The ninth wicket falls, and with it, any hope of victory. The rabbit has been geared up for the past half hour: chest pad secure, both hands clutching the bat, lid not quite sitting right, eyes gripped by the battleground before him.

Dressed for war but low on ammo, the only thing the rabbit finds easy to block out are the fatalistic groans and cheeky well-wishers around him who place more faith in an earthquake saving them from defeat. “Your job is to just stay there, OK? The runs will come at the other end,” the skipper instructs. He knows it’s gone in one ear and out the other.

Constantly tinkering with his thigh guard, the rabbit waddles to his impending death, feet too far apart due to the oversized, hand-me-down pads. The opposition smell fear. Mentally, they’re already in the bar.

The rabbit enters the crease. As he looks at his partner his eyes seem to plead: “Help me, brother.” His partner smirks back. There’s no guard taken, no gardening, no glance around the field, no enquiry about how many balls are left in the over. That’s all unnecessary detail to the rabbit.

Relief overcomes regret. His heart’s still beating, bones intact, pride dispensable. The rabbit is shielded by the inevitable sneers from his teammates, for he has a programmed excuse that exempts him from all responsibility: “Well, if the batsmen had done their bloody jobs…”