I think that on one level, captaining a cricket team is a bit lke having kids. Actually, that works on several levels, but the way I mean it here is that you can see someone else doing it and might think you know what it’s all about, but until you actually do it, you haven’t got a clue.
Trying to keep ten grown men happy and in line is difficult enough, but that’s only half the story.
I had the dubious pleasure of captaining last year. I knew it was a reach for me. I am a fairly average player, and I don’t have a very developed appreciation for the finer nuances of the game. I am not the best at dealing with a certain type of stress, and have a tendency to be snappy and short tempered when under pressure. I know it might sound a bit poncey, but I took the job on because I knew it would be a challenge, and a chance for a bit of personal growth, and when you are approaching fifty, those kind of opportunities don’t come around very often. Well, you don’t get to choose when they do, anyway.
A challenge it was. It is fair to say that I wasn’t a universally supported candidate for the position, so I went into the season knowing that some were expecting me to fail, and after a poor start, I am fully aware that “I told you so” was a repeated phrase in some quarters.
It did not help.
See, the thing is about captaining is that it is much, much more than managing a game of cricket that might last seven hours. And that’s hard enough, trust me. Everyone has an opinion, and those opinions get weightier (and are prone to revision) with the benefit of hindsight.
Most players have an idea about how they should be employed. I know that some are happy to turn up and play and do what is asked, but most want to fulfil a certain role. And it is logistically impossible to accommodate everyone, something that should be evident and obvious. “Should be” being the operative words in that sentence.
It took me about half a season to realise that it did not matter what I did, because someone would always be unhappy and take umbrage, sometimes very personally. So, I stopped worrying about egos and did what I thought would be best, and this truism was a necessary liberation:
You have to do what you think is right, even if it’s wrong.
Off the pitch, away from the actual games, the work doesn’t stop. Player availability and team selection is an onerous task. Organising transport to away games is often far more complicated than it should be. Even working out who is on teas was difficult. And the worst one of all – trying to organise refixes. What a saga that particular task turned out to be. There was one fixture – after a series of calls, I thought we had finally agreed and found a date, only to find on the next conversation – about the 15th pertaining to this solitary fixture – that my protagonist (we certainly didn’t feel like allies) had no recollection of the previous conversation whatsoever. It was like a rubbish episode of The Twilight Zone.
My game – already limited – fell apart, and I went games without bowling myself. I became aware that in trying to be all captainly, I had over-bowled myself in the hope of a match winning performance that never came. I think that cost us at least one game. We had a terrible start to the season, and lost every game, two or three by a whisker – 4 runs, 1 run, 1 wicket – and I seriously thought about stepping down. Fortunately for me, I was threatened with a very unpleasant sounding assault (“I’ll come around your house and kick you up your ******”) from a close friend and mentor if I did give up, and it was the wake-up call I needed. It’s funny how men get things sorted sometimes.
We got a bit of luck, and started winning. I think we won nine out of last eleven games, including an actual cup final. After all that had proceeded it, and the actual trauma of the first half of the season, it was one of the best days of my life. I don’t even care if that makes me sound like I need to get out more. I accept that I probably do.
There is a point to all this.
If all you do, if all you have ever done, is turn up for a game and play, then trust me, you haven’t got a clue what it’s all about. You should treasure your captain, even if they are someone you really don't get on with, because without him (or her), there’s a fair chance you wouldn’t be playing. Captains put up with nonsense and pressure that you can’t even conceive of, and I bet you take it for granted.
Please appreciate your captain. Make sure that you thank him/her regularly. When you hear someone complaining about how the last game was managed, tell them to cop on. Ask them why they aren’t captaining, as they have all the answers. If a team is losing game after game, then sympathise with them instead of joining in the chorus of disapproval. I guarantee they feel every loss more than anybody, and that they are doing their best.
From my perspective, my captaincy was a success. We ended the season as the form team and finished comfortably in mid table; not at all bad for a team that had just been promoted. And we won the first Leinster cup in the club’s history, and I have the medal to prove it. I grew – actually grew as a person – and from the verge of abject failure, I triumphed.
It is something I will never forget.
And I learned a fantastic lesson:
I am never doing it again.