JW Jones thunders at me
nostrils flaring, shirt flapping, eyes piercing
in a belligerent onslaught.

JW Jones leaps at me
crashing through the crease with 
flailing arms, flying sweat, exploding breath;

finishing empty, bent double -

a redundant musket,

its solitary shot sent into battle.

The red leather fired with venom,

three pounds of wood primed,

two-thirds of a second to react,

one option presents;

the boundary beckons.

The willow arcs through its parabola

assaulting the leather with a deep, rich gunshot;

blade numbed by the hit-and-run impact.

Time stops.

No sound,
no feeling,
no movement,

except the ball screaming fencewards,
its cherry-red epitaph smeared on the bat;
statues in the outfield watch on.