The news that David Gower will be laying down his microphone – or, rather, unclipping the lapel mic from whatever elegant silk tie he happens to be wearing that day – caused a murmur of sadness in my family. He had retired from international cricket when I started watching the game, so my memories of him were never those of the golden-haired boy of summer. His batting was already being embalmed in nostalgia, a mosquito trapped in amber, its wings spread in an eternally stylish cover drive.
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