Alastair Cook is wearing the whitest of whites. Pristine doesn’t even cover it, his whites almost radiate. He purposefully strides across the Cardiff outfield. He looks like a legend, almost; god-like. His team has failed to win three of their last four Test series. His batting has flirted with pathetic. He was embarrassed by an ODI captaincy sacking.
You don’t get any of that from his walk. He looks confident, focused, on a mission.
Beside him is Trevor Bayliss. He looks scruffy, is walking with one hand in his pocket, seems to have the knees of an aged pro. His tracksuit seems too big, and somehow already well worn. He can barely catch up with Cook, as he tries to talk to him about something, he looks like a policy wonk trying to talk to a statesman.
If Cook listens, it doesn’t show.
He stares and strides. With purpose. He…
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