CRICKET is not a particularly Chilean sport – and frankly it never will be one for the Latin masses. The dull but sweet summery sounds of red leather on willow and screams of 'Yes! No! Yes! Wait on! Sorry?' will never be as ubiquitous as the potholes and pickpockets - but down here the old game does get played.

A mixed bunch of Brits, Chileans, Australians, North Americans and South Africans toil away under the leaden skies – smog not rain – every Sunday between November and March in the annual quest for the Metropolitan Cup.

When I first heard that it was played in Santiago I was thrilled. I looked to continue my previous form from my days at Winch Wen 2nds when I made many glorious-but-ultimately-futile ducks and ran out many a good friend on warm and wet Swansea days or out in the sticks of Carmarthenshire where they would speak Welsh to intimidate us at the crease.

No such thing here.

They use six foot, rugby-framed, blonde, South African imports instead.

The import in question had a body like I'd only ever seen in places like Upper Cwmtwrch or reserve division five of the Swansea Senior League. Something used for smashing its way through back rows or nightclub doormen.

The second friendly game of the season found me opening up the batting for a select (cobbled together) Chairman's eleven.

We had fielded first and had been given the run around. The big blonde fellah and his equally able partner creamed my medium off-spin for thirty three runs off three overs.

But I didn't care. It was a friendly. It didn't really count I told myself.

So there I was four overs into our innings. The blonde South African opened the bowling too. He had started off reasonably fast as I saw a few pitched-up outswingers flying past my flailing bat. But I had noticed that his run-up was getting a yard longer each time.

And his speed too.

There were only going to be two balls left until he took a break and another bowler would come on to replace him.

I took up my stance at the crease and he took his in what seemed like a position ninety yards away –closer to the boundary than to the umpire.

Off he set. I told myself, 'Defend the wicket at all costs,' even if it means getting –dare I say it – hurt.

My eyes widen. He's getting closer. And closer. His nostrils seem to be opening up. His body's building up to a crescendo. In he comes. His feet leave the ground and his vertical arm slams the ball forward as his whole body explodes with force. And mine has all the fluidity and movement of a frozen choc-ice.

As per usual with fast bowlers, you can't really see the ball until it's two metres away from your nose and you have half a second to decide what to do. Do I go forward? Back? Duck out of the way? Cry? Let it hit the wickets?

As I ran through the options in my allotted half second, the gleaming five and a half ounce ball appeared before me in what seemed like a distance of fifty centimetres and approaching.

Smash!

It slammed into my unprotected left foot – maybe my metatarsal if the Daily Mirror is anything to go by – and the pain ripped through every bone and bloodstream of my body. He'd said 'sorry' before I'd even let out the 'arrrghh!' through gritted teeth.

I looked up.

The big man was wincing more than me. 'Sorry,' he said again.

I looked to the umpire.

He winced, cringed and put his finger up.

LBW!

How I love the old game. It hurts, but it's a break from the smog, you see.