In the early 1970s, almost every summer weekend, I made the journey from the centre of Durban to the Springfield grounds. Springfield is now home to huge business complexes and highways hemming it into the city sprawl, but in the early 1970s, it was very much on the outskirts. At the weekend, six or seven games of cricket were played, simultaneously, on ancient matting wickets, according to rules first written in the 18th century. There were no sightscreens. Irregular boundaries were marked by misshapen whitewashed stones. Clumps of grass and mole-hills hid crevices that tested the most flexible of ankles. In a script that veered between comedy and tragedy, I could not wait to get the call to don my whites and be drawn into the drama of a Springfield middle. On a Saturday afternoon, you would arrive and drag the mat from a wood and iron shed. The mats were crusty and mouldy and came in all sorts of grotesque shapes. We would lay the mat on the pitch. The holes in the mat were huge. ...

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