It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single cricket team in possession of a good opposition, must be in want of a batsman.

Not since W.G. Grace was in shorts and wouldn’t know a razor if it bowled him a slow one, have the Tabard Pilgrims beaten The British Library in the opening game of the season. The problem has perennially lain in the hosts’ Yodaesque bowler, who, year after year, launches his slothlike offerings heavenwards, before they plummet towards the earth like a glacier moving through treacle, sometimes barely even reaching their intended destination.

Perhaps the innate gentleman within the breast of a Pilgrim feels an obligation to help it on its way with a swipe across the line, nudging it once more skywards before it nestles in the cupped hands of one of the nine men stationed on the boundary.

Or perhaps after the barrage of Exocet missiles sent down in the Lord’s nets had heightened the reflexes in each of the “batsman” (before Sunday the term could only be used loosely) so much that the shot had already been played before the ball was out of the bowler’s hands. We shall never know.

Neither shall we ever know what planetary alignment caused Kommander to collapse bedwards of a Saturday eve as the player we all knew him as, only to rise – as a butterfly emerges from its chrysalis – a new man who did not know the meaning of cross-batted shot, or for whom a lofted drive was a carefully timed masterstroke – a batsman to his core, causing many of the oldest members to splutter in their pint: “Who are you and what have you done with Kommander?”

Bold are they who dare even to consider themselves wielders of the wooden weapon, but to freely announce a season dedicated to the art of that elusive skill to the expense of his bowling could have stained the reputation of Juggs irrevocably. But perhaps not to be outdone by his older brother he marched to the wicket after Master Yoda had dismissed Egon (for nine – surely some mistake?) with one that rolled three feet along the ground and brushed his toe (clearly in Australia anything resembling lbw counts... Gavin). Also patching up wounded pride in the pavilion were the aforementioned Mr “Good-For-40-Runs” Lawrence (20...), Wisden Batsman of 2007 Gussie (four – surely some mistake?), Penthouse (26 and his 540th successive lost toss – the reason for TPCC batting first).

The game, much like the weather itself, teetered on a knife edge between golden rays of warmth coaxing a general good feeling and a grey downpour of despair, when Crouch (64no) & Crouch (44no), Partners in Cricket, launched themselves at the Library in a manner only familiar to them upon the unearthing of an unpublished Dickens. (er... ed.)

On and on marched the brothers, piling on the runs like John Prescott amongst the pies until the ’Grims lurched giddily to tea, unused to defending a total so heady as 174 for four off 40 overs.

If the batting was about a pair of star-crossed brothers, (er, um – ed.) the fielding was about 11 Pilgrims united in one single-minded aim: to win at all costs.

The conventional methods worked for a while but when even our beloved Leader couldn’t hold onto anything resembling a cricket ball in his immediate vicinity other more desperate measures were employed, the most successful of which turned out to be throwing a ball at the batsman’s head.

Honourable mentions to Whippet’s threefer, Hansie’s twofer and Adam Major’s wicket keeping. And like that it was over: The Library felled like a mighty oak used to make all those precious volumes in their trust.

The Pilgrims triumphant by 74 runs – pretty much an average team score for last season... It only goes to show what a difference getting new batsmen into the side can make, even if they’ve been playing for us for, erm, quite a long time...