THE RED BALL
A new fable on cricket and life.....
In the age of panic a slower pace is welcome.
A red ball can do this.
Late September, south coast, England.
White shirts and trousers. A thick cream sweater is barely enough for the chill.
A smattering of gentle applause could be heard.
The light applause you hear when certificates are handed out.
The dark grey clouds hung over the cricket ground.
Are they rain clouds? Is that mizzle in the air? Is there a gap? Some light?
Fuck off clouds.
Let’s play cricket.
*
Down the steps, across the white line, and striding out into middle of the ground.
Two men. I say two men, one is a boy.
How old is he? Sixteen? Looks twelve. Or younger. Slight.
Indian lad. Rav.
The other opening batter looks twice his height. And more than twice his age. Don.
Silver streaks in the hair of the man who’s spend more than half his life playing here.
Batting here. Battling here. A mental game.
Don could have played for England. Should have played for England.
You can’t pick yourself.
Rav might play for India one day. Soon.
But this? Too soon?
The wrong time. The wrong place. The wrong conditions. The wrong mindset.
There feels more to be lost here than gained.
On midsummer evenings the crowds are electric here.
Morning. 10:29am. This crowd is small and unplugged from any excitement.
Through the gloom you could pick out the raincoats. The flasks.
Sitting in ones and twos. Hoping for fours. Not a day for sixes.
Rows of empty seats. Hollow. Cold.
Some umbrellas. The apparent right of the English cricket fan.
To expect play while holding up a brolly.
Rav was nervous. More than that. Terrified.
Darting and bouncing like an actual cricket, trying to get the blood pumping.
A couple of reassuring glances from his partner providing no reassurance.
This wasn’t how Rav had imagined it.
A last chance, at just sixteen years of age?