One of our batsmen has fallen sick, so I am asked to fill in at the pivotal number six position. Nobody else feels up to the task, but I, Laurence Elderbrook, step up.
Our top order find the pitch difficult and while they manage to keep wickets in hand, they score slowly. Finally the fourth wicket falls. The scoring rate will now rise, because Laurence Elderbrook is about to grace this match.
I don’t rush. I take a moment to compose myself in front of the mirror. Resplendent in my cream flannels, I look immaculate. It is time.
As I advance on my stage, I loosen my arms and warm up. I exude calm authority. This drama will unfold according to my script.
My first ball is full-pitched and I aim a drive. I pick out the cover fielder, who collects it on the half-volley. He has the gall to appeal, even though it clearly didn’t carry. However, the ignorant umpire raises his finger. I am astonished – outraged even.
I take the only option available to me. I calmly discard my bat, draw one of the stumps from the ground and make my way towards the offending fielder’s car. As I approach the vehicle the players and the crowd are rapt. I can feel everyone’s gaze upon me.
I arrive at my destination. I turn to face the car’s owner. I look him in the eye. Then I turn and make my point in emphatic fashion, by spearing the stump straight through his windscreen.
I return to the middle to collect my bat. As I pass the open-mouthed cheat who has offended me I turn and let fly a huge, bestial roar. Right in his face.
I collect my bat, tuck it under my arm and make my way off the pitch with the serene dignity afforded to only the very few.
Everyone stares. They admire my restraint. They admire me.