You know how English cricket culture stresses hard work from players that arent English?. I picture Ian Bell with elderly folks at home and a sad story about an unfortunate childhood, ie. being the class redhead, not having enough money to buy new cricket gear, the list goes on.
Since money was tight and rent was expensive he works a few oddjobs here and there and supports his parents without complaint. Sacrificing all luxury and even education during his teenage years and putting his parents first. At the age of 13 he wakes up at a brisk 3am, well before the sun and walks 13 kilometers into old London Town to work hard as a cleaner at a brothel, not a cheap brothel, rather an exquisite one with stunning girls who, if paid enough would forgo protection and do you raw. He would toil away, windex and gloves, among discarded kleenex, funky smells and dubious stains which, when held against a UV light would engulf the room in a similar fashion to the way the Milky Way on a clear night would engulf the sky.
As the sun rises he would change into his school clothes in a public restroom. Upon walking another three miles to his tedious and meaningless education, he slaves away at mundane multiplication tables and brushes off the insults of fellow classmates, including the Sth African kids that keep getting picked for the School Cricket XI. He had always loved cricket, but had never had the time for it, due to his immense schoool and workload. He takes insults and seldom receives praise, but trudges on with head held high.
Putting his school books away, one of the Sth African lads yell out "Hey Belly, you bellend, you have more edges than a triangle". A quality sledge that appeals to the rest of the 13yr olds in the room, yet is seemingly out of place as they are of course in a class room and not playing cricket.
Reaching home he sees his fading parents struggle with the sports news report saying how yet another Sth African is in the English test squad. The sun and it's warmth has now disappeared as it does, and a coldness descends upon him. His 6th redbull is starting to wear off, but het gets up YouTube to watch videos of the great English player, Tony Greig, unware of his Sth African origins. "How I wish to be like Toney Greig he laments, if only I was 5ft taller"
It happened by chance one day... as he was walking between classes he noticed that try outs for the cricket team were on. He passed by the players in their warmup and on a whim whilst pondering the meaning of existance and Australias current PM, wondering if any of it was ever worth it. He saw the pitch in front of him. An immense torrent of impulse infused with sheer emotion consumed him as he picked up the red leather ball and released it into the air.
He ran up to the bowling crease and he let it go, and as he let it go, in that very moment, all was well with the World for Ian Bell. He swears he heard the cry of a dozen newborn babies and the churchbells ringing all the way from the Vatican. No longer in control of his body, he starting padding up and was soon batting at the crease against the bowling of all the Sth African lads trying out for the team. With each shot he middled he let go of all the anger and frustration, he let go of desperation and depression of his situation... With every coverdrive he became more at peace with not only himself but the world around him.
The Slatsphoric sensation produced from such a simple yet complex game (and the sound of ball on willow) had brought him inner peace. Immediately selected in the schools First XI he had found himself. In a destructive and excessively unfair time he discovered a a momentary valve release.
He had played everyday for 10yrs, and now as one of England's premier batsmen at the 2015 World Cup finds himself dropped for not Sth African, but and Irish players, which stings so much more he vows to never bother playing for the English National Team. I guess the moral of this story is love and empathy for all sentient beings, peace.