“thank you” in as many different languages as possible. I begin by doing so in the language of a favourite aria, with all the elaborated modulations required. The others sing in German, Japanese, Russian, Swahili …
There is good cheer among us. But it is a moment in an oasis, a brief respite from all the suffering around, in the aftermath of war.
Outside, children search for their mothers in bombed houses and cratered tower blocks.
At night, in the darkened city, children sleep on the rubble of their bombed-out homes, waiting for their parents to return from the dead.
The
Legendary
Sedgewick
1
A MAN CALLED Sedgewick performed a legendary feat in our presence. He had been a great cricketer, but he wasn’t a cricketer any more. He had gone beyond the game. For some time now he had been developing a new form.
There were many rumours about him. As he tended towards silence, the rumours hardened into facts. No-one knew where he lived, or what he did with his time. And so it was concluded by many that he did business with the devil. Others, more charitably, maintained that he occupied himself with a little harmless dabbling in alchemy.
He no longer played cricket in public, and hadn’t done for years. In fact what he was perfecting was more like golfing cricket, for it was a strange amalgam he played.
And so we found ourselves oddly assembled for no particular reason, it seemed, except that those of us who hadn’t seen him in years received a call asking us to witness an event as interesting as a brief meeting with a once -famous cricketer whose name recalled for us magical moments from our youth.
And there he was, unceremonious as ever. Not even a word or nod to acknowledge our presence. Just the merest hint of a smile, tender enough to charm us into a mood of expectancy that only nostalgia permits to those who have seen it all, and who no longer dream of new glories.
He stood in the woods and made a barely discernible spin-throw with the cricket ball. It travelled lightly from his hand, fell on the ground, rolled up the slope and span among the roots of a tree. Then, circling the tree, it went a short way on, and slipped into a brook.
We sighed in disappointment. But there was something about his smile, so we continued gazing at the ball in mild perplexity. Meanwhile the ball appeared to change consistency, appeared to float, but in truth it span back towards us, inching along the surface of the water. And, to the astonishment of the gathering crowd that sensed a legendary event was unfolding, the ball went on spinning backwards till it rolled out of the water, onto the land. Then, as if pushed by an invisible force, it made its way to the hole, and dropped in, to the tremendous applause of the crowd.
It was a miraculous throw, done with the greatest nonchalance, defying all known laws of motion and cricket. Instantly Sedgewick, a black chap, became a legend. He became internationally famous.
The next time we saw him he lived in a nice house. He attempted again a nonchalant throw, out of his frosted window. But he missed, twice. The third time, however, something began to happen. The ball, spinning, began its famous journey. And we watched, fascinated, to see what it would do, how it would get to that distant hole, from such a lackadaisical throw. …
2
Afterwards, we were all downstairs. There was Sedgewick, me, a few others, and a proper legend of the game – a man called Jackson. Now Jackson was
the
man. He was the most respected cricketer of them all. He was trim, he was alert, and Sedgewick had for him the highest regard.
We were all there, downstairs, outside, and the dapper Jackson was demonstrating a classical overarm bowl, with a wrist action that was his speciality. Sedgewick stood next to me, respectfully looking on at the moves of an acknowledged master. Sedgewick had an interesting air about him. His chemistry had changed. Jackson knew this. Jackson was a great player, but Sedgewick had done
There is good cheer among us. But it is a moment in an oasis, a brief respite from all the suffering around, in the aftermath of war.
Outside, children search for their mothers in bombed houses and cratered tower blocks.
At night, in the darkened city, children sleep on the rubble of their bombed-out homes, waiting for their parents to return from the dead.
The
Legendary
Sedgewick
1
A MAN CALLED Sedgewick performed a legendary feat in our presence. He had been a great cricketer, but he wasn’t a cricketer any more. He had gone beyond the game. For some time now he had been developing a new form.
There were many rumours about him. As he tended towards silence, the rumours hardened into facts. No-one knew where he lived, or what he did with his time. And so it was concluded by many that he did business with the devil. Others, more charitably, maintained that he occupied himself with a little harmless dabbling in alchemy.
He no longer played cricket in public, and hadn’t done for years. In fact what he was perfecting was more like golfing cricket, for it was a strange amalgam he played.
And so we found ourselves oddly assembled for no particular reason, it seemed, except that those of us who hadn’t seen him in years received a call asking us to witness an event as interesting as a brief meeting with a once -famous cricketer whose name recalled for us magical moments from our youth.
And there he was, unceremonious as ever. Not even a word or nod to acknowledge our presence. Just the merest hint of a smile, tender enough to charm us into a mood of expectancy that only nostalgia permits to those who have seen it all, and who no longer dream of new glories.
He stood in the woods and made a barely discernible spin-throw with the cricket ball. It travelled lightly from his hand, fell on the ground, rolled up the slope and span among the roots of a tree. Then, circling the tree, it went a short way on, and slipped into a brook.
We sighed in disappointment. But there was something about his smile, so we continued gazing at the ball in mild perplexity. Meanwhile the ball appeared to change consistency, appeared to float, but in truth it span back towards us, inching along the surface of the water. And, to the astonishment of the gathering crowd that sensed a legendary event was unfolding, the ball went on spinning backwards till it rolled out of the water, onto the land. Then, as if pushed by an invisible force, it made its way to the hole, and dropped in, to the tremendous applause of the crowd.
It was a miraculous throw, done with the greatest nonchalance, defying all known laws of motion and cricket. Instantly Sedgewick, a black chap, became a legend. He became internationally famous.
The next time we saw him he lived in a nice house. He attempted again a nonchalant throw, out of his frosted window. But he missed, twice. The third time, however, something began to happen. The ball, spinning, began its famous journey. And we watched, fascinated, to see what it would do, how it would get to that distant hole, from such a lackadaisical throw. …
2
Afterwards, we were all downstairs. There was Sedgewick, me, a few others, and a proper legend of the game – a man called Jackson. Now Jackson was
the
man. He was the most respected cricketer of them all. He was trim, he was alert, and Sedgewick had for him the highest regard.
We were all there, downstairs, outside, and the dapper Jackson was demonstrating a classical overarm bowl, with a wrist action that was his speciality. Sedgewick stood next to me, respectfully looking on at the moves of an acknowledged master. Sedgewick had an interesting air about him. His chemistry had changed. Jackson knew this. Jackson was a great player, but Sedgewick had done
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