#trentbridge

🚨 SOME RIVALRIES DON'T NEED AN INTRODUCTION.

They simply need another chapter.

Tonight, the cricket world turns its attention to Trent Bridge, where India and England meet in the 3rd T20I of a rivalry built on passion, pressure, and unforgettable moments.

🇮🇳 Every run will matter. 🏴 Every over could change the game. 🏏 Every fan will have a prediction.

Two cricketing giants. One iconic venue. One unforgettable night.

Will India seize the momentum, or will England rise in front of the home crowd?

👇 One comment. One flag. One prediction.

🇮🇳 India ❤️ 🏴 England 👍

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(Alamy Stock Photo)

So much has been lost. We exist in little bubbles floating on a wider sea of collective shock, grief and loss. At such a time it is difficult to write about the small things, an indulgence perhaps?

At first it was an itch, then an ache, a sense that something was not right with the seasons this year, although the gardens and the crops in the fields were doing just fine. It took me a while to work out what it was that was missing. It was the cricket.

I grew up in a house that backed onto the village cricket pitch. The spring would bring out the rollers and the mowers. Next the men would appear, dressed in white, shadows through the trees. The crack of leather on willow accompanied by their shouts were the music of our garden summer. At the end of the season we’d triumphantly return a collection of lost balls to the club house. And we children would play too. We did not realise how lucky we were. On long evenings, we would knock in our stumps on the outfield and squabble about which hero we were going to be; Alan Knott, Greg Chappell, Clive Lloyd. Me, me, me! The village field wasn’t completely flat and curved downwards to the sides giving the impression that we were standing on the top of the world. As the Dads finished work we’d be joined by them too. What a sight we sun-kissed kids must have been with our wild shots, LBWs, dropped catches, over throws, and mis-fields, tearing all over the field! We only had one bat and we’d throw it before we ran. Remember doing that?

“Slog it! Six! Catch! Howzat! Run! OUT!”

This year with Covid 19, it’s not so much the big international matches down at my famous local ground Trent Bridge that I miss, but rather the annual rituals of a rural cricket summer: the children, dressed in whites that are too big for them, going to the club on a Friday night for cricket practice; the bigger boys, full of confidence and swagger, hauling their bags for away matches and cricket tours; the buzz of radios in neighbour’s gardens as they listen to Test Match Special; and most of all just sitting on the grass on the edge of the field watching a few overs.