Stick of Rhubarb

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Connor Elliot knew this was his last chance to make it in international cricket. He looked around the field, looked at the packed stands. He knew his Hailey was in there somewhere. He wished he could pick out her smile, but it was just a blur of faces and colours. In the commentary box the old pros were whining on about his lack of form. He could almost hear the voice of Graham Coventry, England's self-proclaimed best ever batsman, Coventry had it in for Connor ever since he was selected over his illegitimate, son Archie Moran. He told himself not to look at the  press box, but his eyes flitted there anyway. He could see Coventry there, peering down, hunched over his microphone. Connor knew exactly what Graham would be saying.
“Just not good enough for this level, in my day he'd have been dropped by now. They give people too many chances these days.”
Connor knew Coventry would be changing his tune when it was his Archie struggling for form.
“Don't worry about the commentary box, watch the ball.” Connor said to himself.
Mad Andrew McTavern came rushing towards him. “Watch the ball,” Connor said again. “Watch the ball.”  McTavern bowled. 

“Watch the ball,” He told himself again. The problem was he couldn’t see it. He felt something whistle past him and then heard the sound of timber, his wickets demolished. The Australians jumped and whooped celebrating the demise of Connor's international career.

“That’s you gone mate,” McTavern said. Connor knew what he meant.  The stands were silent, the sun poked its head out from behind a cloud and Connor dragged himself from the field. A cameraman sprinted on to the pitch and then walked backwards capturing Connor’s glum expression. He wanted to smash the camera. He tried to keep a stiff upper lip despite knowing he’d never play for England again.
A year later Connor was back at Lord's but he wasn't in his whites and carrying his bat.  He was no longer part of the team, of any team. Since that fateful day last year, Connor hadn't picked up a bat or ball. When he was dropped from England he asked for three weeks off and had never come back. He may not have picked up a bat but he had picked up many bottles, whisky, brandy, rum, or vodka. He didn't mind what it was as long as it could help him blank out the memory of his failure and silence the voice in his mind; the voice of Graham Coventry that had sent itself up on loop in his head like a catchy chorus of a shitty song. “Just not good enough at this level”

Connor took a swig of whisky and steadied himself. He looked through the sights of his rifle focusing hard on his nemesis who was up in the commentary box, no doubt sucking the life out of another player with his barbed, mean-spirited comments.
He squeezed the trigger and fell backwards. The bullet flew threw the air, shattered the glass, killing him stone dead mid-sentence. The problem for Connor was he'd got the wrong one. Instead of killing Coventry, Connor had taken out the jovial ex spinner Geoffrey Signet.
Connor sat in his cell reflecting on his life, he could hear the voice of Coventry in his mind. “Terrible shot, my grandmother could do better with a stick of rhubarb.”