Absolute, stone-cold, rip-your-own-face-off torture for everyone involved.
Your opening bat arrived at the crease with carefully rolled-up sleeves and a generous waft of body spray, but soon the promise of his appearance is revealed as a run-shy mirage.
After leaving, blocking, missing, hitting to a fielder, missing, leaving, blocking and missing for what seems like three weeks, he decides that 18-0 off 20 overs is a suitable platform from which to kick on, and promptly spoons a hostile half-volley straight to mid-off. It’s the most useful thing he’s done all day.