First Slip captures a familiar moment in backyard cricket: the instant when play turns to consequence. Three stumps stand in sunburnt grass, a bat lies abandoned, and a red cricket ball arcs away from the wicket. Above, a window carries the unmistakable starburst of impact.

This is no tennis ball. It is a proper cricket ball - the kind that makes a sound every backyard cricketer remembers. The edge has been found, the window has paid the price, and Mum or Dad will soon appear at the door.

The setting is suburban, but personal. It recalls Mountain View Terrace in Ōtaki, where the cul-de-sac became our pitch: road as wicket, driveways as boundaries, passing cars as drinks breaks. Stumps could be a rubbish bin, bats could be homemade, and the rules shifted according to space, age and fading light.

One-handed catches off the first bounce counted. Sheds and roofs were in play. Six-and-out applied over the neighbor’s fence. LBW was never entertained. Winning hardly mattered.

First Slip holds onto that brief space between triumph and trouble - the bravado, improvisation and freedom of childhood, when joy and consequence could arrive with the very same shot.