Despite the captain’s promise following my moment of triumph, I was not called upon to bat at three the following season. In fact, I was not called upon to bat at all.
Having spent the entire season resplendent in my cream flannels on the wrong side of the boundary, I decide to take stock. I speak to Mrs Elderbrook about my cricket career and see what advice she has.
Mrs Elderbrook says I should take the hint. She says that if a team’s happier to pick a wooden barrel than me on the grounds that it can be placed at fine leg where it might occasionally stop a four then maybe there’s a message in that.
I say that she is right, that all the greatest players lose form and that it is how you respond that matters. I thank her for her subtle wisdom and inform her that I am going to go to Australia to play grade cricket. I will claw my way back to glory.
Later on, the lady on the phone tells me the price of a flight to Sydney and I take the only option available to me. I throw back my head and let fly a huge, bestial roar, after which I bellow my credit card details at her.
Mrs Elderbrook looks on with a tear in her eye. She admires my restraint. She admires me.