The Meaning of Gale

A Story of Crick

That Gale had talent was not in question: frankly, he had more talent than might be considered polite. He had the sort of talent that made even people with no interest in the game coo in appreciation, while those who followed it passionately felt tears of joy prick at the corners of their eyes, that they should have been alive to see such wonders. He had the sort of talent that made opponents feel they should applaud in spite of themselves, and teammates fret that they were being made to look clumsy and workmanlike by comparison. He had the sort of talent that made you love him for the beauty he brought into the world, and loathe him for the favouritism the gods had clearly showed in bringing him into existence.

Yes, that he had talent could be taken as read. But so often does a blessing come shackled to a curse, and so it was in Gale’s case. For Gale had been blighted with that most destructive of characteristics: sensitivity. He was a thoughtful young man of delicate mien, and much given to contemplation of the universe and all its complexities and contradictions. As such, he found himself plagued, every time his talent manifested itself upon the field, by a question that Wisden itself had never quite been able to answer: what was it all for?

From an early age, cricket had loomed large in his life, taking up the lion’s share of his waking hours and occupying the uppermost place in the hierarchy of his dreams. Which was all very well when he was carefree youngster yet to encounter the menaces of existentialism. Now, as a young man on the cusp of greatness, he found himself increasingly beset by doubts as to whether the activity to which he had dedicated his life for the last fifteen years was worth the effort. Indeed, he often mused, did cricket matter at all? And if it didn’t, why the hell was he still mucking about with it?

Had such thoughts respectfully confined themselves to late-night ponderings, all might have been well. But complicating everything further, Gale discovered them intruding even while he was playing. As he questioned the social utility of professional sports in general, a sharp chance flew his way from the edge of the bat, struck hard against the heel of his hand, and fell to ground. Later that day, he had a sudden moment of panic thinking about all the things he could have done with his teenage years, had he not been in the nets for all those countless hours, and before the panic passed, he had wafted mindlessly at a gentle outswinger and presented the keeper with a gift.

The situation deteriorated as the season progressed. When thrice in one week Gale shouldered arms to straight balls – once while calculating the difference between his own salary and that of a trauma nurse, once while considering the advisability of going to South America and making a living as a one-man band, and once while attempting to properly define ‘happiness’ – the verdict of press and public alike was that the boom youngster had gone bust, mired in a form slump that could cripple his career if it were not soon curtailed. That greatest of all tragedies, unfulfilled promise, loomed large and was muttered about up and down the land.