Spin

 

His one claim was to turn a ball on a one-cent piece in any direction. It was an elevated game of two-up. The ball could go around their legs, across their guard, under their defence. He turned spin on its head. It was his trick to play, prestidigitation on a stage of evenly rolled grass. It was a wonder, and no wonder that he enjoyed every moment. No book or video will disclose the secrets that made him the magician. They arrived through the grandstand gates every day to see the rabbit pulled out of the hat, the sword transmogrified into a gladiolus. The ball could drop and rise at a whim, scoot past the ankle, wave at the bat passing by. The disbelieving looks of hapless batsmen raised the belief of longing spectators, reassured by such a simple excelling of the norm. They applauded as forlorn the batsman took the long walk to the pavilion, behind him the circle of magical jubilation. Everyone was stumped, except for the blond magician, keeping the next trick close to his heart as he turned to run in for the upcoming sleight of hand. Another hail of bails. Words were not his forte. Memorable quotes were not forthcoming, no stirring lines to get spectators out of bed in the morning. No fighting them on the beaches, on the landing grounds. There was no need when, with one dextrous hurl of the object at the pitch perfect point of turf with his singular spin enforced on that delivery, victory was more or less what else is there to say you know what I mean. Party time was assured, a way of life, tailenders then cocktails, the perfect end to a perfect day in the sun. He went up in the world, which for him meant flipping a coin and going to live in Brahton. There the lycra breezed past on all-twos, king-size mattresses were home delivered to the front gate, yachts wiggled past his vision and before he looked up next were gone. There was no one to say he can’t bat, can’t bowl. Though what he did say could be picked up by devices and relayed to the longing spectators in bytes of wow great sex and see you after the game. He let someone else put spin on the spin. For the trickster, there was always more jogging along the beaches and a field to turn the ball a foot around their feet. Long interviews, on the other hand, were not a magic show, only the dozens of ways of saying he had no regrets. Already the score was on the board, something for the statisticians to argue over during broadcasts. He was the bronzed magician in baggy green with zinc-white lips, excelling under the sun because it’s the norm. Bronzed statues of bronzed gods, each in the special sport contortion that brought them fame, encircle the stadium of dreams. His spin is one such gesture. His apotheosis shall be a name on a grandstand.