I was just making a comment about cricket at my school, and it reminded me of an occasion when I was batting (which never lasted long). A very tall, Asian bloke was hurling balls down impossibly quickly and me, the star number 9 bat, was expected to survive this onslought and see if we could get a draw. Out I strode, with my Dad vigourously shadow-batting on the boundary, trying to tell me to get my head over the ball and keep my hands low. I was just planning on sighting the ball, nevermind making contact. The first ball cut back like a vipor and hit me just above the family jewels.
“SHIT that was close – if this hurts, imagine if it hits me a few inches lower…but, where’s my box?” And I dropped my bat mid-pitch and sprinted to the changing rooms to find it! It’s always stayed with me (the story, that is) because when I got back, everyone thought I’d just given up: retired scared! I marched back, dignity and jewels safely err…locked up, only to find we’d been bowled out.
And the moral of this story is? Yes, exactly that.