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Dud fieldsmen get captain-directed right down on the fence, miles from mid-innings action, when no one is likely to take a swipe and test your unreliable hands. At change of overs, you either bolt down the other end or get slight relief by holding down mid-off for an over where at least conversation is audible. Once in a blue googly, someone swats a sitter to you in close and if you manage to dispel your panic and actually swallow the catch, you will know true gratitude. Normally restrained leggies and offies, unlike their wild-haired, truculent cousin quicks, will gather you up, tousle your hair and grin goofily, pretending they planned the trap. But mostly, fielding is a lonely business, hearing distant thunks as the cherry arcs off where others congregate. Late in the innings, you may be offered another reprieve, closer to the popping crease but equally isolated - deep fine leg - on the off chance of picking up a skewed hook or a keeper's miss. On TV, balls glide across bowling green -like surfaces but in the suburbs, any- thing can happen as balls spit and jump over mis-mown, crevice-cracked buffalo grass. A sweep along the ground can leap up and collect you in the teeth. But must not fray your focus. Just don't let that ball get to the boundary. Sorts you, fielding. You're there for the duration of afternoon, holding down a position. bw