Men attending to their shaving rituals beneath railway bridges are usually a little more unkempt, but the Pat Cummins I encountered on my morning walk through the semi-industrial streets of the inner west is the well-groomed matinee idol we’ve come to expect.
I’d been wondering where he’d got to, and there he was, under the bridge, on the dog-leg road, where they’re building the Metro line’s extension.
The Australian captain has a way of disappearing into the hedgerow between Test series. One minute he’s accepting a trophy amid an ejaculation of ticker tape, the next he’s slipped out the back door.
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