Many years ago, I could not wait for summer. The anticipation of longer days and sunlit evenings, which meant permission to hang at the Basin pool acting cool, was almost too much to bear.

But it was not just the Cataract Gorge nor the burning sun on pale skin of Northern Irish heritage that generated excitement, rather, it was the sound and smell of cricket.

The stale pong of a kit bag neatly put away at the end of the previous season with sweat remaining in the fabric from hands and legs seeping into protective wear.

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