Middle of the night. Langeveldt residences.
In the bedroom, a woman sleeps peacefully, while the man next to her tosses and turns.
"No...no...not another maiden..."
Disturbed by the noise, the woman rouses out of her slumber. The sleeping man's voice gets increasingly agitated.
"No...no...caught in the deep...slower ball...no..."
"Honey? Honey wake up...you're having those dreams again..."
"Run rate...dot ball...4.28...4.28...no...no...NO!"
The man springs upright, eyes wide open, sweat dripping off his forehead as he pants and gasps for breath.
"Honey...oh dear, are you ok?! You had another one of those dreams..."
*Pant*...I'm...I'm all right dear...*wheez*....I'll be fine...."
"Oh no...I told you, you got to stop watching all that 90s ODI cricket. You've barely slept since you re-watched the 1992 World Cup!"
"No...I'm fine...please, lets go to sleep..."
"What is it? Shoaib Akhtar? Wasim Akram? Sachin Tendulkar?"
"No...none of those...nothing like that..."
"You can tell me what it is, please!"
"It's nothing, honestly. Please, lets just sleep..."
Langaveldt laid back down and tucked himself in. Reluctantly, his wife follows his suit.
She was right though, he hadn't had a good night's rest since he began watching all that vintage ODI cricket. One bowler in particular had been haunting his dreams each night. Steadily.Consistently. Naggingly. Always there without fail.
At first he laughed it off. Just another dream. Just another fantasy cricket match. He had dreamt hundreds of matches before. Nothing special about this one.
But then this particular match kept repeating. And repeating. And repeating. The same scenario. The same bowler. And no matter how hard he tried, the same result.
But not tonight...this night, he promised himself as he dozed off, this night would be different...
------------------------------------------------------------
Eden Park. It's the second innings of a day night ODI of a World Cup Semi-Final. New Zealand had set a target of 250. The score now read 97/2 in 19 overs. Langaveldt was the next man in, all padded up and waiting for the fall of a wicket.
He didn't have to wait long. A runout off the final ball of the over saw him making his way out to the middle with the score at 100/3.
150 in 30 overs. Piece of cake. He ran to the pitch amidst the din of the crowd. 5 runs an over. 7 wickets in hand. Doable. Manageable. Just knock the ball about, take your singles, put the bad ball away, and just like that you are into the final.
Yet something was bothering him. He couldn't put his finger on it. A strange sense of deja vu...of some sort of impending doom. He had been here before, but he wasn't quite sure how or when.
He marked his guard. The keeper was up to the stumps. The wicket looked slow and low.
Then the announcer's voice boomed across the stadium
"INTRODUCING INTO THE ATTACK....CHHRRRRIIISSSSS HHAAAAARRRRIIISSSSSS"
His heart fell to the bottom of his stomach.
Yup, he had been here before.
He was dreaming again.
150 in 30 overs....then Chris ****ing Harris gets the ****ing ball.
He looks down past the umpire. There he was, at the top of his mark, a whole 13 paces away from the crease. Slightly balding. Slightly chubby. Wouldn't look out of place in an accountancy firm or selling you a used car. But here he was, representing New Zealand at the World Cup. Bowling 70 mile per hour nothings.
Dibbly Dobbly Wibbly Wobbly. Spectators mocked him. Joked about him. Made comments about how their grandmum's could score off him with a stick of rhubarb. But this man...this fat balding ****, he's made a whole career out of this joke bowling, making professional batsmen like Langaveldt look like incompetent rabbits. Dibbly Dobbly Wibbly Wobbly. Sounded like a ****ing cartoon character. The fans laugh. Amateur cricketers laugh. If Chris Harris can make, anyone can make it. What a ****ing tool you have to be to get out to ****ing Chris Harris.
4.28. That's his career economy rate. While the whole world laughs at him, he just smiles. It's that same smile a professional bodybuilder gives the skinny guy making fun of him at a party. The smile that says "Laugh now, I'm going to let you have this moment, because you and I both know I can ****ing snap your neck with my pinkie"
Except Chris Harris doesn't break necks. He just chokes the life out of run chases.
Chris Harris makes eye contact with Langavedlt. He smiles. That ****ing cheeking annoying **** smile. That smile of a man who just knows he has your number.
Langavedlt gets ready to face the ball. He gingerly taps his bat.
150 in 30 overs suddenly felt like climbing Everest.
Chris Harris ambles in. A slow lazy amble. Ball held with an odd angle in his crooked wrist, just like a malnourished african child with polio would hold it.
His raises his right hand over his head and enters his bowling action. That god awful awkward mess of arms and legs in all directions that somehow, incredulously, results in the ball being delivered at a good length, just outside off, each and every time without fail.
Langavedlt lets it go through. It thuds into the keeper's gloves.
150 in 29.5 overs. He had tried this in every possible way, and each night he failed. He couldn't push Chris Harris around for enough quick singles. He couldn't find enough boundaries to hit him out of the attack. Every time he fed his teamates the strike, they ended up bottling it and losing the game. He tried dancing down the wicket, but got stumped. He tried staying on the back foot, but got out LBW. He tried dilscooping, switch hitting, paddle sweeping. All to no avail. Chris ****ing Harris just bowls that same ****ing leg cutter at the same ****ing spot at the same ****ing speed each ****ing delivery and gets away with only 35 runs in his 10 overs each and every ****ing time and there was nothing Langavedly could ****ing do about it.
Not tonight. Tonight, he was going to channel his inner MS Dhoni. He was going to hit Harris into parking lot. He had had enough.
Harris ambles in. Delivers the ball. Good length, just outside off. No man at log on. The ball looks so innocuous. They all do. Langaveldt swings his bat with all his might, bringing it down in one huge glorious arc, attempting to send it into the Solar System.
All he gets it's the whoosh of the bat and the thud of the ball into the keeper's gloves. He missed.
150 in 29.4. The cheers were turning into jeers.
The nightmare continues.
****ing Chris Harris.
