Published: March 19, 2019
The doctor said the blows brought on a form of epilepsy. What advice do I now give my sport-mad kids?
I was 63 not out and batting beautifully, flaying Weston Creek fifths all over Rivett Oval. Cut shots, pull shots, mighty heaves down town. I was 16 years old and surely on the way to a hundred. And then they brought on the Angel. He was quite a bit quicker than his pals.
The Angel (known so for his surname) bowled a half-tracker that I shaped to hook. There followed a meaty “thock” not of leather on willow but rather Kookaburra six-stitcher connecting flush with right temporal bone. And, helmet-free, down onto the synthetic wicket I went.
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