My Poetry: A Sticky Wicket

A Sticky Wicket

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Play straight, keep ya eye
on the ball
ignore everything else.

I repeat this little ditty
like a mantra
as I pad up, first left then right,
always left then right,
adjust my box
for the straight one
on middle stump;
pace the pavilion
prepare for that quick
who thinks a nick for four

to fine leg is comparable
to sleeping with his sister.
Practise my off-drive

always perfect in the changing room;
then a shout of howzat
thickens the blood...

I'm in.

With gloves in hand
I stride out to the middle
willow and wit safely tucked
beneath my arm

a sticky wicket my destination

cricketing folklore my destiny.

Then in time honoured fashion

I scratch middle with my spikes
two lines my guard,
repeat the mantra
play straight, keep my eye
on the ball.

 

Then start thinking 

of getting myself in

by getting off strike:
a leisurely single to deep mid-on
where they've hid the old man
they dragged from the pub,
ignore the village idiot
positioned at square leg
with his impenetrable accent
and comedy commentary
about something to do with bows.

Tap, tap take the stance
eyes down then up the wicket,
and wait......
ignore the fly circling
and stray jumper thread
right now it don't matter
if I turned off the hob
or if my boss has realised
I lost the report he asked for,
wait, watch, wait and watch.
That hairy quick steams in

off 30 paces
like a concussed rhinoceros
who's just heard it's last orders,
and with a lazy swish
I play the line, but
the bat heads down Bakerloo
when the damned ball's on Waterloo.
With a thud into the pad,
cries of howzat ring out,
I try to look confident

like Clark Cable

or Marlon Brando giving the eye

to the desert menu
like it took a thick edge,
even look at the bat,
but the umps finger slowly
raises upwards,
and any hope it's to scratch
his wine tipped nose fades
when he points it my way.

As I trudge back to the hutch
moaning under my breath
it was going down leg

another golden duck

I repeat as the bat lands
with a clunk, on the becnch

and vow, on this perfect summer day
when clouds are still
as sleeping sheep
to quit this stupid, bloody game,
least until next week.

Play straight, keep ya eye
on the ball
ignore everything else.

Yeah whatever!