You can close your eyes and see it. Maybe even smell it - that unmistakable whiff of warm air laced with stale Tetley's Bitter and England stinking out the joint. Probably against Australia but, honestly, it could have been anyone during the nineties.
Cue our man, striding out far more assured than the situation dictates. Faded baby blue guards at his temples. Sun cream on his lips. Kookaburra Bubble in hand. A sense of "ah s***, here we go again" resting on his shoulders like a cape rather than a burden.
Were things going to be okay? Probably not. But things were better now that he was there. On Monday morning, as news broke of Graham Thorpe's passing, that unmistakable numbness in your soul is because one of British sport's most stylish comfort-givers is here no more.
If you grew up in England in the 1990s, Thorpe was always on hand, and had he not been, you probably would not still be here reading this. You did not even need to be into cricket to know of him. His was a cross-sport, cross-generational pull. Your favourite player and your parents', too, until you came with a wishlist featuring that pricey piece of willow. The one who'd ensure the nine o'clock news had a few boundaries to show within their usual package of cascading English wickets.
Thorpe's appeal is reflected in the tributes across cricket's far reach. From former coaches, team-mates, opponents - greats of the game, no less - and those still playing, both for England and beyond, who were lucky to benefit from his guidance. An impact on the game both widespread and personal.
Much like Britpop, Thorpe encapsulated that decade. His best work provided markers for the country's most romanticised era. You knew where you were when each of his biggest hits dropped, and how you consumed them. If you were lucky enough to be there, chances are you are still boasting about that to this day. And just like Britpop, he was flawed, influenced the best of the 2000s and, you know what, was probably better than you remember.
He'd chew gum and play the pull shot like a dream. Don a headband to mask the toil of the scorching sun and then reveal cheeks so perfectly rosy after hours of slog you'd swear he was about to go on stage.
He had all the usual classy left-hander shots, yet strummed a near-boundaryless century and made it seem just as cool. He made it his duty to drag his team into the light, and still managed to oversee a moment of crowning glory at dusk. He averaged 45.17 at home and a more impressive 44.16 overseas. Few resided so comfortably in the contraction of a poster boy you'd want in the trenches quite like him.
What graft he had for the team was not restricted to the field. Ahead of the 1999 World Cup, he took against the ECB for keeping wages the same for the previous three years. When his complaints fell on unsympathetic ears, he refused to don the team blazer for functions leading up to the tournament and copped a few fines for his trouble. Many current England players were struck by his humility and empathetic manner, particularly when dealing with sensitive topics they would not usually discuss with a coach.
As for the graft of everyday life, that was ongoing. He wore his bruises openly, though not by choice. Michael Atherton, a longstanding team-mate, former captain and friend, once wrote of Thorpe: "If something off the field is eating away at him, he cannot put it to the back of his mind and concentrate on his cricket."
A player who featured in more away Tests than at home (51 to 49) wrestled with touring life more than most. In his 2005 autobiography Rising From The Ashes, Thorpe wrote: "To be a good tourist, you had to force thoughts of home out of your mind. I was always reluctant to do that, fearing it might have some permanent effect."
Sadly, it did, exacerbated by the unfeeling gossip-mongers of the time who relished airing the most uncomfortable aspects of his private life. At a time when mental health was not on the player welfare agenda, it is hard to imagine just how torturous it was to strive for any sort of peace of mind in such a psychologically wearing sport.
Which makes the events from 2002 even more remarkable. It was then that Thorpe took an indefinite break from cricket to deal with the end of his first marriage. After a 13-month absence, he returned to score his favourite of 16 Test hundreds - 124 against South Africa at The Oval, his home ground - before embarking on a 2004 that comprised 951 runs at 73.15.
Over the coming days, you will see Thorpe described as "troubled", as if that did not make him that much more relatable. So much of English cricket in the 1990s was about fleeting sensations of perfection among imperfection. Thorpe, consistently, was a trusted vessel for this, and a tacit reminder of that duality. Of making the most of the "now", not necessarily knowing that better days were to come, but believing you could work with whatever lay beyond the horizon.
As such, there remains a sadness among those whose formative years he influenced that Thorpe did not get to experience the 2005 Ashes. He carried England long before he helped mould the core of that team in 2004. During the doldrums of the '90s, these were the days he was dragging us towards. And while society does grow great when men plant trees in whose shade they shall never sit, a player who sowed those seeds in such unforgiving climates deserved the coolness of that shade.
Therein lies the pain of Thorpe leaving behind those reared on his brilliance and comforted by his presence. For all he achieved, did he know just how much he was loved? How integral he was to the memories flooding social media and column inches now that he is gone? What he meant to "us"?
And with that, the unmistakable numbness in our souls returns. Because the confronting realisation, as upsetting as it is to consider, is that he probably didn't.