I was fielding at square leg when the ball flew high over my head, struck from the western end of the pitch at St Andrew’s College in a hurried arc. It took about four seconds to reach my father.
All of 71, he was sitting on a bench talking with my daughter, their eyes averted from the game, and I had already started sprinting towards them, yelling at the same moment the leather projectile zeroed in on him, gashing open his head and sending him sprawling to the ground.