The death of Isaac Vivian
Gleaming beads of perspiration glided elegantly down his forehead like errant pearls out on a mission to obscure his vision. Vision. He thought. A matter of utmost importance. Vision is always of utmost importance, but especially so when an Ogre twice your height and thrice your weight is doing his utmost to smash your skull to smithereens with a red ball with 160 grams packed into a diameter of a little more than seven centimeters. Small, Heavy, and in this case, Fast enough to tear a hole straight through the middle of a man's heart. What hope had a man, He thought, had he not his vision. The lord be praised.
But his vision was being obscured. It was like being inside a Sauna in his grilled Helmet. A steady stream of putrid smelling sweat slowly glided down his eyelids, making tiny beads on his eyelashes. He batted his eyelashes painfully, a vague thought now entering his mind : He had to raise his helmet and reach inside to wipe the sweat off his eyes with his Red hankerchief after each of the last four balls he had faced in his innings that was now five balls old. And as if that wasnt enough, he always had a deep distaste for helmets , specially for the grilled variety that was doing rounds at the moment.
The bowler, if that creature running up to bowl can be called that, being an occupation that can be occupied by solely human beings, and Our protagonist had serious doubts about that, his mullet angrily bouncing behind his bulbous head, while his face , dominated by a moustache so ample that it would have left WG Grace licking his lips in envy, was presently contorted into a fierce grimace as he steamed in from nearly a mile away to hurl the cherry down at what our Hero felt must be pretty close to Two Hundred Miles per hour.
Suddenly, overcome by a sudden instinct, our Hero held up a hand. The raging bull of a bowler, having been interrupted near the climax of his charge, scowled and threw an awful tantrum. Promises of heavenly deliverance were promptly uttered to our Hero, who in turn , unstrapped his Helmet, quite oblivious to what was happenning around him, and hurled it to the ground in disgust. Never would he allow, ever, ever again, his vision to be obscured by inessential human contraptions again. He had to test if he was worth the name he was given at birth. He would know today if he was worthy to have as his idol The unquestioned reigning god of the race of batsmen.
The bowler, oblivious of his opponent's grand designs, reared like a bull in heat. He ran in faster than Michael Johnson, leaping elegantly like a gazelle (for truely, his leap was the only part of his action that was truely elegant), and proceeded to hurl a yorker at six hundred miles an hour. So naturally, when it soared high over Mid on and landed 40 rows back into the stands, all he could do was to blink idiotically. Of all possible outcomes, this was least expected. And turning back, he found that he had been injured before being insulted as he stared at the right hand of the umpire, which was presently outstretched horizontal to the ground, as if signalling something deeper about the bowler than the fact that he had just bowled a no ball.
Yes, thought our Hero. He was worthy of his name. He hadnt been christened Isaac Vivian for nothing. He was one with his idol. He had the swagger, and now he played without a Helmet AND disdainfully flicked hard working fast bowlers over mid on for furious sixes. What joy. He was free.
The dear old bowler, this sudden turn of fate making him look now more like a grumpy old father of three, trudged back to the top of his runup. His runup, now looking ragged, bore him to the part where he Leapt, which, now, with his aura of invincibility lifted, looked like a pig on a trampoline. The ball he proceeded to bowl was in itself very ordinary to say the very least. Our Hero, now endowed with SuperVision, free from all human contraptions and sweat and all other things that had distracted, knew the moment the ball had been delivered what to do with it. But keen not to overdo it, he punched it off his backfoot to point.
Alas. for he had punched it straight to the greatest fielder on earth. He thought he had hit it to the left of point, not noticing amidst all the excitement that he had moved a tad after the last ball. He swooped on the ball like an eagle and threw it towards the non strikers end. he wasnt going to make it.His only hope was to dive in so that he could take the throw ( which was quite low) on his body. that is the only option he has. Yes, he must put in a dive. The thought filled his brain so fast that there was little to distinguish it from an innate instinct, aimed at the overriding need to protect ones wicket. the thought made him fly from midpitch towards the non strikers end. Onlookers later recalled in awe that he never dived, he flew. But where was the ball? The stumps are intact.
He is saved. saved. the thought fills his head like the black plague. Slwoly, inexorably, before it all turns black.
Isaac Vivian lay past the stumps, his face bearing a serene smile. He had saved his wicket .The ball had hit his head. Blood streamed down his face, taking nearly the same trajectory that the sweat had taken a while back. The church bell struck three, its sonorous sound ringing through the stadium, shocked into silence, but father time stood still. Isaac Vivian was dead.
But his vision was being obscured. It was like being inside a Sauna in his grilled Helmet. A steady stream of putrid smelling sweat slowly glided down his eyelids, making tiny beads on his eyelashes. He batted his eyelashes painfully, a vague thought now entering his mind : He had to raise his helmet and reach inside to wipe the sweat off his eyes with his Red hankerchief after each of the last four balls he had faced in his innings that was now five balls old. And as if that wasnt enough, he always had a deep distaste for helmets , specially for the grilled variety that was doing rounds at the moment.
The bowler, if that creature running up to bowl can be called that, being an occupation that can be occupied by solely human beings, and Our protagonist had serious doubts about that, his mullet angrily bouncing behind his bulbous head, while his face , dominated by a moustache so ample that it would have left WG Grace licking his lips in envy, was presently contorted into a fierce grimace as he steamed in from nearly a mile away to hurl the cherry down at what our Hero felt must be pretty close to Two Hundred Miles per hour.
Suddenly, overcome by a sudden instinct, our Hero held up a hand. The raging bull of a bowler, having been interrupted near the climax of his charge, scowled and threw an awful tantrum. Promises of heavenly deliverance were promptly uttered to our Hero, who in turn , unstrapped his Helmet, quite oblivious to what was happenning around him, and hurled it to the ground in disgust. Never would he allow, ever, ever again, his vision to be obscured by inessential human contraptions again. He had to test if he was worth the name he was given at birth. He would know today if he was worthy to have as his idol The unquestioned reigning god of the race of batsmen.
The bowler, oblivious of his opponent's grand designs, reared like a bull in heat. He ran in faster than Michael Johnson, leaping elegantly like a gazelle (for truely, his leap was the only part of his action that was truely elegant), and proceeded to hurl a yorker at six hundred miles an hour. So naturally, when it soared high over Mid on and landed 40 rows back into the stands, all he could do was to blink idiotically. Of all possible outcomes, this was least expected. And turning back, he found that he had been injured before being insulted as he stared at the right hand of the umpire, which was presently outstretched horizontal to the ground, as if signalling something deeper about the bowler than the fact that he had just bowled a no ball.
Yes, thought our Hero. He was worthy of his name. He hadnt been christened Isaac Vivian for nothing. He was one with his idol. He had the swagger, and now he played without a Helmet AND disdainfully flicked hard working fast bowlers over mid on for furious sixes. What joy. He was free.
The dear old bowler, this sudden turn of fate making him look now more like a grumpy old father of three, trudged back to the top of his runup. His runup, now looking ragged, bore him to the part where he Leapt, which, now, with his aura of invincibility lifted, looked like a pig on a trampoline. The ball he proceeded to bowl was in itself very ordinary to say the very least. Our Hero, now endowed with SuperVision, free from all human contraptions and sweat and all other things that had distracted, knew the moment the ball had been delivered what to do with it. But keen not to overdo it, he punched it off his backfoot to point.
Alas. for he had punched it straight to the greatest fielder on earth. He thought he had hit it to the left of point, not noticing amidst all the excitement that he had moved a tad after the last ball. He swooped on the ball like an eagle and threw it towards the non strikers end. he wasnt going to make it.His only hope was to dive in so that he could take the throw ( which was quite low) on his body. that is the only option he has. Yes, he must put in a dive. The thought filled his brain so fast that there was little to distinguish it from an innate instinct, aimed at the overriding need to protect ones wicket. the thought made him fly from midpitch towards the non strikers end. Onlookers later recalled in awe that he never dived, he flew. But where was the ball? The stumps are intact.
He is saved. saved. the thought fills his head like the black plague. Slwoly, inexorably, before it all turns black.
Isaac Vivian lay past the stumps, his face bearing a serene smile. He had saved his wicket .The ball had hit his head. Blood streamed down his face, taking nearly the same trajectory that the sweat had taken a while back. The church bell struck three, its sonorous sound ringing through the stadium, shocked into silence, but father time stood still. Isaac Vivian was dead.
posted by '~-)Sandman(-~' at 3:31 AM
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