The year was 1991 and I was just another self-conscious teenager. Skinny. Pimples. Railroad tracks across my teeth. Although I was a blind boy attending a blind school, there were some partially sighted girls and word was that they were pretty.
Ensconced in my bedroom at boarding school in Worcester, South Africa, I scanned through the radio stations, looking for something to occupy my mind. Suddenly my ears were assaulted by a cacophony of sounds. South Africa were playing an ODI in India after being readmitted to international cricket.
I had heard the names of some of the South Africans – Kepler Wessels, Allan Donald, Jimmy Cook. But I didn’t even know what a six was. Although my older brother Gary was a good cricketer back home in Zimbabwe, and I had heard people talking about the game, it didn’t really mean anything to me. How …
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