I saw the boy, late in the Queensland afternoon. The light was failing, and the summer humidity hung, thick and stifling.

He is slight, in a tee shirt that was once white, barefoot with spindle legs. I noticed him resting against the veranda railings of a Queenslander that had known better days. It’s ordinary, like the boy.

As I watch he pushes himself away from the railing, two steps rattle the boards, one step on the lawn, and he flings the ball down the makeshift pitch. It squirts to the right, missing the stumps, the hills hoist and bashes the dirty backyard fence.

The shortened pitch is the flattest part of the yard, and the boy stands there, patiently, waiting for the ball to roll back down. He has done this dance many times. He scoops it up and walks back, shoulders slightly bowed under the weight of expectations.

He turns again; two steps rattle the boards, the third step slamming down the front foot as is the way of all demon bowlers. This time the middle stump goes cartwheeling uphill. The boy stands there, triumphant. At that moment, in those nanoseconds, he is not alone. He is savouring the adulation of the crowd.

He is the hero of the Gabba, of the SCG, the MCG, and the WACA. This is the herculean effort that has demolished the opposition. This is the day which will be long remembered and often spoken of by the sporting commentariat. There are grubby tee shirt and ill-fitting shorts now. Now the boy stands there in crisp, sparkling, perfectly fitting cricket whites with the glorious baggy green cap.

This is no longer a makeshift wicket in a cramped suburban block. Now there is only the adoring chant from a crowded stadium. I watched mesmerized as the boy bridged the five-decade chasm when another boy pretended on a makeshift pitch baked to the hardness of concrete. The monkey chatter is still there, is still part of the Walter Mitty defence. The boy is looking at me, through me, before shrugging his shoulders and disappearing behind the swinging wire door. And in the approaching gloom, I am left to wonder if Walter Mitty will help keep his black dog at bay.