The beast struck at 4AM. Suddenly my right leg shot straight out and shrieked with pain. I sat bolt upright, my leg rock hard and my right foot starting to turn inward and upward. It wasn't the first time my brain had struck with such ferocity. I knew what to do. I jumped out of bed, forcing my wayward foot square to the floor and stood there for a couple of minutes as the agony turned to ecstasy. I had won the battle with my brain. Time for a little celebration - tempered by the knowledge that it was a pyrrhric victory, for I can never win the war.
It is strange what thoughts go through your head as you await your relief. It is 1956 and I am a boy in Larkhill, England. I have lived here for a year. I am pretending to be a champion bowler on a cricket team. Time after time I try to imitate the windmill, straight arm delivery of a bowler but my North American muscles betray me. Too much baseball. My brain won't help me. My arm won't remain stiff through the windmill windup and I end up leading with my elbow. I am frustrated but keep on trying. To this day, I have been unsuccessful, but every now and then, when I am alone, I try it with a nerf ball - without success - but that doesn't mean I will quit trying. I just have to convince my brain.
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