Roger Moroney.
It is effectively summer and I know this because for the past fortnight, if I'd been passing a school or grassed public domain, there would be people dressed in white out there.
It is the season of cricket, that remarkable game which in most youngsters' early years resulted in at least one broken window somewhere along the way.
Or at the very least lost a ball or split a finger webbing in the wake of trying to do what those nimble slip fielders did.
The difference being that they possessed an attribute called technique.
We possessed the dopey belief that by clutching clumsily at a fast-moving ball of leather-wrapped cork weighing 160 grams and travelling at the speed of light we could achieve a fine catch.
All part of the learning curve.
And we got quite adept at applying antiseptic cream-smeared plasters.
My sharpest memory of a fine shot which had "boundary" written all over it came back in the early 60s in our backyard.
Me and my two brothers had set up stumps down one end of the shingled yard and bowled from a small patch of grass by the path.
Our elder brother's shot indeed cleared the boundary ... from our place to the old lady's house next door.
The ball smashed through her bathroom and dunny, and the only consolation was that she had not been in there attending to business.
But we did hear her yelp with fright when she heard the crashing of grass.
We all mutely looked at each other and big brother was frowning with a combination of disbelief and trepidation.
"I'm not going in there," he said quietly.
With heads shaking, we declared that neither would we and immediately brought in the parental factor.
"Dad ... could you get the cricket ball for us ... please?"
When he asked where it was we looked at big brother and basically said "it's all yours now matey ... you tell him".
None of us took the game up on anything more than a social scale really, and continued the family belting of leather with willow every Christmas over at the beach.
When we took drinks, believe me, we took drinks.
I used to play limited-overs social cricket of a Wednesday evening down at Napier Boy's High ... where if you managed to score 33 you had to declare.
I only declared once ... I preferred to bowl and got pretty good at it, once taking three for 17.
So okay the batsmen were about as skilled and athletic as a semi-conscious bison but that wasn't the point.
And of course when we took drinks, believe me, we took drinks.
Cricket is a most intriguing game.
The traditional contest, the five-day variety (or four days if the flagging Aussies are playing India) is sort of like chess, except the board is green and all the pieces are white.
It is all about strategy and picking the moment to make the play.
Time is not a major issue unless it is day five and there is a clear sign that victory can be achieved by either the batting pawns or the bowling bishops.
I once listened in fascination to an American sportscaster who was as familiar with cricket as Donald Trump is with sticking to one version of a story for more than a week.
He was bemused that after five days of competition the match could still end in a draw.
The shortened game of 50 overs emerged of course, and that was inevitable, and then it got even more shortened to 20 overs and everyone started wearing bright colours and booking off-season flights to India to cream a few bob from the fanatical form of the game over there.
But what has remained is the standard-issue rules ... the ways of going out have not changed.
And there are no scrum delays ... bliss.
And "snicko" and "hotspots" tell a tale better than the opinion of one person examining a screen image and making a call based on what they believe has happened.
However, I was amused to read the other day that if you happen to be sucking on a mint, and decide to take a touch of saliva to apply to the ball and then rub it for extra shine before it is bowled, then you could be classed as a cheat.
South African skipper Faf du Plessis did this and got pilloried for it.
He was charged by the International Cricket Council with "ball tampering" and was fined his match fee and handed three demerit points.
For putting mint-fused spit on the ball and rubbing it to shine it ... like pretty well every player I've ever seen handling the ball does?
Hell's bells, next thing you know they'll be using pink balls.
What?
They are?