My heart will go on.

A joy that’ll never cease. A blob of passion voyaging the blood stream, at every exciting seizure. A tempest of persevered fury that wrings the guts out.

Fast bowling is a fight, a delight. And I’ll never live sane, till it lives the way it does, insane.


The fingers clutch the seam urgently, nearly taking the stitches off. They fidget around, before deciding. Yes, it’ll curve that way. The feet take off in a rush, treading on every blade of grass, the edge of one of them sticking on to the sole of the shoe. One foot lands, nearly rubbing a white strip of paint off, another right behind it, kicking a storm of dust up and low into the English countryside. The palm has a small squeeze, before letting go of the cherry. The shoulder comes a full circle, and the little beautiful red ball goes hurtling in, piercing through the air, spreading its wings, and soaring in a fit of independece. It lands by another pair of feet, before climbing back up and then swings itself joyously on another highway, into the corridor of uncertainty. A brown, fat edge pushes it gently, the hands holding it in a fix, still deciding between playing full-on and not. It now finds itself screaming, laughing and shrieking, as the warm village breeze blankets it. A pair of cold English pink hands wrap around it, and the life in it ceases. So has luck, triumph and skill in the batsman, now looking hither and thither, helter and skelter, here and there, for just that one more chance. Just that one final go. Just that – a repeat, a more successful one. He knows he’s hit the end of the road, and hard at that, when he sees the bowler go awry with passion, his eyes distorted, as his maw opens to let a defiant, definitive, dashing ****, blood rushing into his cheeks, stomach pushed in with meaning, and outstretched arms that wander into brilliance.

Swing, seam, a scramble and a scream.


Australian feet steamroll over the grass leading up to the 22. The moustache of the midnight black curls and rests itself on the cheeks, sending creepy death stares right into the pair of eyes at the other end of the wicket. Eyes lock in, and a diss and an intent hover in, and out. The pitch is on a high flame, and is about to be pulverized by fury. The crude red object stitched in a dirty white flies out of the hand, and strikes the mud, hard and harder before jumping back into the cloud. It looks around, with the red eyes of a demon, targeting. Bingo, and it comes storming in, right at the nose. The eyes see nothing more than a blur, as the ball razes past his chest, staining the white t-shirt. The bat is held up high, in an inimitable cower, hanging up there, confused, and scared, much like the clueless man holding it. But he can’t show it. He stares back. Back at the moustache. Back at those tantalising eyes. Back, and back at him.

A jump, a stare, a mock, a diss and a fear.


Every waking moment, my heart craves these moments of glory. Every living minute, my soul lives and dies by the sword of the perishing art of fast bowling. Every sporting second, I love the insanity, long for it, as it trips, slips, grips my bloodstream. I have said to have missed a lot, but while Jimmy and Mitch are still around, my heart will go on.


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