Somewhere in the New South Wales Southern Highlands, a man is walking. Partly because he was afraid of cars, those big noisy machines that he was certain had no future, but mostly because him walking is convenient for the story. In fact, let me make up a name for him. Jebediah. Perfect. Sounds like an old-school name, sounds funny, and is a very unlikely name for a New South Welshman.
Anyway, he's walking. He passes a backyard, or almost passes it. He sees a kid playing with himself on the grass. Playing alone, that is. Playing cricket. Get your mind out of the gutter.
So the kid is playing cricket, but in a bizarre way. He's using a cricket stump as a bat, and a golf ball as the ball. He's throwing the ball at a curved brick facing him, and when the ball rebounds at varying, random angles, the kid reacts quickly to hit it with the stump.
Jebediah is impressed and walks up to the kid. Today, he would be arrested for this very act. But this is 1916, so it's perfectly normal. The kid looks at him, expressionless, even though he's inwardly seething at being interrupted while doing what he considered to be the most important thing in the world.
"That's some eye you've got there! What's your name, son?" asks Jebediah.
"I'm Donnie. Donnie Bradman." says the kid, still expressionless.
"Well, keep at it. Maybe you'll be the next Sachin Tendulkar!" says Jebediah cheerfully.
"Gee, you think?" asks Donnie, suddenly interested.
"Of course!"
"Who's Sachin Tend... Tedu... who's he, mister?" askes Donnie.
"I've no idea! I'm not up to date with the news, I've only just escaped from St. Sainterson's Hospital for the Mentally Ill!" says Jebediah. He cackles loudly, grabs the golf ball, sticks it in his mouth, and runs off.
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