antigua’s air fills everything with sleepiness. lassitude. the cricket ground is in the middle of nowhere. goats n other livestock are herded across the hinterland (carpark) to the west. it makes the stadium seem like a world unto its self. the scoreboard shows no bowling analysis. its all and only about the batting. this is sir viv world.

early jaques leaves a ball outside off stump. i have never seen a delivery in test cricket so insignificant, so close to not exisiting, to not having happened at all. jacques raised his eyes to glance briefly at the bowler as he delivered the ball, shifted his bat out of the way with the knowledge that even this effort was histrionics. he needn’t have moved. the ball passed by. the bowler had forgotten how he’d reached this point – last he recalled he was at the top of his mark. the keeper gloved it i guess.

an over or two later (what’s time anyway?) an almost indentical instance occurs with katich on strike.

nothingness develops

cricket moves slowly through the day. antiguan rum n air has everything under a spell. katich concentrates hard to stay awake. his concerted effort lasts all day and is not to be sniffed at. Jaques gets lazy early. the windies are sleepy n disinterested. wkts occur at times during the day but they come from nowhere and lead nowhere, just strange little obscure moments within the dream. there are a few bams when clarke arrives and the crease he meets the ball hard.