The year was 1989 and I was finishing intermediate at St Kentigern's School, a fancy Presbyterian learning establishment which occupies a pohutukawa-framed piece of coast at the bottom of Remuera, Auckland.
At the age of 12, my pathway to cricketing greatness was clearly marked. I would play for the St
Kent's 1st XI before moving through the Auckland Grammar grades to their 1st XI - springboarding me to provincial and then international glory. Along the way I'd backhand Rothmans King Size cigarettes and find a wife, possibly in the bushes at Pukekura Park, with whom I'd produce cricket-playing children. What could be more pleasurable - cricket, a woman and the best tobacco money can buy?
Our St Kent's 1st XI was coached by the deputy headmaster and former Auckland rep, Rex Hooton. Mr Hooton had a reputation for being no-nonsense. In our first team meeting each of the five bowlers were handed an A4 piece of paper with the fielding positions we needed to remember when bowling.
Hooton meant business. During the course of the session we were told where we'd bat all season, which overs we'd bowl and where to field. I batted at three, bowled first change (after Nick Camel from the out-swing end) and fielded at mid-off (or long-off during the death). That was it. No questions asked.
We were instructed to wear long white hose with garters - sports socks were strictly for tennis and forbidden by law. At the conclusion of the meeting Rex explained to us that our team (comprising seven 12-year-olds, three 11-year-olds and a 10-year-old) was potentially the worst 1st XI he'd seen, but if we listened to him and showed some application we might get away with not embarrassing ourselves shockingly.
