Fast Bowlers 1. Old Style


There’s something wolfish in his stride as leanly, hungrily he prowls the boundary until his side requires his fury. Then he bowls


with naked murder in his heart, volcanic tumult in his eye. He lusts to smash the stumps apart. Like lightning forking from the sky


he thunders down his path of dread, measures his bouncers to the inch and sends it whistling past the head and laughs to see the batsman flinch.


There’s violence in the drawn-back lips, ultimate sorrow in the glance at unmoved umpires, or at slips bisected by an easy chance.


His head hangs low, his shoulders slump when fury ends in mute defeat, but he grins like death when half a stump breaks off and hurtles forty feet.


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