Day 12 - HOLY FREAKING HELL IT'S A WORLD RECORD

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Woke up with the sunlight again and knew that I wasn't getting back to sleep. Desperately needing a leak, I tried to get out of my sleeping bag just as quietly as I could as not to disturb Blinky. Anybody who can disrobe from a wrapped up sleeping bag in silence needs to contact the relevant Intelligence Agencies for their country as not even the offspring of James Bond and Die Hard would be able to pull that off. I was up at the earliest sign that Blinky was awake and into my playing kit. I can't remember being this excited (or ready this early) for sport since playing for St Edwards RLFC under 7's.

The morning was a blur that offered up contrasting takes on the day. Whilst fairly nervous, I was pretty chipper on the outside, but resorted to reading a book to pass the time. Haydn had his serious face on. Dave Christie was giving weather reports (A thick morning fog had enveloped Gorak Shep), and Wes had his 'focussed' face on, only talking to us to tell us which psyche-up tune he'd just been listening too. Butler was later to provide an amusing sideshow by, instead of picking up Colgate, chose the relatively similar tube of Savlon. It wasn't until he tasted antiseptic cream that he realised the grave error.

Once the fog lifted, a glorious Himalayan day revealed that the pitch was looking fantastic. Despite predictions of weather as bad as a blizzard and temperatures down to -8, it turned out to be blazing blue sky, and around about 10 degrees. This immediately put me in a good mood. So much could've gone wrong, but the Gods were smiling on us.

Nobody was quite sure how to take the warm-ups for the match. Do we run? That question was answered when a jog around the field turned into a walk. How strictly will Haydn enforce his directives... we soon found that out when (some more pointedly than others) said hello to the opposition. He looked unimpressed. When Dave Christie and I mucked around with a local toddler who sidled up to us, mesmerised by the sight of 15 guys wearing bright pink throwing a ball around, we were told to focus on the day’s proceedings. The message was clear, Haydn wasn't taking this lightly.

Later on, just after the official team photo's, some excited locals wanted some pictures of us. The offer was refused with a promise to let it happen after the game. At the time I didn't think anything of it, but in retrospect I would've liked to have interacted a little bit more with those guys. This game was as much about the Sherpa people and their wonderful homeland as much as it was us grabbing bragging rights over our mates. Unfortunately the same guys weren't there at the end, and I can't help but feel that an opportunity to soak up the moment was lost.

Haydn called correctly and we stuck them in, hoping for a repeat of the last time we played at Sheen Park. This time around they had 3 much stronger players in their batting line-up (Dave Kirtley, Kiwi, and Simmo), and to be fair we knew we didn't quite have the bowling firepower to match those 3, but we thought if we could get the pitch to do tricks early-on, then we could perhaps get into their middle order again. Prior to the first ball, James Markby stood in front of the assembled players and read from 'The Man in The Arena', by Theodore Roosevelt:

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.

After this, following a Martin Johnson style stare-down-the-line from Haydn (honestly, I've never seen the man so serious), there was a heart-warming exchange of good-lucks with each member of Hillary. Then it was on to the pitch. I don't think I've ever been clapped on to any sporting arena before in my life. Now we had circa 200 people clapping us on to the pitch. Awesome.

Blinky was the man with the new ball in his hands. I was standing at gully unconvincingly saying to myself 'you've got to want the ball to come to you', which is generally what I do when I feel like I don't want the ball to come to me. I thought our big chance of getting DK, a completely different class of batsman, was early on. Perhaps to a nervous shot or one that keeps low on his pads. The first ball went screaming through cover-point for 4. Blinky recovered well from this and had a close LBW turned down, and then a tough chance dropped at deep square leg by Waters when Glen was facing. The way the ball travelled alarmed me. It didn't appear to look like going the distance, but the thin air meant it carried on - no higher than stomach height - all the way to the boundary and would've cleared it by some way had Waters' stomach not got in the way. And judging by the bruise on said gut, it was travelling at some pace. Next over and Glen was dropped again. This time a much easier chance at gully by G-Unit. Unfortunately it was an awkward-ish height and the nerves showed as he made a complete hash of it. He argued that he saved a couple of runs, which I suppose is technically true.

We were then on the backfoot for the next 8 overs. Mark Waters, our premier bowler, got hit for 16 off his first 3 deliveries. Even my encouragement was going wrong when, after a ball popped up into the chest of Dave Kirtley form Dave Christie, I said something along the lines of 'Hey Hey show him what you've got Curtly' - In reference to DC’s delivery resembling one of Curtly Ambrose’s thunderbolts. However the Kirtley/Curtly similarities was misconstrued as sledging Dave and I had to explain myself out loud. Which was pretty embarrassing and something I copped some barracking for from the sidelines, barracking of which I thought went a touch too far.

At the first drinks break they were 69/0 off 7 overs. Comments along the lines of 'we're going to ram 200 runs down your Tenzing throats' rung in my ears from the sidelines as Haydn told me I was coming on to bowl. With a hesitant gulp I agreed, despite it being the opposite end that I requested. And this was after seeing Kinsey (a fellow off-spinner) being taken apart as a rampant Dave Kirtley, seeing them like beachballs, made mincemeat of boundary-lengths more at home at under-12 level. Loosening up, I tried to calm myself with the fallacy of 'it's a win/win situation, everybody has been smashed'. I did breathe a sigh of relief when DK took a single off the last ball of the preceding over, meaning I had to bowl to Glen. First ball resulted in a big LBW appeal. To be honest I was more excited that I landed it where I wanted too than anything else. The next ball Glen hit a single. That didn't go to plan, now on to Dave, 45 off 33 balls. I was absolutely packing it. I was already a bit short of breath, my heart was pumping. Thankfully for me, Dave and Cuzza were both also short of breath, as Dave played a poor shot and Cuzza missed a no-ball as my 3rd delivery pitched, kept low, turned a little, Dave K played back to attempt a big swoosh to get to his 50 in style, but only saw the ball crash into his stumps. It's fair to say I was pretty happy with that and let out a mornings full of nerves in one roar. Immediately I was surrounded by a bunch of relieved Tenzingers with high fives and massive hugs. Somebody shouted 'First wicket on Everest', but again I was just happy not to make a fool of myself.

Glen was then out to one of G's 10-balls in the next over and we were back in the hunt. The runrate stopped as a clearly not 100% Simmo struggled with the pace and bounce of the wicket. Kiwi seemed a little spooked by DK's dismissal and, coupled with an obdurate desire not to be dismissed by me (of all people), treated me with probably a little bit too much respect than I deserved. Backed up by some great fielding (Blinky diving about comes to mind), we were back on top. Unfortunately this is when the sniping started again. As the boundary wasn't very far away I could clearly hear the conversations Hillary were having about smashing my face in and other OTT comments, of which I'd normally take as banter, but today (and maybe it was my fault) they seemed to have a toxic vibe. I reasoned that it was a good sign, they were resorting to that as I was bowling well. Halfway through the next over they complained loudly towards Cuzzer, the on-field umpire, that I was bowling no-balls. I suggested back to them that, perhaps, they should fuck off. To be fair to them, apparently the wicket was a no-ball. In addition to this, the rule has recently changed to state that your foot doesn't have to be grounded behind the line. But how they could question a 'line-ball' decision without full knowledge of the rules and from the sidelines really rankled me. With the tiredness and mild hypoxia creeping in, I didn't get really get over it and the next 3 balls went for 10.

It strikes me as odd that, at Amateur Sporting Events, it always seems to be the crowd that are pricklier than the players. We were threatened with expulsion from an inter-college tournament at university due to supporter behaviour, and my experience with local rugby league also supports this theory. It was true on the day too, as everybody on the pitch, particularly DK, Glen, Simmo, and Kiwi were great sports and seemed to be having fun. Although I would've preferred if Kiwi didn't start laughing at me during my equal parts ridiculous and hilarious stutter in my bowling approach.

After the drinks break I finished my 4th over, 1 of only 3 to do so during the day and the only one to complete them on-the-trot... something that I'm still pleasantly astonished by. My 4 overs returned 1/21 - I was pretty happy with this as I thought I'd helped turn the match. It wasn’t over for me though as I was asked to keep for the remaining 5 overs. 'And death it shall be...' I thought to myself, remembering how exhausting it was the day before. Keeping up to the stumps to Butler, I couldn't believe it when the first ball went straight into my gloves. I did, however, miss a tough chance off Kiwi on the 4th ball when he gloved a sweep. So nobody was more surprised than myself when, after taking the next ball cleanly, I managed to take the bails off (albeit in pretty ungamely fashion) with Simmo's foot dangling in the air. Big appeal, and the moment I saw Hillsy raising his finger in a theatrical method, I went spare. That was as probably as happy as I ever have been or ever will be. It was unbelievable, I can barely catch a cold, and on the 5th ever competitive ball that I'd kept too, I had a stumping to my name. I think I've seen a photo where I've jumped up with my legs around Butler's stomach... that's how happy I was.

That bought in the normally mild-mannered Charlie Campbell, who in between batting well took the time to have an unprovoked dig at both Butler and myself. Still ecstatic from the stumping, I simply smiled and carried on. 2 balls later, Charlie seemed unhappy that I'd made exactly the same comment about his fitness as what he'd said to me. I couldn't quite fathom what was going on. Tenzing were, probably quite rightly, copping flak for taking the game too seriously, yet Hillary (with some noted exceptions) seemed to be all over the gamesmanship side of things.

The next over Kiwi, their last star batsmen, top-edged Mark Waters. Dropping down from high in the sky, Haydn ran back, looking over his shoulders to position himself for a tough chance, one that I didn't expect him to take. A millisecond before the ball hit his hands, somebody from Hillary shouted 'DROP IT!' - just prior to Haydn completing an outstanding catch. A few words were said, and high on adrenaline from the surprise of the catch and now seriously outraged, I shouted - to nobody in particular - 'It's a charity game you bunch of c*nts' - I followed this up with a huge 'C'mon Tenzing' roar as a few more words were exchanged before calm was restored. Jules was the next man in and, to his eternal credit, made sure to apologise before taking guard.

What happened out there is hard to is hard to explain. Having to cope with much less oxygen obviously puts allot more stress on your thought process than what your used too. This inebriation makes thinking exceptionally difficult, and it really affects the decision making process, almost like being a little bit drunk. I've heard several people say since 'I just don't know what came over me' in response to a couple of things that went on. On the whole, it was still a very enjoyable day and I suppose these sorts of 'flashpoints' (if you will) were inevitable.

We restricted them to 152 in the end, quite a decent comeback when we were staring at 200+ and we were confident going into lunch. Prior to heading to our respective teahouses, I sought out a couple of Hillary guys to apologise for the outburst, and I was proud that I managed to admit fault long before an apology came our way. Despite all this, we formed a massively deserved guard of honour for Kirt as he ran onto the field on his own. An entire book can be written on the sacrifices made and effort put in and countless other thankless tasks that he undertook to get us to this point, and this was our small-way of thanking him for the experience.

Our pursuit of the target got off poorly, with Butler out for a duck in the first over. Blinky was out for 2 soon after and we had our backs against the wall. Further to this, a game of numberwang occurred in our batting line-up and Mark Water was promoted from 10 to 3. He batted stoically though and by 7 overs the game was delicately poised at 48/2. Mark was then out to a needless runout in the next over, with Simmo pulling off some amazing work behind the stumps. Wes, who looked our best batsman all day, responded by smashing an enormous 6, which would have carried on most grounds in the world, but was then out next over trying to repeat the dose. Kinsey was out caught off what was a borderline waist-high full-toss from Kiwi, the man who's wedding he'll be performing best-man duties at, and at the other end, Haydn was struggling with the pace and bounce. JC however, promoted from 9 to 7, was scoring some good runs. Haydn finally succumbed to Charlie Campbell, before the same bowler got Dave Christie, demoted from 3 to 8, out first ball with one that moved in a long way off the unpredictable surface. This bought myself to the crease (demoted form 7 to 9), with circa 70 needed off 7 overs, with 3 wickets in hand.

I walked out half-expecting to get some lip. But by this stage, the field was spread and with Simmo – not somebody who would bother with sledging a poor cricketer such as myself, let alone in a charity match- keeping and the game sprinting away from us, I didn't hear an ill word. Admiring my first shot, which I thought had gone for 4, I turned at the non-strikers end and stood and watched. The ball then pulled up inside the boundary... furious, I sprinted back for 2. The stinging in my lungs, the shortness of breath, the dizziness, and the pain in my muscles all combined to remind me why nobody else had a run a 2 all day.

With 68 needed off 30 balls, JC got out going for the much need big shot (Chris Martin's celebration in the style of Eric Cantona was a personal highlight of the day) and our last realistic hopes went. My comments to G-Man, the next man in, were that we needed 40 off the next 2 overs to stand a chance, so have a swing and enjoy it. With that he smeared a massive 6 and faint hope was restored. G was then bowled next over which sent Mike Preston in as our last salvation. I started throwing the bat at anything and lucked into a couple of boundaries, however I couldn't seem to get the strike. Mike smashed his way to 16. There were now 33 needed off 11 balls. A tall order but Mike was seeing them well so we retained very faint hope. Unfortunately he was bowled next ball going for another much needed 6 and it was all over.

By the time the bails hit the floor, I was over the fact we lost. The loss was practically inevitable form the time JC got out, and we never really looked like making the runs from the off. As I stripped off my gloves and helmet, the Hillary boys jumped for victory, and any lingering disappointment I felt was wiped away after seeing the delighted looks on both Glen and Kirt's faces. I was rapt for Glen as he was really enjoying the moment, and Kirt looked amazed that we had pulled it off. It was at this point that it dawned on me that we had the world record, and I thought back to everybody that had doubted us, and wished that they were there to see what had happened. A bunch of ordinary guys, nobody with any major qualifications or experience with this sort of thing, had pulled together, ably lead by Kirt and Wes, to achieve something pretty special, with a massive amount of money going to charity along the way. As the Hillary boys walked off the field, I must admit to having to hide a couple of tears. I'm not sure what to put it down too, partly elation that we'd finally done it, but probably more disappointment that it was now all over. 12 months of planning, muddy fitness sessions in -4 temperatures in Battersea Park, countless 3 hour long meetings at Lords, the freeze mobs, unsuccessful attempts at scaling various British mountains, country weekends, actually buying a pair of running trainers, net sessions at the oval, constantly telling people what I was up too, press launches, radio, tv, and press interviews, and investing all of my disposable income to get to this one-day, this one event, and now it had come to an end. It was fairly emotional and I finally have my answer as to why athletes cry when on the podium at the Olympics.

There were a few glum faces in Team Tenzing after the match, however I was nowhere near being one of them. I was happy with the way I'd played and delighted with the way the day turned out and the fact that we had the record in the bag. I was genuinely happy for Glen, who looked thoroughly pleased with himself and capped an excellent day for him by taking the final wicket. It was just his day. The presentations came and went, with Cuzza giving me a 'star performer' nod (but not before qualifying that with 'and it pains me to say this’) along with Mark Waters before awarding the Charlie Bathurst-Norman award (so named after the member of team Hillary who had to pull out with illness 3 weeks beforehand) to Charlie Campbell for his handy runs and 3 wickets. Dave Kirtley received the stickcricket award for most amount of sixes hit (4).

Following the formalities, most of us gathered in the teahouse that Hillary stayed in, to swig on some champagne and spend the rest of our adrenaline. After 3 sips of champagne and 3 small cans of beer, I was tripping all over the place like I was 16 years old again. And by the time Markby and I got around to singing American Pie, and mindful of an early start, I realised it was time for bed.

Stumbling back up to my sleeping quarters, I had a big satisfied smile on my face. A job well done, from everybody involved. The 30 players, the trektators, the medics, the photographers, the PR guys, the journalists, the guides, the porters, all of the Sherpa's we met along the way, our families and friends. Everybody.