Back then when summer days were spread thick across the loaf of life, Wednesday's smell of freshly mowed cricket fields, the ripe scent of fresh cut orange quarters and syrupy lecol juice, joyously flared my nostrils.
On half-day Wednesdays, as the school brass bell rung the end of the day, we shouted, 'Match day!'and on that day, we played cricket against KES.
Having lost the toss, King David was sent in to bat.
The KES bowling attack was furiously ferocious. and before the opening bat could doff his cap and say 'centre, please sir', his middle stump was doing Simone Biles flik-flaks across the village green.
The sound of rattling wickets echoed, and the holler of 'howsat?' reverberated against the hallowed halls of the KES Res disrupting square meals and latin conjugations.
Amidst the devastating fall out, I padded up, and made my way to the crease. Blocking, cutting, charging, I smacked the shine off the red Kookaburra leaving it pasted to my linseed-oiled rapier. I caressed that little red cherry to all corners of the ballpark making bolognaise sauce of their front line seamers.
Thinking i was a cat, I lobbed a delivery down the gullet of a boundary fielder. Tucking my bat under my armpit, I strolled back to the hut, punching myself in the ribs.
At the change, I was top scorer for King David. 8
Fielding next, we had no chance defending the paltry 40. Off the first delivery they made our fielding placements look like a leaky reusable nappy.
Standing at the Jonty Rhodes position, nervous and shaken as a Bond martini, a ball was rifled at me. Hurtling at me at a rate of knots, I stuck my hands out at the ready. The earth stopped spinning, silence settled across the field, and only the sound of the seam, and my hard swallow could be heard in the surrounding Houghton and Hillbrow areas. (mainly Houghton, cos Hillbrow was partay-ying). The ball bladdy well stuck.
That Wednesday I was a headline even on mainstream media news reels.
We grabbed our flings and apple juice cartons and went home to Sunny Side road to celebrate.
Tossing my grass-stained kit in the washing machine, and inspecting my bludgeoned bat, my day of glory had ended.
