As Australia’s cricketers return to international action over the weekend, The Grade Cricketer ponders the amateurs’ eternal dilemma: ‘why am I doing this?’

Australian international cricket is back next week, for some reason, jarring us like an alarm set incorrectly for 02:00am. “Where am I? Why is this happening?” we ask, grasping desperately for the snooze button. But we are awake now, so it’s time to observe the well-trodden protocols of returning to the game for which we hold a dysfunctional love, even if we don’t know why we’re doing it.

To return to cricket successfully, you must come to terms with the truth that the off-season is over. This is especially difficult because during the off-season, mere mention of the word ‘cricket’ sends a shudder down my spine. Of course, that could just be a symptom of the L5 stress fracture I sustained while trying to bump a fifth grader in the third net back in 2004 (lidded him, for the record), but, if I’m being honest, I think it’s something more existential.

Without cricket, I can be me.

During the off-season, I can go to the pub and enjoy a fettuccini carbonara without a teammate hovering over my shoulder, mumbling, “that’ll do nothing for your rig, bud.” Same thing goes for the post-match showers. It’s truly a pleasure not having to shower in front of 10 teammates with wandering eyes on a weekly basis. This can do wonders for your self-confidence, having your naked body freed from constant scrutiny.

David Squires on ... Shane Warne and the ball of the century Read more

It’s a great time for those in fledgling relationships, too. You’re finally able to spend quality time together. Rather than staving off an outright in 38-degree heat, you’re tasting wine in the Yarra Valley with the woman or man you love. A few of these weekends away can almost make you forget you averaged 11.87 in fourth grade last season. Almost.

And for those who are single, it’s an opportunity to go out with non-cricket mates and sample a range of exciting new bars that lie outside your team’s official circuit. Bars where they serve interesting craft beers and a range of exotic cocktails. In the off-season you won’t have to pull your third grade captain, Dazza, out of a seedy nightclub at 3am.

But now, we have to get ready for cricket, and suffer the dual anxiety of setting unachievably high goals while confronting our own declining ability.

Each thud of the Kookaburra (or two-piece ‘Red King’ our opening bowler has been shining since Christmas 2012) that misses my bat and cannons into my inner thigh, consistently hitting the 1.4cm gap between my pad and thigh-pad, is an all-too-timely reminder that I’m a year older, a year slower, and another year further away from my unachievable dreams.

Then again, I’m one year closer to the Holy Grail: retirement.

Returning to cricket also serves as a reminder that there is no relationship between cardiovascular fitness and cricketing ability. I initially admired our new coach’s enthusiasm, so joining the ‘fitness group’ for 10k runs on Saturday mornings throughout pre-season seemed a good way to get physically fit, mentally fit and impress key decision makers. Yet, strangely, I continue to nick the ball and score no runs. It’s nice being slim, though.

But without doubt, the most important thing about being back among your cricket mates is that it affords you the opportunity to refer to any new player as ‘champ’. This has the binary effect of undermining any authority they have and announcing you as the alpha. Because in cricket, it’s ‘champ or be champed.’

Yes, a new season affords unique opportunities, yet it’s hard to escape the painful feeling that this one-day international tri-series, like any pre-season, will not loom large in our collective memory. At some stage, someone in the West Indies is going to hit a hard fought 73 off 98 balls, only for it to be swiftly forgotten. Sweat will drip from his Australian crest as he proudly acknowledges his half-century to the locals, satisfied in his contribution to the legacy of Tough Australian Batting. Sadly, only the player involved – and maybe his immediate family – will have any lasting recollection of it 48 hours later.

This happened to me in a second grade vs third grade trial last year. I was a new player at the club, earmarked as someone with a “chance to go up the grades”. Buoyed by long-held dreams of second grade cricket, I peeled off 56 not out in testing conditions. It was the game’s top score and a match-winning innings.

“Perhaps all the cardio was worth it”, I wondered as I strode to the pavilion, bat aloft to acknowledge my teammates’ muted applause. I noticed our captain on the phone, back turned to the action, presumably relaying news of my innings to the club president. I looked to the left to Mum and Dad, perched on their deckchairs – Mum waving furiously, Dad reading a broadsheet. They knew what this meant to me.

Team selections were later that night, but despite my heroics, I was selected in fourth grade. Was my chanceless 56 that forgettable? Cricket can hurt you like that. Hours upon hours of time in nondescript locations, grafting and grinding in the pursuit of unachievable dreams, only to be reduced to a number – a number that will probably be forgotten.

We will still do it though because it’s all we know, and engender little forgiveness if we permit ourselves to occasionally ask, “why am I doing this?”

The Grade Cricketer’s autobiography, imaginatively titled ‘The Grade Cricketer’, was released to the Australian market in late-2015 to coincide with the worst home Test series in history. He tweets at @gradecricketer