Drabble: It's an old game...

The Master watched from the sidelines, eyes narrowed.  First was up to bat.  A wily old bastard, what he lacked in youth, he made up for in cunning.  Benton was bowling, and the Master doubted that he was really up to the challenge.  The others, however, had insisted.

 

As Benton approached the wickets, the Master squinted at the ball.  It didn’t look like the average regulation strip of leather.  And it was the wrong colour for Tegan’s practice tennis balls.

 

Ball connected with bat.

 

Ball hit the fence.

 

The resulting concussion knocked most of them flat to the ground.

 

“BENTON!”