My father died four years ago. When I think of him now, my mind more often than not drifts fondly back to that golden moment on the cricket field decades ago – and the selfless act that would forever bind us together.

The occasion was the annual Boys v Fathers match at my preparatory school. It was the first time, aged 12, that I had captained the school side, and my Dad – one of the best cricketers in the county – was on the opposition. I was excited, determined to succeed, but very apprehensive about the reaction if I failed. I had been chosen to lead the side ahead of more obvious candidates in the year above, and there was much scepticism about my appointment.

My Dad came out to bat with the match evenly poised. I had just brought myself on to bowl, so we would now be face-to-face in combat. I expected few favors from him – he was naturally a highly competitive sportsman, a batsman who scored hundreds of runs every summer on cricket fields across Cumbria. Perhaps he might go just a little easy against a team of schoolboys, but first there were runs to be scored for his side.

So as I walked back to my mark to prepare to deliver my first ball, I sought nothing more than to contain him, to prevent him scoring a boundary. That limited objective was achieved when he left alone a poor ball, which was comfortably wide of his off stump.

As I raced in to bowl my second ball, I thought to myself “Just bowl it straight, force him to at least play a shot.” I managed to direct the ball towards his leg stump, but at an easy pace, and I waited for the ball to be inevitably caressed through the field for runs.

What happened next surprised and delighted me. He moved across his crease, leaving his leg stump unguarded, and the ball thudded into it, removing the bails. I had bowled him out!

As he left the crease, my Dad nodded his head in acknowledgement and said “Well bowled,” as much for the benefit of my team-mates as myself. I was quickly surrounded and showered with congratulations. I had captured the prize wicket for my team.

But I was under no illusion. I knew my Dad had artfully contrived to make it appear he had played and missed the ball, that he had been undone by my skill. He had done it because he had sensed his son’s fierce desire, his will to succeed and prove himself to his peers. It was never spoken about between us, but he knew I loved him for his gift to me in the sporting arena where we would always have our happiest times together in the years to come.