Average down to 46.24. Why God?
I’m on the dancefloor. I’m dancing. I’m doing that rolling thing with my hands, arms up in the sky, moving down, back up again.
You make me feel like the one, make me feel like the one, oh yeah….
All the eyes are on me. All of them.
Yeah I feel like the one, feel like the one.
O jeez. In the corner. It’s Belly. He’s looking at me while sipping a cocktail. Hooded eyes ravishing every inch of my body. Focus Kev. Feel like the…
O God. I’ve lost my rhythm. My feet feel heavy. Straussy is looking at me too. I’m sweating. I’m walking over to Belly. I’m gonna give him a piece of my mind.
Wait. I’m not in a disco. I’m at Lords. I’m on the field. It’s the 20/20 final. The whole team is staring at me. And laughing. Bellyyyyyyy!
I’ve been taking lessons in false modesty. My coach Rob Spear tells me I should use the phrase “I was lucky enough” more, as in “I was lucky enough to score a century today; I was lucky enough to visit a school of orphans in India; I was lucky enough to meet Mandela (LOL!!).”
He also says never to point with the finger but to use a thumb like claw approach. Also I shouldn’t mispronounce opposition players’ names.
I say, “are you kidding? Have you ever been to Sri Lanka?!!”
He says “c’mon Kevin.”
I say “it’s Kivan. KIVAN you fucking muppet.”
I lay into him with all my fury.
They’ve got a new player in from South Africa. He’s been drafted straight into the first team. Senior management think that his failure will turn on my success. His name’s Trott.
I got 15 today. Bowled.
Trott’s not understood his role in the side. He’s a fuckin idiot. C’mon Kivan.
God. I’ve never prayed to you before. But I’m praying now. I’m on my knees big guy. Firstly– as you know I am a great cricketer. But I don’t seem to be getting the scores in. C’mon God pal, give us a hand here mate.
“Have you ever scored a century at Lords? Have you ever scored a double century at the Wanderers? Have you? Have you? I mean what are you? What have you ever done man? Nothing! You are nothing to me!!”
I hang up the phone to Mandela and stride out onto the balcony wearing only my sunnies and a smile. Hold on. This is not my balcony. I’m at Lords. The whole world is watching. There are muted gasps from the members lounge and an old man dies in the stands.
My average is down to 46.21. Are you happy now God?