But as I jumped from my chair to take the new weapon for a test drive, I felt my father’s hand on my arm. He handed me what looked like a cricket ball attached to a mallet handle.

“Knock it in first,” he said, with a smile that did nothing to betray the kick he was getting out of the lesson he was about to teach me.

“What?” I responded, still half moving towards the door.

He explained that if I didn’t knock in my brand-new bat, I would run the serious risk of breaking or splitting it the first time I tried to smash a ball for six. I reluctantly agreed and began to knock the bat in with the cricket ball mallet.

After an hour I asked it would be ready now, and he shook his head. After two hours I asked the same, still he shook his head. Three hours, four hours, six, eight. Over two days I spent ten hours knocking the bat in until he finally said it would be ready.

The first six validated all the hours I had put into preparing the bat. It was a solid hit that sent the ball flying over the boundary with ease.