When a dodgy umpiring decision denies you a guaranteed hundred (of which you were, admittedly, yet to score a single run), one thing is clear from your foul-mouthed stomp off the field: the dressing room wall is in for some punishment.
As you leave the square you’re still in shock at the umpire’s blunder; by the time you’ve got your pads off you’ve resolved to track down his address and made detailed plans to dispose of the body.
For the rest of the innings you remain a man apart: your heavy, slumping silence is broken only by lonely walks around the boundary, where, finding a spot to sit down as far away from the pavilion as is possible while remaining in the same post code, you decide you hate not only this umpire, but all umpires, all your teammates, the game of cricket and indeed the whole of life itself.