Tim Dowling: When it comes to cricket, try not to leave the pitch in an ambulance

I'm in the dressing room of a cricket ground somewhere in Sussex. All around me, men are pulling on tops named after college teams or a charity XI. Mine still has a Sports Direct tag that says "50% off". I don't know how it happened. I remember one lunch where I was asked if my sons played cricket, and I offered two for this annual get-together. Due to an error, my name is also on the list.

When people ask me if I can play cricket, I always answer: "I don't know". I grew up in America, so I only know that I can't play baseball. It is possible that the game of cricket requires untapped skills that baseball does not have. Like manners, or something like that.

I once played in a cricket match about 30 years ago, when I didn't hadn't the faintest idea. At first, I made an easy take – assuming it was appropriate under the circumstances – and was unprepared for the approval that came my way. People I had never met patted me on the back. Maybe I can play cricket, I thought.

Three overs later, my closest teammate was hit in the face by the ball and walked away in an ambulance. Once gone, the game resumed. That's when I realized there was a Squid Game element to the whole business.

Back in Sussex, I'm at the border in my new whites with the oldest and the one in the middle, in the shade of a squat tree. I notice that the friend in the middle - our team captain's son - is wearing shorts and a dark shirt.

"I really can't play cricket" , he said.

"I'm about to show you what it means not to play cricket", I say.

Out in the field I repeat my mantra for all team competitions: don't do anything today that becomes the only thing these people will remember you. Don't make the mistake of unprecedented stupidity. Don't go in an ambulance.

At first I stop a fastball destined for the boundary by letting it bounce off my forearm, a credit I can weigh against future errors. The oldest is playing well. I think I should be credited with that too, because I drove it here.

For the first hour, my middle son has to shout to remind me to switch positions between the overs, but after a while I settle into a rhythm. I'm starting to relax, but I'm also getting competitive. I want to stop whatever comes my way, however inelegantly, with the part of my body that can get there first. By the time the 10th wicket falls my knees are scraped and I have bruises on both ankles. My job here, I think, is done.

At tea break, the oldest and I are arguing for the lowest spot in the batting order.

"I really can't beat," he said.

"I'll show you what really can't mean." not beat", I say. The oldest has taken two wickets, so the captain rewards him with last place.

At this point I'm still fairly certain that the humiliation of the stick n 't happen: the score we The chase is manageable and the afternoon continues. The captain comes towards me. I'm thinking: he probably wants to thank me again for that ball I stopped.

"The thing is," he said, "because we have 12 men and they have 11, I said we'll give them a defender. Five overs apiece. You're third."

Nothing in my understanding of the rules of cricket tells me prepared for this news. First: our team has an extra, useless player, and I'm definitely him. Second: I have to go back in 10 overs.

Fielding for the opposition is even more nerve-wracking. Anything I do wrong feels like betrayal rather than incompetence. But it would also be a bad time for me to suddenly take the hit. I think: that's where manners come in.

In the middle of a flurry of wickets, the extra defender's replacement system breaks down. I make six overs, then seven. When another wicket falls, I escape.

I find the one in the middle putting on a helmet.

< p class="dcr-3jlghf">"What are you doing?" I said.

"I'm next," he said.

"But I'm after you! "I say.

"Yeah, you should get some padding," he says.I put on borrowed shin guards and locate the oldest one.

"Teach me how to hit," I said. "Quick. dcr-10khgmf"/>

He takes me to the nets, shows me h. ..