Marco Jansen’s narrow, two-metre frame is slumped. His lissom limbs hang abject, crumpled. It’s not his baggy cable-knit sweater forcing his back to arch and his knees to bow, but something unseen. It’s the realisation of what he has just done. Marco Jansen has just dropped a catch.
In a Test match, in front of a full house at the Oval, off the very first ball of England’s final innings with the game on the line. He raises one of his hubcap-sized hands up to his once chiselled but now somehow sallow, sunken features. He rubs his brow and fixes his eyes to the ground, imploring the turf to swallow him up, begging the blades of grass to scythe him into tiny pieces.
