Infinity and beyond

Last week I played cricket for the House of Commons and miraculously survived the first ball — a tricky deceit of a weasley-thing that had skipped around mid-flight whilst the sun was in my eyes.

I flailed at it and missed but the ball then lighted on an earthy indentation and spiralled away, missing the stumps by a scintilla. The wicketkeeper shouted something preposterous like 'We'll have him on the next one' and the opposing team captain ushered his comrades in for the kill. I'll show them I thought.

Down the second thundered. To my astonishment, I connected. The ball wound away and I lumbered off for the faraway crease.

This accomplished I noticed that one of the same cocky fielders who had been coaxed in close to administer the coup de grace had himself bungled by allowing the ball to slip his grasp and run on. I bellowed 'Another!' 'No!' came my partner's reply. I hurry back. Sly-boy's buttery fingers find the ball. I see him out of the bulging edge of my eye — his arm raised stark —execution-ready. One terrible throw and he'll hit my wicket. I dive for it.

The problem is that whilst I take off as a twenty-year-old I hit the ground as a man of fifty. My right arm, trusty bat outstretched connects with the pitch. My weight piles up hard behind. There is a twist. The creak of ripping flesh.

They crowd in close — hyenas now curiously calmed. 'Well, help him up!' one of them barks and I am clapped off.

The shoulder is broken. A sticky-out sling in the style of Buzz Lightyear has become my everyday friend. 'To infinity and beyond!' my 5-year-old daughter intones. Well maybe one day — but not this season.