The faintest feather of the bat kissed the ball. It was barely an edge, so slightly that it made little noise to indicate that there had been contact. Yet this stroke of luck was enough to save Fineas from the humiliation of a golden duck. The ball flew past the imaginary fourth stump line, evading the wicketkeeper by quite a margin who just for the sake of it completed the regular maneuver of diving to his left to impress the coach, but the ball was several feet away from him, and it raced past the vacant region between deep backward square and fine leg. By the time Fineas turned around to look back, it had reached the boundary rope for four.
Sebastian stared after the ball in disbelief before jogging toward Fineas with an amusing grin.
"Lucky Devil." He scoffed. "You completely missed the line, the ball found the feather of your bat by pure mercy."
Fineas didn't answer, he just looked away from the bowler, and waited for him to leave. The moment he did that, Fineas calmly peeled off his batting gloves, held them in one hand, while his right hand slipped into the poclet of his trousers, searching for a familiar fragment. His finger found the tiny plastic shard hidden within. Without hesitation he pressed his fingertip against its razor-sharp edge
A sting calmed his nerves. Another made him much more aware, and the next one made him forget his fear.
Fineas took out his hand, only when the pain became a sharp familiar burn did he withdrew his hand from the pocket.
A bead of blood vanished into the fabric of his pocket.
Fineas put his gloves back on with unsettling composure as if he was ready to face anything.
Tap. The toe end of his bat struck the pitch once. Tap. Twice. Thrice. As he lifted his bat for the fourth tap. The world turned negative. Every color faded away into the darkness of black and white nothingness as though existence had been subjected to bloodletting and in an instant it had been bled dry.
The emerald green outfield turned into ash. The light brown pitch faded into dull charcoal. The blue sky became a ceiling of lifeless grey and the migratory birds became dark blots in the sky.
The bowler, the umpire, the stumps, the bails, and everything else appeared as inverted shadows, like shadows from an old photograph. Black became white. White became ebony.
Only one thing retained its color, and it was the cricket ball. Bright.. shiny.. crimson, burning like the raging red sun in a dead universe.
Fineas inhaled slowly. His breathing steadied. His heartbeat became impossibly calm. On the field he achieved the rare feat of getting his heartbeat to 72 beats per minute. In this saint like state everything disappeared from his mind except that solitary red sphere which just a while ago during the bowling innings had betrayed his expectations.
Sebastian charged in and delivered a teasing outswinger that pitched on a perfect good length just outside off stump. This stock delivery was the nemesis of many famous old players who had all the instincts but their body refused to listen to them and as a result they would edge this ball to third or fourth slip.
Fineas lifted his bat high above the line of the ball, allowed it to swing harmlessly past nothing but air, and he leaned his body away with complete control.
"C'mon mate, play a shot. I haven't got all day for this." Sebastian jibed.
"I'll play the way I want to play. Stop buzzing in my ear like a mosquito and go back to your mark." Fineas said.
The umpire loudly told them, this was no time for sledging, and through his hand gestures he told Sebastian to go back to his mark.
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