The sickening thud of hardened leather on bone was clearly audible from the pavilion balcony.
'Colin's hurt, skipper', shouted Geoff. Ted took in the situation in a trice: Colin's left arm hanging limply by his side, the sudden hush of the crowd. He turned to me as I reached for my bat and cap.
'Time to put up the shutters, I think, Barnaby old chap,'he said, clapping me lightly on the back. I nodded and started down the steps that would take me on the long march which would take me through the Long Room and out onto the greatest cricket ground in the world. I felt physically sick as I emerged into the bright afternoon sunshine. Everything had changed so quickly. Barely ten minutes earlier we had seemed to be cruising towards a comfortable victory. Colin and Kenny had taken the measure of the Australian pace attack and by dint of superb strokeplay had steered us to within 150 runs of victory.
And then, in the space of ten balls, disaster had struck. First Kenny had gone to a brute of a ball from Thomson and now Colin, our greatest batsman and one of nature's finest gentlemen, had been cut down in full stride.
I started up at the cloudless sky, striving to adjust to the harsh light and to put some order in my feverish mind. Colin was effectively out of the match now, so that meant five wickets left and me the last of the accredited batsmen. To make matters worse, I had failed miserably in the first innings and knew that, if I failed this time, I would be unlikely to get another chance in Test cricket. I felt very conscious of my age and wondered whether, after my long absence from the international arena, I still had what it took to combat bowling of this class.
I passed Colin, his face drawn with pain. The great man managed a smile.
'How's the arm, Colin?'
It'll be all right. Bit of movement off the pitch, Barnaby. Get behind the line, old fellow.'
And then he was gone.
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