The ball feels like a stranger in your hand. It’s been, what, five months since you last turned your arm over? Are you sure you still can? Those unused muscles in your back and shoulders stiffen with apprehension. You know this is going to hurt in the morning.
A slow breath. You try to remember the good times. You conjure up the memories of that sunlit five-fer from three seasons back. You visualise that jaffa that defied nature’s laws to arc through the air before straightening off the deck. You recall the out-of-body sensation the moment after you produce something beautiful from the tips of your fingers. The triumphant roar. The pats on the back. The loving smiles from beyond the boundary.
