The Boxing Kangaroo makes depressingly short work of New Zealand in front of another meagre crowd at the Sinhalese Sports Club Ground, allowing some of us an extra hour to explore the sights and sounds of Colombo before sunset. I decide to trek down Galle Road in search of a pub that offers cheap games of pool (highly recommended by the hotel staff). When I get there, the doorman stares down at his highly polished wingtips before telling me that the said pool table is being repaired. I continue on down the small avenue that leads to the beach and come across a frenetic game of street football. Shirts in an assortment of hues and sizes are on display - ranging from modern-day Barcelona to the Manchester United kit that Norman Whiteside and Co. wore on their way to the FA Cup in 1985 - but the skills are pretty limited. The route-one thump down the "pitch" appears to be the favoured option, and some of the players sport paunches that indicate a meat-pie-and-lager diet that would put Gazza to shame.

I give the kickabout a miss and carry on down to the beachfront, where street cricket shakes hands with its sandy compatriot. Half the pitch is tarmac and the rest tightly packed sand, ensuring a variable bounce that would test the most accomplished batsmen. I stand and watch for a few moments, before a middle-aged man in a Fosters singlet asks me if I'd like to join in. I do so and straight away get caught up in the excitement of a 15-over-a-side bash.

We field first and I take my place on the sand at cover point with more than a few butterflies in my stomach. There's plenty of good-natured banter (mostly in Sinhalese, which is overhead transmission as far as I'm concerned) and the nature of my job makes me a sitting duck for the wags. Thankfully, I hold the one catch that comes my way and avoid any drastic goof-ups. The leader of my pack, Weeratunga, prattles on endlessly and offers me advice on every aspect of life in his city - most of it unfit for publication here.

They put together 80 runs, which is quite competitive given that most deliveries are flying around the batsmen's ears. This is no place for the purist, and most of the scoring strokes are slashes through the off side and good old-fashioned swipes to cow corner. When it's our turn to bat, I volunteer to go in, with one eye on the fading light. The first bowler I face, Indika, has an action that is a cross between Rumesh Ratnayake and a frog in a blender, but he manages to get disconcerting bounce. Between edges, swipes and one sweetly struck straight-drive that gives me no end of satisfaction, I make my way to 15 before ambition gets the better of me.

Strokes like the dab over the slips are best left to the likes of Tendulkar, I decide, as my attempt stays airborne an age before coming down into second slip's hands. As I walk back to join my team, Weeratunga shakes his head ruefully, telling me that I should've hooked it for six. The master coach himself makes just 3, as we capitulate shamefully in the final stages.

Indika's unorthodoxy (Paul Adams, you ain't seen nothing yet) fetches him a five-for and he leads the way, wreathed in smiles, to the hole-in-the-wall joint for snacks and tea afterwards. Over egg hoppers and fish curry so fiery I weep, he tells me he hails from Matara, where his cricket path once crossed that of Sanath Jayasuriya. And what happened then? He looks away sheepishly before muttering "He smashed me." No worries, Indika. Better bowlers than you - step forward McGrath, Akram and Pollock - know that particular feeling.

Dileep Premachandran is assistant editor of Wisden.com in India. His reports will appear here throughout the Champions Trophy.

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