First year in Penrith 4ths, we had a dashing (i.e., crazy) opener Kevin Buick. He would smash anything he could reach. He was a tiler and used to pick me up before I had a car in his battered Holden station wagon, with all his tools and crap in the back.

I’d arrive at the game with brick dust, grout and concrete in my eyes, nose, ears, pockets—everywhere.

Kev’s at short leg. A ball gets punched at him. He grabs at it, knocks it up over his head, walks on the ball as he turns around, has the presence of mind to do a backward roll and pick up the ball as he falls. Springs to his feet and throws it straight into the ground in front of him. In disgust, kicks the ball into a gap, and the batsman who has been standing in his crease watching, takes a single. Kev is crestfallen. The bowler, Jon Llewellyn, says ‘Well done mate—a lesser man would have panicked’.