I am feeling somewhat on edge and I think I know the reason why. I have just turned 99 years old and am now preparing myself for an onslaught of platitudes of which “well, you’ve had a good innings” is a fair example. This is fine with me because it is true, though it becomes a little tedious in the repetition.

No – what I shrink from is the question: “What does it feel like to be 99 years old?” I just don’t know how to answer it. Is it a medical question, a philosophical one, or simply a polite display of barefaced indifference? Moreover, friends and others keep telling me I am “amazing”. I wish they would not – it induces dark thoughts and a hustle to “put my affairs in order”.

Still, I have to admit that 99 has quite a resonance. (It was, as I recall, what the regimental medical officer asked me to repeat each time he moved the stethoscope over a paltry upper torso.) But it is not as momentous as scoring a “ton”. And it was thinking about that ton – a definitively cricketing term – which made me reflect on my feelings at that tantalising statistic.

There is, my friends, a tremulous moment in the game when a batsman has scored 99 runs, needing only one to reach that most cherished objective in the game… a century … a ton. His name may be inscribed on an honours board. Several pints will be swallowed in the local pub. He is the man of the hour.

But if he is on 99 in a Test, and perhaps on the sacred turf at Lord’s, then tens of thousands will be watching around the ground and probably millions more on television. His mates on the balcony, faintly visible in the distance, will be on their feet, willing him on. In the commentary box the well-known pundits will be too scared to open their mouths as history shows that an optimistic prediction has proved fatal.

Our batsman will know all about the nervous nineties. He has raced to 50, sailed into his 80s, become a shade more cautious on reaching 90. But now the scoreboard reads 99. At this point, as they say, it’s a whole different ball game. Only one run, scored maybe off the edge of the bat, or flogged impertinently to the boundary, and he is close to walking on water. His partner at the other end of the pitch will rush to embrace him. The roaring spectators will be on their feet. And almost certainly he will punch the air, point his bat in a salute to the pavilion and remember the moment for the rest of his days.

But he’s not there yet. He is on 99. Still that irritating single to be achieved. Here is where it gets truly fascinating. For a ritual is now performed by the nervous ninety-niner. Before he is ready to face the bowler – and a solid cork-and-leather missile hurtling towards him at around 90 miles an hour – he must prepare himself as assiduously as a matador gets ready to face the bull.

So here he is at the crease. He signals to the umpire that he wishes to take guard. Satisfied that he has marked the spot precisely where his bat must be in front of the stumps, he scores a line in the turf with his boot. He removes his helmet, wipes his brow, adjusts the straps and puts the helmet back on. He looks around the field. He knows exactly where all the fielders are placed. But these bandits are moving menacingly closer. So he removes his batting gloves (which were perfectly comfortable before) and re-straps them in place.

Meanwhile the bowler has been making his own preparations. A shine must be put on the ball and he vigorously rubs it on his thigh. Satisfied that at least one half of the ball gleams bright in the sunshine, he pauses to glower at the batsman with a basilisk stare, so malevolent the batsman dare not look him in the eye. Instead, he will give his bat a twirl, give his pads a tug and have a final glance around the field. Only one important ritual remains.

It is an uncomfortable but necessary one. To make a final adjustment on the pitch is out of the question – not with an audience of millions watching. But observe closely. Steadying himself with the bat he bends his knees into a kind of a mini-curtsy which adroitly reconfigures the apparatus into the comfort zone.

Outwardly he looks assured, defiant and ready for the onslaught. But inwardly? Old hands at the game will sum up his emotions in two words. We’ve heard them and probably used them. But good taste, ladies and gentlemen, persuades me to have a shot at the Latin equivalent: Excretum Timiditas. So now the player is ready. Nemesis threatens. But glory awaits. The bowler walks slowly to the point where he starts his run. One last glare and he moves into the attack. Slowly at first, then accelerating into lift-off speed.

Will he beat the batsman with an unplayable ball which all but shatters the stumps? Or will the batsman, with lightning footwork and majestic audacity, thump his way into the record books?

What does it feel like to be 99? Haven’t given it a thought.

• This article first appeared in Issue 21 of The Nightwatchman

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