He could fling one down that whizzed past the imaginary wicket keeper and sent shock waves through the henhouse at long stop. It was, as you can imagine, a rather one-sided affair, but I took my punishment as was expected. My bowling was knocked elegantly past trees bearing the young fruits of Cox and Russet positioned at third man and long leg, and the designated tree that served as our wicket suffered many a dent as the lanky, blond bowler beat the bat time and again. Playing cricket was one thing, but as a little boy, watching it was another. I would later reach the age where I’d sit in front of the TV with my scorecard, but in those early days the young Olsen, down for Eton and thus already brushing up on his cricket skills, would want to watch the Test Match and I voted for Andy Pandy or something equally feeble. It once led to an all-out fight. I had no chance of winning, but I did tear his shirt in the scuffle and went home in disgrace. Once some of the England cricketers came to our house, of whom I only remember Denis Compton and Godfrey Evans.
