The score was 23-3. Jesse Ryder knew what he had to do.
He started the gentle rocking motion that would propel him out of his chair and when he had enough momentum, he went for the stand. A shower of crisp crumbs indicated success. He stretched his arms up and half a crumpet that had been caught in a fold dropped to the floor. Jesse ignored it.
“Roll me to the crease, boys,” he instructed and his team mates did as he bid. Martin Guptill had been dismissed and he confided in Ryder: “They’re the ones who hid your Yorkies,” pointing at the Indians.
Sweating ever-so-slightly, Jesse took guard. He was less unnerved by the 20 over wait until lunch than he normally would be, because the Indians’ sweet-treat-hiding behaviour had woken something in him; a blazing rage that could not be extinguished.
They had hidden his Yorkie bars. They would pay.
Ross Taylor hit a hundred too, but he’s thin, so he doesn’t get his own post.