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I ask to go in the slips — anywhere else make me dream — no time to think of home, what I'll do with a first girl friend.
This is where I concentrate, hunched over knees for a catch edged off the bat. Thought of the ball hitting my head
keeps me awake. Sometimes I lose attention, think about mother’s lamb chops, the latest issue of Health and Efficiency
hidden deep under my pal’s mattress and how I’m going to get hold of it. Then there’s the thwack of the ball. Everyone’s running. It’s been hit
to the boundary (my head’s still out there) but now it arcs back to the stumps. Holdsworth has his wicket keeper’s gloves open
and hopeful. He looks up, sways a little. The ball paints the sky. I hear myself say, ‘Doesn’t it look red against the blue’. It drops towards me.
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