1976, that summer’s heat making light work of my shoddy whites.

Sweat beads slip from my crown, wiped from my brow,

They run the bails of my fingers, to where a rubicund sphere sits.

As a boy, it held no mystery, taught me no lessons,

It told no lies, held no surprise, a simple ball to my eyes.

And I, a player in its game, out in the field, making up the numbers.

That crimson...

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Leather on willow.

Arms raised index fingers proud.

The crowd goes barmy.

Afterword

My first crack at the Senryu poetry form. 3 non rhyming lines, 17 sylables arranged  5,7,5

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Did we ever believe in the untarnished ambition
to run, bowl and throw to the best of our natural ability?
Or has the falsehood always been hidden from us
by those 'dedicated' individuals, who appear on
our sports fields, and on our television screens?

Our faith has been ripped apart so many times over recent years.
Our sportsmen and women, who create the illusion
of greatness and triumph
...

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One of the great cricketers and cricket commentators, his decision to retire from UK cricket

commentary was a sad occasion for all who love the game - and his inimitable "delivery".

This short tribute was written at the time.

...............................................................................................................................................

With a tone...

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