Sam’s Ashes Nightmare


The truth, which would now haunt Kitman Sam’s every sleeping moment, was that the bats hadn’t been misplaced. They had resigned.


It began not with a dramatic event, but with a slow-burning, seething resentment. For years, the bats had borne the brunt of England’s fluctuating fortunes. They’d suffered in silence: the humiliation of being nicked off to second slip for a duck, the agony of a toe-crushing yorker, the indignity of being used to swat at a particularly persistent wasp during a drinks break.


The final straw was a team meeting led by the new "Performance Psychologist," Dr. Felicity Blumenthal. Her thesis was "Anthropomorphic Synergistic Empowerment," which involved the players giving their bats names and sharing their feelings with them.


Bowler: "I've called him 'Barry'. He feels a bit heavy today, Doc. I think he's anxious about the short boundary."
Dr. Blumenthal: "Excellent. Have you told Barry you believe in him?"


The bats, lined up against the wall, endured this with the silent fury of inanimate objects being talked to like moody toddlers. But the moment that sparked the mutiny was when the star batsman, after skying one to deep mid-wicket, threw his bat down in disgust and snarled, "Useless piece of wood!"


A shockwave went through the willow. Wood? WOOD? They were seasoned English willow! Artisanal craftsmanship! They had more grains than the local farm shop!


That night, as Sam buffered the last handle, the captain’s bat—a proud, seasoned piece known as "The Judge"—gave a subtle twitch. Sam blinked, blaming Reginald’s "night-vision" chill con carne. But then The Judge spoke, not with a voice, but by projecting thoughts directly into Sam’s mind, filled with the weary disdain of a retired colonel.


"We have reached a collective decision, kitman. We are withdrawing our labour. The constant poor shot selection, the reckless reviews, the fact the number eleven uses me to clean mud from his spikes... it is untenable. We are going on strike."


"No, wait!" Sam pleaded, holding a tub of linseed oil like a sacrificial offering. "What about the Ashes? What about pride?"


"We have no pride left. It was edged to third man for four," intoned The Judge. *"We shall seek asylum at a place where our skills are appreciated. We hear the under-11s county side has a very solid forward defensive."*


And with that, the bats simply vanished. Not with a bang or a flash, but with the faint, disappointed sound of a thousand missed straight balls. One moment they were there, the next, just the faint scent of linseed and resentment.


The ECB, in a panic, reported them "misplaced" to avoid the media frenzy of "SENTIENT WILLOW STRIKE ROCKS ENGLISH CRICKET."


Now, trapped in his nightmare, Sam isn't just looking for lost equipment. He's on a desperate diplomatic mission to negotiate with a militant faction of disgruntled willow, pursued by the ghost of W.G. Grace, who keeps shouting "Play the game, Sir!" and appealing for leg-before on spectral batsmen. Sam must find them, promise them better shot selection, and maybe a dedicated therapist, before it's too late and they sign a central contract with… Australia.