Zusammenfassung
Leseprobe
Inhaltsverzeichnis
Batsman
Chester stood at the window and looked outside. The sun was rising and shining brightly in the sand-bleachers. Mist flowed like light silk in the morning shinning over the field.
The one-day game against the Oxford UCCE three months ago, though he did not know it, saw some scouts for the English national cricket team sitting in crowded rows of spectators. His Manchester Lancashire Lightning squad lost, but still managed to convince them with his batting skills. He barely summed up his luck.
And yet he was here. At one of the most famous places in the world Cricket has ever had.
He was in the pavilion of Lord's Cricket Ground, home of the Marylebone Cricket Club in London, whose team belonged long before his birth to his namesake, Ian Chester, and was not just his, but role model for his entire family.
He took his cup of coffee from the table and occasionally sipped it while thinking of his great-grandfather.
Ranbir Singh had come to the UK after World War II and found work in a factory producing sporting goods for cricket. Because he was a trained carpenter, he made the rackets.
By hand he leveled and polished that willow wood in shape. Then he fastened the handle on it and the bat was finished.
There he met the British Brad Sorrow, who sewed the typical red balls and then provided the golden company logo.
Both combined the love for this ball game, despite their different cultures and life circles to a lifelong friendship grew.
To confirm the other employees who were on the pitch and tried as a bowler and batsman.
A great player in their time was Ian Chester, who often defended the Wicket with a six.
Each time, the cheers of the audience increased immeasurably when he entered the pitch.
Chester fears "Buh“ calls rather than cheers to reap.
Fourteen days of intensive training were already behind him.
In the next few weeks, it would continue until the end of their participation in the Cricket World Cup. But he was not sure he would bring the performance everyone expected.
The door to the meeting room opened and Eric Sorrow, his friend since he could think and National Captain of the English, came in and interrupted his thoughts: "Here you are. We start equals. Team meeting in ten minutes."
Chester did not move and continued to look out.
Eric stepped closer and touched Chester's shoulder: "Did you hear me?"
Looking to his friend, Chester sighed, "I heard you."
"What's happening? This is our dream since school."
"I know. Nevertheless, I can hardly believe that we belong to the English national team. Everything went so fast. Since the selection, time has passed by in flight."
Eric groaned and rolled his eyes: "Every man is the architect of his own fortune. You dare. Imagine you are getting as good as Don Bradman."
"Well, I'm a long way from his performance", Chester laughed.
"Things can always change. Your idol Ian Chester was great, too. Me the FastBowler, you the Super Batman. Together we want to become world champions with England. Come on now. You are my best friend. But you don't get an extra invitation."
"I'll come after you. Give me a minute."
He looked at the field one last time, turned around, put down the cup on the conference table, walked to the wall, picked up his bat and weighed it in his hand.
His great-grandfather had made this for him and presented for his 15th birthday.
Never in his life would he trade it for an industrially manufactured one, no matter how technically sophisticated and ergonomically formed.
He had one goal in mind and he did not achieve that when thinking of the past. The title world champion would surpass his wildest dreams.
Bowler
The training was slow and the team motivation was at a low point. The players first had to get to know each other and that took time. Except Eric, nobody seemed to be in top form. Chester might have hit the bulk of what felt like a thousand balls, but he never hit him hard. The litters of the Fielders had simply been a catastrophe. He barely had the opportunity to make the bowed balls of Eric Runs.
Although his friend was the FastBowler, he felt like a rivet, wondering once again what he had to do with the English national team.
Probably the scouts had messed up. It would not be the first time.
Now he wanted to rest. The conversation with Eric in the morning had inspired him to visit the final resting place of Ian Chester.
The cemetery was not large and was located near the sports institute. Not ten minutes later he had arrived at his destination.
He stepped to the simple grave of Ian, squatted in front of it and touched it briefly to collect his blessing.
Slowly he rose to his feet and wondered if he could actually play as well as his role model. He would see.
"Bit puny, right, my friend?" A stranger suddenly asked him. But Chester did not see him.
"Who's there?" He asked quietly, looking around without seeing anyone.
"You should not hear me at all."
The voice seemed to echo from everywhere.
Frantically Chester turned on its own axis, almost stumbled, looked around hurriedly and slowly moved away from the grave backwards.
"Who are you?" Chester croaked.
"That does not exist. You hear me finally, "the voice jubilated.
The tomb began to sparkle.
Chester stopped, staring intently, not knowing what to expect in the spectacle.
From the sparks, a flash of form formed into a human form, and a man appeared, first scanning himself and his face. Then he danced and jumped like a wild ass, showing Chester's face.
This frowned disapprovingly and asked the stranger: "Stop that."
The other's face darkened, "You should not see me at all."
"And why not?"
"Because I'm a ghost."
Chester stepped closer and looked at him from all sides. If he looked closely, the stranger was translucent, and when he wanted to touch him there was nothing but air. He wore cricket clothes, which had long gone out of fashion.
And somehow the figure seemed familiar to him. A vague recognition. But could that be possible?
Chester pointed his finger at the figure in front of him.
"You are ... are you ... ..." he stuttered in disbelief, slapping both hands in front of his face and shaking his head vehemently. He did not believe what he saw.
"Well, I am who?"
Like the pieces of a puzzle, the solution came together. He thought of cricket games in a black and white television and a face. The similarity was amazing.
Chester took his hands down, looked at him and whispered, "Ian Chester."
He was surprised: "Right, old boy."
