Over the next half-hour, Ben’s heroism was not that of St George or David. Ben’s dragons and Goliaths were in his head. He was cast in a supporting role while Zane swatted and clobbered and for the most part missed the ball. But when Zane missed the ball, the ball missed the stumps. When he hit the ball, it stayed hit. He scored runs behind his back and between his legs and over the wicketkeeper’s head, unorthodox no-man’s-lands where no fielding positions could be set. When you had no natural talent, no desire, no will, no hard work, no belief and no parental support, what else was there but pure dumb luck? When you had no idea where you were hitting the ball, how could the opposition?

While Zane put on this outrageous show, Ben, who had only to face one or two balls at the end of each over, contrived either to miss them or snuff them at his feet. He walked to the side of the pitch to adjust his gloves and pads like a test match batsman. When Zane called him for a madcap run, Ben sent him back. Avoiding a humiliating run-out was Ben’s chief contribution.

The only piece of gear he couldn’t seem to keep tidy was his bat. The stickers were peeling off. He was trying to smooth them by hand and even lick them, but they would not stay, instead curling up like autumn leaves.

‘I’m going to the coach,’ Ron said, getting to his feet.

‘Stoyle won’t listen to you,’ Gordon said.

‘I don’t mean him! The other coach! The one who’ll do something about it!’

‘Both coaches are on the field,’ Gordon said.

‘Then I will go onto the field.’

‘Can’t you just watch your grandson?’

They were in the Father McCroorey Grandstand. Amid the excitement of Ben’s appearance in the middle, Ron’s agitation was gathering its own curious crowd. He was surrounded by Josie, Red Cap and Tonsure Man, even Snake and the two-time state champ, all telling him to be quiet. In response, he waved his manila folder and maintained, cryptically, ‘I’ve known this for years!’

Kelly was standing to the side of the argument, arms folded, a non-smoker looking like she craved a cigarette.

‘What’s your father on about?’ she asked Gordon, the first she had spoken to him since the previous night.

‘He’s about to lose St Pat’s the final.’

Kelly looked at Gordon as if it could only be his fault. And it is, he thought. It is. Nothing made sense when it came to his family. They were a bit strange. Gordon was only now coming to terms with quite how strange.

He barrelled through the cluster and swept Ron up in his arms. It felt parental, what he would do with a misbehaving toddler.