Eascote at home. Terrorised by the Eastcote express. They had a young fast bowler who charged in and bowled everything; bouncer, yorker, slower ball, round the wicket, over it. I was dazed. I had no idea where, what he was going to bowl. Yet fear of that ball, the one at your bonce, to anticipate it, beat it, duck it, swerve it , is indescribable. Fright and joy, all in a short breath.
Eastcote’s other opening bowler was the most most cheerful cricketer I’ve ever played against. He ran in and never stopped smiling. He plays for the England deaf XI. There’s an amusing bit on film when he signs to his skipper; rotating his wrist and pointing at me. Was he suggesting this batsman’s an Onanist or he’s wristy with a lot of bottom hand?
Perhaps he plays the game with a smile on his face because he’s not heard the awful chatter that passes in the modern cricket. Lucky, happy man.
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