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I can still remember the day. An overcast Saturday morning in March at Longfellow Reserve. A small oval at the back of Mooroolbark. It was day two of the last game of the season and for many of us the last game of our junior careers. I had been brought up from the seconds for the game. Gone from opening to batting no. 11. It did not matter as we were bowled out in 20 overs, leaving a pointless 20 overs to bowl again. It was decided that everyone would get two overs a piece. So here I was, having barely bowled all year, lumbering up with my leggies (my answer to being a chucker.) I had no idea who I was bowling to, let alone what I was trying to do. Really, I just wanted to let ’em rip. The eyes of the batsman lit up. Easy pickings. Sadly not. The batsman tried to slog me for six and instead of caught off a top edge. He trudged off as I celebrated. The batsman was Sam Mitchell, the four time Hawthorn premiership player. This is me, my story. Slightly desperate and somewhat pathetic. Sadly, this is a story that seems to be silenced too often in young adult fiction.vvvvvvv

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