What was your most embarrassing moment? The question is asked weekly of Bermudian youth, who almost always decline to incriminate themselves. Adults are exempt from such questioning, which is quite a relief. There are so many embarrassing moments in a life lived to the full.

Comes Spring, and the thoughts of even the most moribund among us turn to sporting activities. I am the most moribund among us. Bermuda is increasingly synonymous with sports. Joggers jog the livelong day, karate types chop, yet others prefer to commit golf, even in the rain. My idea of strenuous activity is waiting to get old enough to play a truly vicious game of dominoes.

Mens sana in corpore hoozits and all that notwithstanding, I tend to the views of Sherlock Holmes, of whom Dr. Watson said "he looked upon aimless bodily exertion as a waste of energy.'' But there was one occasion upon which I became involved in aimless bodily exertion in the Somers Isles.

It was in the otherwise uneventful Spring of '85, as Dr. Watson might have phrased it. An accounting firm of my acquaintance was one man short in a game of key importance to someone or other. Not Cup Match exactly, but along those lines. Flattered that they might consider an inert hulk as a suitable candidate for the team, I agreed to turn out.

The venue was St. John's Field, in the days when the pavilion was just a ratty hut. The ground gave up the sweet, sweet smell of newly-mown grass; the pavilion reeked of something less savoury. At stake, as I understood it, was the honour of the two companies doing battle, a hollow joke if ever I heard one.

Our side lounged about first. The correct technical term is "we bowled first,'' but all that was required of me was that I loiter at a huge distance from the action. Young women were in attendance, and this was Spring, so I dawdled in their vicinity with a certain amount of style. Again, there is a technical term for this behaviour: it is known as "fielding,'' but let's not get carried away.

Fielders don't usually score, but I was exchanging meaningful glances with one particularly attractive cricketing groupie as the action unfolded some way off. It was during this time that our opponents, the swine, knocked up about 600 off 20 overs. This is good going in cricket circles. My chums were disheartened, most likely, but I wouldn't know. I nipped out for a beer between innings, rather than let the side down by failing to display the requisite degree of misery. We sporting types frown on brooding.

By the time I returned, our plucky lads had taken a grievous pounding. We were 72 for 9, or 16 for 8, or something akin which spelled imminent loss, immediately pursued by the purchase of cartloads of beer for the other team.

"You're in next,'' a dispirited bean-counter told me. "Good luck,'' added Julie, the sexy siren who had won my heart. Dylan Thomas: "The force that through the green fuse drives the flower, drives my green age....'' What a clutter of emotions therefore cascaded through me as I strolled out to the wicket. Our position was dire. I was last man in. We needed several hundred to avoid the follow-on, and this was a single-innings game. (That's a thigh-slapper if you know anything about cricket.) Had I not scored an undefeated 50 once, as a child of seven? And did not Princess Margaret herself visit our neighbourhood just two days later? Yes and yes, although these facts were not connected.

I took middle stump. Don't ask, it's just something cricketers do. Crouched over the bat, I cleared my head of extraneous thought. From the other end, in ran the bowler, a brutish fellow as I recall. He tossed a medium-paced number in my direction. Perhaps I have exaggerated our plight. As few as 40 quick, intelligently-taken runs would have turned the trick. Prudence, that most basic concept of accounting, germane unto the moment, would surely see us through.

How they would sing of this night, if anyone were sober enough to recall the details. The Royal Gazette headlines would write themselves, leaning heavily on the words `unexpected', `masterly' and `hero'. Maybe we'd even have our audit fees reduced.

Time slowed to a crawl as I stormed down the pitch, intent on delivering the ball a mighty thwack. Six runs was all I could think, and losing the ball in the chaos that was Belco for good measure. My mind's eye traced in advance the arc of a little red ball soaring gracefully out of sight. My team's spirits would soar at this unexpected last huzzah. The dejected faces of the sorry opponents who had dared to test the mettle of a cricketing Crombie gleefully crossed my mind.

But uppermost in the reverie was Julie's smiling face. I briefly looked across to the pavilion to ensure that she was watching my moment of triumph. The old motto has it: Never take your eye off the ball, pride comes before a fall. The little red ball shot past me in extreme contravention of Bermudian speeding laws, smashed into the wicket, and we lost, horribly. The girl left on the arm of the cad who had clean-bowled me.

I have never played cricket since.

RG MAGAZINE MAY 1993