Eli is 18. He has a face like an angel, a body like a long streak of piss, and a history of bad behaviour. But when he stands at the crease, he looks so right there, this lad from Blackpool. Thwack. It’s the final over. His team, a motley crew if ever there was one, needs three off the last ball to win. Can he do it? Eyes swivel, as one, to the boundary. Yes, he can. A six!
On the minibus home after the match, he and the rest of the gang sing “Sweet Caroline” with such tuneless enthusiasm it fairly breaks the heart. Briefly, they are as buoyant as barrage balloons. Nothing can dent their happiness, not even the prospect of curry for tea.
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