We haven’t seen it, but we bet it was beautiful.
We could watch him play those lithe, supple shots all day. He doesn’t look at all like the chimney sweeps in Mary Poppins when he’s at the crease. He doesn’t rock from side-to-side like a dancing cockney when he ambles down the pitch. And he doesn’t jab his bat out in front of him like it’s an unwieldy, sooty, overlong brush.
He’s all poetry, is Shiv.