Shamrock Rest Home towards Eden Park, he reflected upon metaphoric elements which led him to go out of his way each of these work days in order to catch the train.
It was true the bus would be cheaper and quicker and he would have been able to leave his little nest a bit later. He concluded, however, that these were the very reasons he did not follow such logic. It must be an assertion of individuality, a Celtic perverseness against a puritanical system which ensnared his life in so many ways. By catching the train he could, in his own way, make his mark against the English barbarians as if were he in Ireland he might join the Republican Army!
“Ten dollars, please sir.” Patrick handed over the blue money and walked through the gates to freedom. Yes, that was the only word to describe the feeling he got from being enclosed behind fences in the midst of a multitude of people all assembled together to experience the magic of a game of cricket. He walked around until he found a programme which he purchased along with a hot pie and a can of Coca Cola, then he found a place to settle for the rest of the day. Patrick had brought with himself a small transistor radio for he enjoyed nothing more than the excitement which came from the commentary box. All the wonderful terms, the vast knowledge of the game and the witty talk from visiting commentators conspired in him to make him imagine that this must be what heaven was like.
Patrick Malone sat alone amidst the steadily building crowd. He was entranced at the variety of people around him, and like a blind person whose eyes are opened after several years of darkness, he looked and looked and looked. Eventually his curiosity of events around him diminished and his attention focussed on the programme which held all the details of the game itself. The two teams for this one day international game had never met before and whilst the New Zealand team was a familiar sight to the Eden Park ground, the Invitation Out of It Eleven were wholly new to this part of the world. Some individual names, such as James K. Baxter and Te Rauparaha, the Out of It Captain, were known locally but in the main, whilst people may have heard of individual personalities at various times, they certainly were not known here in the South Pacific as international cricketers. But Patrick Malone was spell-bound as he read over and over the names of his various heroes. He, of course, had followed each of their careers on and off the twenty-two yard pitch and unlike most of the Auckland crowd, he supported them against