Watching the game

“Eye on the ball,” I remind myself. My living room transforms into the pitch, and I can smell the grass, feel the sun. I’m in my lucky spot, imaginary bat in hand, as the pacer begins his run-up.

"Footwork’s the key," I coach myself, the bowler's every step matching the beat of my heart. I can hear the distant cheers, my shadow cast long against the flicker of the TV.

As the bowler’s arm comes over, time stretches. “And… now,” I whisper fiercely, pivoting on the spot. My arms cut through the air, I swing with all my might—“thwack!”

There’s a split second of silence, a breath held in a million chests. And it’s broken by the crackling voice of the commentator, "It's high, it’s far... it's a six!"

The stadium erupts. The uproar from the crowd engulfs me in my fortress of solitude. Slumping back in my chair, I can't help but grin, "Did it again, didn't I?"