When I close my eyes at night, Mitchell Starc is at the top of his run. It might be punishment for forgetting to vote for him in the Guardian’s all-time Ashes players list.
His 6ft 6in frame elongates and stretches until he’s uncomfortably filling my mind’s eye and then the legs start, a nightmare-beautiful rhythmic run. The arms piston, the eyes steady, the head as still as a marble mantelpiece. He’s a cheetah in giant white wristbands, a moon-marauding wolf, a river of melted chocolate, that expensive, unpalatable, 95% stuff.
