Fielding at Fine Leg

The ball cannons into the wicketkeeper’s gloves while the slip cordon take a collectively sharp breath and turn to each other to mock my cowardice. The bowler has followed through with his run-up so he is in my half of the pitch, hands on hips glaring at me intensely. Lighten up mate, this is division 6b, not the bloody Ashes. I gawk back at him, perhaps mutter something about him bowling like a pansy and turn to the wicketkeeper all smiles. I am way beyond being psyched out. When you bat as badly as I do, every run is worthy of reception with the queen and every boundary requires its own DVD with extended highlights.