The Forlorn Fielder

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The fielder basked in the sun but it was the batsman who was soaking up the adulation. The crowd’s rapturous applause thundered deep into the ears of the fielder. Culpable of dropping a catch only an hour ago, fingertips at fault, guilt now rippled through the veins of the sweat-drenched fielder.

There’d be no opportunity to make amends, no chance to redeem. It was far too late for that. As the batsman went on, 110, 120, 150, the pain only grew worse for the forlorn fielder. Against the backdrop of a setting sun the sun set on the fielder’s career. Dusk settled on the fielder’s time at the top but dawn was rising on the young batsman’s passage.

Setting and rising, dusk and dawning. Over the young batsman observers were fawning but the fielder had graced the field of green for one last morning. As the day evaporated and afternoon became evening, people drew curtains in houses across the land whilst the curtain closed on the fielder’s stage.

Like a Taipan in the Grasslands

With ball in hand the Australian hopped toward the painted white line. Gracefully he arched his arm before bringing it down in whip like fashion. The rustic red orb released from his fingers. Above the barren surface the battered and bruised ball approached the Englishman. It landed in the rough and spat out like a taipan in the grasslands, turning towards the batsman with venom. With willow in both hands the cream clothed cricketer was deceived by the mysterious red swirl directly before his eyes. Anticipating movement one way, he received it the other. Despite the slowing of time it was far too late to save himself. The ball didn’t violently shatter his stumps but pierced his defences before elegantly clipping the timber summit. Both bails, a batsman’s gold, tumbled pitifully to the sun-baked ground. The Australian and his pals provided no pity and the Englishman’s sojourn was over. With head bowed he turned reluctantly, failing to block out the shrieks of joy. To polite applause the fallen batter trudged along the rain-starved grass toward the forgiveness of the changing room. He’d do it all again tomorrow.

Ball on Track!

The bowler is poised at the start of their run up. A train about to depart the station.

Ball in hand. Passengers on board.

Slowly the bowler begins their journey. Tentatively the train leaves the station.

Soon the bowler is at full tilt. The train too has reached maximum speed.

Upon reaching the crease the bowler releases the ball. The train also begins to stop in part.

The ball continues its journey towards the batter. The train approaches a new station.

The sound of the edge, heard by all who are watching. The sound of the locomotive on track, noticed by all who are waiting.

The ball in the air. The train on the track.

Sharing the final moment of this part of their journeys. Terminated, motion becomes inertia.

Caught by the fielder. Caught by the passenger.

Eventually the ball returns to its starting point. The train leaves for another station.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

We’re Gonna Win the Ashes!

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We’ve got Stokes and Woakes

And lots of other blokes

We’ve got the ‘Beard that’s Feared’

And a bowling attack geared

To rip up your stumps

And leave you in the dumps

We’ve got hundreds galore

And Cook still wanting more

We’ve got Root in charge

And we’re gonna win large

We’ve got Jennings and Ballance

And bucket loads of talent

We’ve got Anderson and Broad

And runs on the board

We’ve got Finn to run in

And matches to win

We’ve got Bairstow to keep wicket

Whilst we’re beating you at cricket

We’ve got Rashid to deceive

And a nation that believes

We’re gonna win the Ashes

Got no time for Big Bashes

We’ll have the Ozzies under the cosh

It’s gonna be a whitewash

We’re gonna have our fill

We’re gonna win five-nil, five-nil, five-nil!

The Deer and the Wolves

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You’re a batsman, like a deer

Isolated from the herd

Fielders, like a pack of wolves

Lick their lips at your wounds

Bowler, the alpha male

On the prowl, a scowl

Staring you down

The wolves, patient

Eyes on their prey

In pursuit, the whole day

No escape

They will get you

Termination

A matter of time

A fellow deer

Picked off by the pack

Another one dissected

Sent back

Witness your fellow fallows fall

Stave off uncertain certainty

Cries, you’re down

Weapons on the ground

The wolves howl

The battle at a close

P’Tang Yang Kipperbang!

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I struck the ball in the dark, off the bowling of Mitchell Starc.

I hit the ball over the rope, evading the dive of Shai Hope.

I deflected the ball with an edge so fine, off the bowling of Dale Steyn.

I glanced the ball for four, evading the gloves of PJ Moor.

I played a shot that was just stellar, out of the reach of Niroshan Dickwella.

I stole a run like a thief, off the bowling of Steve O’Keefe.

I belted the ball out of the ground, off the bowling of Toby Roland-Jones, such a sweet shot oh what a sound, all the way to The Road of Bones.

I searched the internet for batting tips, so looked at the faq, flicked the ball off my hips, past the outstretched Misbah-ul-Haq.

I defended the ball then ran a single, straight past my partner no time to mingle.

I ran three at Adelaide, off the bowling of Tony Dodemaide.

I avoided a bouncer from Brett Lee, on a sunday morning at the SCG.

I pulverised the bowling at the WACA, off the ball came the lacquer.

I scored a double century at Perth, took me a week or two to come back to Earth.

My stumps were shattered, oh what a pain, clean bowled all that mattered, bloody Mark Alleyne!

Used to watch Serie A on Channel 4, lots of goals by Beppe Signori, went to New Zealand on tour, got clean bowled by Daniel Vettori.

I punched the ball with lots of power, off the bowling of Grant Flower.

I swatted the ball with a bang, off the bowling of Bryan Strang.

I bowled the ball, it was a ripper, did for the off-stump of Trevor Gripper.

Running in week after week, ever so dependable was Heath Streak.

A crocodile under the bed, it wasn’t so little, eight foot long they said, guest of Guy Whittall.

The batsman was far too ponderous, nicked one behind at The Wanderers.

Batting at Scarborough, put the ball in the sea, Ian Salisbury’s leg-spin, no mystery to me.

Woke from my slumber, when I received a beamer from Carl Mumba.

You need a wicket, if you want to play cricket!