The man wandered alone through the open field that was the triangular ODI series. He was lost and tired; his feet bled from the wounds of many days without rest. His throat was paper dry with thirst and cursing at channel 9 commentary, his eyes were bloodshot from being open so long.
As he passed the Indian team, prostrate upon the grass and wet with sorrow, clutching stuffed kangaroos and plane tickets, he looked into the distance and thought he could see a glimmer there. Could it possibly be the end of the series? No, he thought, it must be a mirage. He would not allow his hopes to be risen only to then be smashed, as fragile as eggshells, upon the hard, cold ground.
He would continue to walk and watch, aimlessly hoping for salvation. To waste the time, he would ponder the people he had met and the…
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