So the play continued. Horace played as slow and easy as he could without seeming to do so—stopping to drink water, wipe his brow, change his bat. Still, he couldn’t seem to stop winning. Before he knew it the score was 359 to 364. The Japanese team was six runs short of taking the match. It looked like it was in the bag. Sonny Maria sweated in the muggy summer heat. He backed away from the crease, did a little cha-cha-cha and then ran toward it at such a fearsome speed that he seemed all fruit and no Carmen. He hurled the ball. It tore toward the striker’s wicket like a B-52 bomber from the future. Horace steeled himself, then swung with all his might. But the ball was not there. It hovered two feet out of reach, dancing in the air as though the life of the colony depended on it, which, in a way, it did. When his stroke was complete, out of the way of the ball, it resumed its magical motion and slammed into the wicket, sending both bails flying and laying all three stumps dead flat on the ground.

Horace’s jaw dropped in utter disbelief. In fact, the jaws of all on the field and in the stands dropped, absolutely astonished.

Sonny Maria danced a little rumba and sang, “I, Yi, Yi, Yi, Yi (I Like You Very Much).” All the British POWs on the field hooted and whistled their appreciation.

“Out,” shouted Umpire Cheung.