates around. Needed a sympathetic ear.

Jacko is nothing if not a good mate. Of course you can come round. I'll get the beers in. Of course it's not inconvenient, your my mate. What? Tomorrow? Sunday?

Shit. It's the one day of the season the Sunday thirds get to use the main square. Proper dressing rooms and showers. Electronic scoreboard. A real rope boundary. Benches on the pavilion verandah. Club umpires in black slacks, straw hats and their own white coats.

Sorry, mate. No can do. Hang on, tell you what, come down the club. See me rattle the furniture of a few poor saps and then we'll head off down The George for a livener.

Next day. The electronic scoreboard isn't seeing much use. I'm keeping these boys pinned to the crease. Taken two cheap wickets earlier on, but this pair is stubborn. They're not in any rush. I'm probing for the opening, they're blocking out.

Glancing up to the pav from my post at fine leg, I see my mate has turned up. He looks glum. World weighs heavy on his shoulders. Cheer up - it's a fine day, the cricket is good and the tennis courts way, way over square leg boundary are full of happy people.

Jacko is up again. Think I'll give this one a bit of extra oomph. Give this rabbit something to think about. CRAACK!! Bollocks, that'll be four then.

Lucky shot, more of the same will do. CRAACK!! Four more chalks. "Round the wicket, ump."

CRAAAAAACCKKKK!!! Holy moly - it's a six into the tennis courts!! Drop the pace. Two dot balls, then CRAACCCKKKKK!!!! another six scatters the tennis players. They're miles away!

Look up to the pav. My mate doesn't look so glum. From here it looks like the git is grinning! Spend the over nursing injured pride. Skipper offers me a way out. No chance, of course I'm up for another over.

Getting into my stride, I'm forced to abandon my run-up by a loud cry from the tennis courts: "Don't serve yet, Tabitha! It's that blond chap bowling who was hit over here last time!" I stare. The batsmen snigger. My supposedly depressed mate is pissing himself!

Take a moment. Here we go. Feels good leaving the hand, it's swinging . . . CRAAAAACK!! Ump raises both arms. OH FOR F*CKS SAKE . . .

Four. Dot. Dot. Dot. SIX. Arse biscuits. Skip tells me take a blow, another chap warms up. I've got the hump. Fume for the rest of the innings. Got a draw. Back to the meadow we play on next week . .

My mate comes over. Not a shred of gloom hangs over him. "That was f*cking brilliant!" he brays. "I was in a foul mood earlier, but I doesn't seem so bad now! Did you see those people in the tennis courts stop playing when you came on again?! Classic!"

"Don't worry," he says. "Let's go down The George. I'll get the beers in and you can tell me all about it."