I was one of these.
When I started for the wickets, armed with pads and gloves and bat, I did not feel happy; still, I was in hopes I might at least succeed in "breaking my duck's egg," which was more than could be said for either of my predecessors.
I felt rather important as I requested the umpire to give me "middle," and hammered the mark a little with my bat.

Still, my feet fidgeted; there was a sort of "cobwebby" feeling on my face, and a tickling sensation in the small of my back, as I stood ready for my first ball, which convinced me I was by no means at home in my new position.
"Play!" cries the umpire.
The bowler starts to run, with arm extended.

He makes a sort of curve round the wicket, and balances himself on one foot as he discharges his ball.

It comes like lightning, right on to my bat, twisting it in my grasp, and then is snatched up in an instant by "point," who tosses it to the wicket-keeper, who returns it to the bowler.

All this is very alarming.