A friend likes to remind me about the one time I attended an Ashes test in Melbourne, Boxing Day, 1974. The crowd was waiting, excited, to watch the English team, and Dennis Amiss particularly, front up to the wicket. On he came, bravely facing just eight balls. Then he was caught out, having scored a paltry four runs. I cried. How humiliating and soul-shrivelling for him, I thought. But my Australian (male) friends couldn’t understand at all. Crying? For an Englishman!
Review: The Empty Honour Board: a school memoir – Martin Flanagan (Viking)
Then there were all those years growing up with a father who insisted on watching Wide World of Sports every Sunday at lunchtime. The kitchen table would be carried in to the TV and we were made to sit in religious silence, eating our roast, watching grown men hand-balling through a hole in the wall, and rehashing the…
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