It wasn't an uncommon urge in my nineties. Right from my very first test innings. At least about eleven or twelve times had I succumbed to it already. Not that I hadn't overcome the urge a few times to pass a hundred. But this particular day in Adelaide was different.
Jason Gillespie, all limbs and hair hurtling towards me when, just as he released the ball it appeared again. The sensation, a sudden sharp spike like never before, never while the ball was in play, appeared like a dagger in the bladder suddenly discovered. It was pitched short and rose at some pace. I knew there was a fine leg in position, just for the eventuality of the shot I played instinctively. Instinct, the beast I had tamed all my life, only to be defeated by the superior forces of my bladder. In it's defence, it does perform a function of setting free something that I could never allow while wearing an abdomen guard. So it did set free something else instead. Instinct.
A hook. Wild. Uncontrolled. Instinctive. That sailed towards the fine leg fielder. Who seemed to be easily getting under it for that fraction of a second where I remembered thinking that the scoreboard wouldn't, but should read: Rahul Dravid c Fine Leg b Bladder. I wasn't one to easily succumb to pressure. But this was a notch too visceral. However, for some force of nature it sailed over 13 rows behind. By the time Laxman hugged me, the sensation was gone. 101 n.o.
The sensation stayed away for another 132 runs spanning perhaps a binge-watched season of Game Of Thrones where winter was yet to come.
When I returned to relieve myself in the confines of the dressing room john I realised that it wasn't forthcoming. All my piss had turned into sweat crystallising a half inch stone in my kidney.
Nothing that a few beers wouldn't cure.
Jason Gillespie, all limbs and hair hurtling towards me when, just as he released the ball it appeared again. The sensation, a sudden sharp spike like never before, never while the ball was in play, appeared like a dagger in the bladder suddenly discovered. It was pitched short and rose at some pace. I knew there was a fine leg in position, just for the eventuality of the shot I played instinctively. Instinct, the beast I had tamed all my life, only to be defeated by the superior forces of my bladder. In it's defence, it does perform a function of setting free something that I could never allow while wearing an abdomen guard. So it did set free something else instead. Instinct.
A hook. Wild. Uncontrolled. Instinctive. That sailed towards the fine leg fielder. Who seemed to be easily getting under it for that fraction of a second where I remembered thinking that the scoreboard wouldn't, but should read: Rahul Dravid c Fine Leg b Bladder. I wasn't one to easily succumb to pressure. But this was a notch too visceral. However, for some force of nature it sailed over 13 rows behind. By the time Laxman hugged me, the sensation was gone. 101 n.o.
The sensation stayed away for another 132 runs spanning perhaps a binge-watched season of Game Of Thrones where winter was yet to come.
When I returned to relieve myself in the confines of the dressing room john I realised that it wasn't forthcoming. All my piss had turned into sweat crystallising a half inch stone in my kidney.
Nothing that a few beers wouldn't cure.
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