Read Online The Ghost-Eater and Other Stories by Diane Awerbuck, Louis Greenberg - Free Book Online Page A

time in his life and beat me in straight sets. He was just that kind of guy.
    He was tall, something that was always good for a fast bowler, and delivered the ball from a height. He also put a lot of power into each delivery: the ball rocketed out of his hand and at the batsmen at a speed that must’ve been at around 130 kilometres per hour, if not more.
    Our new coach stood alongside the nets and watched the batsmen for a while. One of them was Clinton, an under-seventeen who had the technique of a pro. He stood still and calm as he waited for the ball. When it arrived, he did not flinch, and moved like a panther to play it. He played shots that looked like they had been lifted straight out of a cricket textbook. The other two batsmen were just as competent.
    This went on for about five or ten minutes, and then Mr Arendse put up a hand. ‘Well done, my sons,’ he told the batsmen. ‘It’s clear that you can play. Now I want to see some of the others: those who didn’t volunteer when I asked for batsmen. You two,’ he pointed. ‘And you, my son. What’s your name?’
    He meant me. ‘Andrew,’ I said.
    â€˜Come, Andrew. Pad up for us.’
    I swallowed: I wasn’t renowned for my batting skills. In fact, I wasn’t renowned for much on the cricket field. I was the academically gifted one, the one everyone came to for help with their homework when they were too embarrassed to ask a teacher. I got my pads from Clinton, who looked pissed that his batting practice had been cut short. He also bowled spin, and he told me to watch out for his googly later.
    I strapped the pads on, perhaps a little too tight. They were old, no longer white, and floppy. I hoped that they would protect my shins against Jeremy’s yorkers. I put on everything I could find: gloves, thigh pad, arm brace, ball box and a helmet in the navy blue of our school. Padding up always made me think of a knight dressing for battle. I took my bat in my hands, sweating inside the gloves already, and made my way into one of the nets. I didn’t look to see who else was batting on either side of me. I only looked ahead, at the bowler: at where that little leathery fireball would come from.
    The first ball was flying at me before I knew it. I swung at it and missed. I heard the metal wicket fall behind me. I made to leave the net, but Mr Arendse shouted, ‘No, stay. This isn’t a match.’ He was standing where the umpire would usually be, his arms folded and one hand stroking his chin. I faced up to the next bowler: it was Jeremy. The ball hissed at me as the air moved over its seam. Like a snake, it went for my ankles. I managed to hold my bat out in front of me, but I think I closed my eyes, and I was struck on the pads. In a match, that would be out, too.
    This went on for a while: one ball was aimed at my head and I managed to duck under it. Clinton’s promised googly came and it befuddled me, as expected. Once, as I was sure I was going to make contact with one of the deliveries, a second ball flew across my vision and I panicked. There were holes in the nets separating the batsmen, and a ball had found its way through one of them.
    At last, Mr Arendse marched into my net and asked me, ‘What shots are you trying, my son?’ He said ‘my son’ in such a soothing way, as I imagined Jesus had when he’d spoken with his disciples. ‘You’ve got to walk before you can run. The forward defensive is one of the most underrated shots in cricket. But when you do it right, you will never lose your wicket playing it. Here, let me show you.’
    I gave him my bat and he made me stand to one side. ‘Come, Jeremy,’ he called. ‘Give me your best one.’ There our new coach stood, still fresh from the classroom, with no protection whatsoever. He thumped the bat on the ground in anticipation.
    â€˜Sir, I can’t,’ said Jeremy. ‘I mean, are you