1* | Ten Balls After The Rain | Flintoff to Kallis – Edgbaston, 2008
Step, step, front foot open and fizz. By the time Fred’s hit the crease the ball’s already jagging right through the gate, hardly an opportunity to get the bat down. Big Jacques Kallis’s back pad’s practically on the ground and he’s already staring back at the slips when he plays the shot. He turns away – all grins to Strauss at slip – before pausing for a blow. Hands on his knees, gulping on air, he tries to understand what the hell’s just happened. Breath, breath, and Fred turns again.
Bang. Hammered into the turf and it shapes away poetically before smashing into Tim Ambrose’s gloves.
Bang again. This time hammering across him as he ducks briskly beneath it. I can’t even see it but Ambrose can.
Angled out to the off side by Kallis. Gather yourselves.
Snap. Onto Kallis’s toe, tapering away from off with a sharp, curving arc and into the gloves again. Straussy’s screaming with both hands on his head but Aleem Dar is standing stock still. Must think Flintoff’s just bowled the most unbelievable jaffa if it’s managed to pitch middle and off and seam away. Right now I’m fuming but later I’ll be glad.
Flick. Kallis drops it through midwicket for one as Flintoff collects his cap.
Fizz. Angled-in bouncer and Kallis flops backwards like a salmon with a deadweight tied to its tail. Fred’s pumped, the Hollies is pumped, even my usually placid dad is pumped two seats to my left.
Ooooooh, whey! Fred fires it loose outside off, Kallis leaves it well be, dropping his bat inside the line and wandering off to leg for a breather.
Waft. Kallis gets forward and tries to nail it through cover. Real nets shot: had absolutely everything except reading the thing and getting anywhere near it.
Plunk, plunk. Roar. Off stump’s flying towards me in the front row at fine leg, everyone’s up and Fred’s doing that thing he does – proper leaning back and bellowing while the big-screen cameras focus in on his profile: mouth wide open with cricket’s most famous birthmark in full iconic view.
Sometimes it doesn’t matter if you win it or lose it, it’s just about these flickers in the rain. For quarter of an hour on a drab day for England, Fred had one of the very best on the run – out as many times as he got bat to ball.
And I’m there – just a 15-year-old lad who’s snuck down into the vacant front row with his mum and dad to witness absolute electricity.
I want to be fast, I want to bowl front-on like Fred, I want to watch the highlights on my grandad’s TV. I want to tell him about it ball by ball.
And when I do, I’ll see my dodgy pink shirt and even dodgier barnet between Fred’s bum and Aleem Dar’s elbow in the stands. I’ve never been on telly since.
