When my trousers split on a cricket field, I left my wicket exposed

Most of my teenage years were dominated by cricket. I was not brilliant at it, but for a while I was pretty good. More importantly, I was a rarity – a leg-spinner. With Shane Warne repopularising the art during that era, the timing couldn’t have been better, as selectors of representative sides cast around for knockdown versions.

At 15, I was regularly playing three or more games a week, as well as going to regular net sessions. I don’t think I ever really thought I could make a career out of it, but I loved being on a cricket field.

Yet cricket is a peculiarly stressful sport, being essentially a series of individual contests within a team setting. When form deserts you, it is plain for all to see. No wonder so many professionals suffer from crippling anxiety.

By the time I headed off to university, and its myriad distractions, my bowling had become increasingly erratic. When I returned home the next summer I got into my club team as a batsman only, which felt even more precarious.

Still, perhaps because I was no longer taking the game so seriously, I prospered for a while. The nerves that usually accompanied the long, lonely walk to the wicket dissipated: I began to assume I would score runs.

On a scorching day in August I turned up for a match in the rarefied surroundings of Caius College ground in Cambridge. I had been on holiday for a fortnight but it looked like the pitch was, to use the commentators’ jargon, full of runs.

I waited for my turn to bat and, when the time came, made my way from the pavilion to the middle feeling confident. I played a couple of balls easily enough without scoring, but suddenly realised to my horror that the zip on my trousers had broken and I was gaping open at the front. Knowing I had a spare set of whites in my bag, I explained my predicament to the umpires and the opposition captain. Amid laughter and a little disbelief, I ran from the field, shedding protective equipment as I went.

I must have only delayed the match by 5 minutes, if that, yet when I returned I could sense the impatience of the fielders. I had side-tracked myself and lost focus: by contrast, all eyes were now on me, or so it felt.

I took my guard again, glanced quickly around the field and waited to start afresh as the bowler began his run.

When came next was inevitable of course, as I prodded tentatively at a straight ball, missed and heard the ghastly rattle of bails tumbling. Fate, so carelessly tempted, had duly responded.

The opposition were cock-a-hoop. My teammates, in the distant pavilion, could barely contain their giggles.

Never had the walk from the pitch to the dressing room felt quite so long, the heat of the sun nothing compared to the hotness of my embarrassment. I dragged myself slowly off, trying not to catch too many eyes.

As the shadow of the pavilion encased me a waggish teammate called out: “Oh dear Gromit, it’s the wrong trousers”. I kept walking, and kept it zipped.