He was a middle-aged man, balding, silver-dusted hair, a grey sweater, dark trousers. His belt buckle was, incongruently, the Texas pan-handle. He seemed to be walking intently, with long purposeful strides amid the chaos of the shopping center, his eyes fixed at some imaginary sign-post. Or perhaps it was a real sign, I honestly have no idea.
Suddenly, he broke his stride. Took two long gallops and corkscrewed his right arm to deliver, what looked like a leg-spin down the pitch. It was a startling interruption. Least expected. He let his hand linger at the top of the arc, letting his wrist sink down. I don’t know if his mind’s eye was relishing a wicket or maybe he had just hopelessly beaten the bat. He didn’t smile or cheer to reveal his vision.
And then he continued on.