Last Friday's World Cup match between the West Indies and Bangladesh at Castle Avenue was a dour enough affair in playing terms, the admirable athleticism of both sides when fielding and some fine individual performances notwithstanding. But it was a marvellous occasion, full of atmosphere, and you couldn't help wondering the strides which our domestic cricket might have taken, had Ireland not failed so narrowly to qualify in Kuala Lumpur early last year. Still, it was heartening to see the young girls and boys, badgering the fielders from both sides for autographs, and it was equally heartening to note the positive response of the players. Watching from my seat nearby the new electronic scoreboard, I hoped that last Friday's experience will rub off on those youngsters and that they will take up a game which has so much to offer, like the keenest sporting endeavour, the twin demands of individual skill and team-work, lifelong companionship and a sense of the past and of history.

For pretty well every cricketer, the very memory of the sounds of the game evokes mental images - the dull "thunk" of ball against bat, the thud of the ball into the wicket-keeper's gloves, the concerted shout of "Howzat!" for an appeal - of these are memories made. As Hamlet is full of quotations, so cricket is full of nostalgia; a nostalgia which affects not only those who play and follow the game, but which is experienced by many who may never have handled a bat. Perhaps it is cricket's great antiquity and sense of timelessness which allows its followers to identify so closely with the greats of bygone days. Whatever the reason, to the real cricket-lover the deeds of W G Grace over a hundred years ago, the batting of Victor Trumper in the 20s and the fast bowling of Harold Larwood in the 30s are as vivid as Courtney Walsh's performance at Castle Avenue last Friday. It's a long, long time ago now, but I well remember when my late elder brother fashioned a home-made bat, with which, a heavy rubber ball and a "wicket" chalked on a barn door, we took to cricket.

Inevitably, I was Don Bradman, now fearlessly hooking bouncers off my shoulders, now delicately late-cutting through the slips, now thumping massive straight drives over the bowler's head for six. Or, when my turn came to bowl, I was Ray Lindwall, coming in on his runup, as if, as has been said, he was on rails; or again, I was Larwood, bowling terrifying bodyline at my brothers and our friends.

Rapidly, cricket was in my blood, and I read every book about it which I could lay my hands on in the local library, reliving the momentous events of other days, and becoming as familiar with the likes of Jardine, Kippax, Ponsford, Voce and Larwood as I was with the names of the local rugby heroes. In my craze for the game I was not alone, I should add; enough of my friends were interested for us to pick teams and play matches on pitches which could turn you - literally - into a legbreak bowler before you knew what was happening.

Soon, of course, I was playing real cricket, with Catholic Institute in Limerick, and spent many of the happiest summers of my life with that club. One of the highlights of our season was the annual visit of Railway Union, a fixture which (in my memory, at any rate) always seems to have been played in cloudless hot weather. The club - where sadly cricket is no longer played had no bar licence then and in those days on Sundays the pubs (incredibly) used to close at 7.30, so a stock of booze would be laid on in the groundsman's shed, since drink was not allowed in the pavilion.

The beer which I drank from the bottle on those long-ago nights I still can savour; and later, I would relive the memories of the match as I walked home to our house across the moonlit fields.

Now, we are well into another cricket season, the events of which will be recorded, discussed and compared to those of summers long gone, while the prowess of the players will be examined and compared to the attainments of the recent, and not-so-recent, past. For cricketers, the achievements of this season will conjure up remembrances of times past - of the 80s the 60s,the 40s, the last century, right back to Hambledon, the Hampshire village whose players laid down many of the techniques of today's game, back around 1760.

For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,

And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost;

And I look through my tears on the soundless clapping host

As the run-stealers flicker to and fro, to and fro -

Oh, my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!