ABSTRACT
My memory is of a ball. The surface was scratched, shredded by bouncers and deliveries pinged into the slips. Sweat had worked the shine on one side to swing through the Fremantle Doctor. Now silent and stationary, this ball is encased in glass, untouchable and undeliverable. This tatty relic of cricketing culture is not like any other. It is polished by popular memories. It is not just a ball: it was once in the hands of Dennis Lillee. It was the last ball he bowled at the WACA, on his home pitch and in his home state.
