Feeling cold. Clammy hands. Tight throat, restricting breathing. Nervous yawns to get some air. Heart thumping in my chest. Tired, I want to sleep, to be in bed with blankets pulled over my head, shutting out the world.
I want to be anywhere but sitting in a - probably - flea-ridden armchair in the players' viewing room above the members stand in Hove. Next in, pads on, bat, gloves and helmet on the floor by my side. I don't want to use them. I don't want to bat, I want to sleep.
But sleep is bringing little comfort. Night after night I wake in a cold sweat, having seen Imran Khan beckon me for the 100th time to stand at short leg. My eyes are fixed on the batsman, Dav Whatmore, but I can visualise Imran's graceful athletic approach, dark hair flowing, the "Lion of Pakistan" about to engage in battle. I've become a pawn in a private war between two national stereotypes. The Pathan warrior versus the gum- chewing Aussie gunslinger.
Imran unleashes his grenade: a bouncer, as everyone knows it will be, including the batsman, who responds with a ferocious pull shot. I raise two ineffectual hands to protect my helmetless head but I feel the wind of the passing bullet on my left cheek before they reach chest height.
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What Sylvester Clarke taught me
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