It is
It is now the final over. The batsman hits the ball hard to my left and sets off for a run. I stop it with my left hand, turn, switching the ball to my right hand, take a moment to steady myself, and throw at the stumps (which are at right angles to me, so I have a target about half an inch wide to aim at).
Throwing is not my greatest skill. I do not have a powerful arm, and am not always the most accurate, either. In this case the ball flew almost horizontally, straight for the top of the stumps. The bowler was there, ready, and took it, as it hit the first stump – whether he guided it on to the stumps (in which case it was only missing by a hair’s breadth at the most) or whether it was a direct hit, I could not tell.
I will claim it, though, as my finest throw. It certainly went into the book as ‘Run Out, fielder: East’.
We won the match.
The next year, though, was the one in which I became Fielder of the Year.
