PROSPECT OF THE GRAND CLARE HALL CRICKET MATCH PLAYED MIDSUMMER’S DAY 2015 Come, Ranjitsinghji, Prince of Cambridge Cricket, Grace the greensward again and bless our wicket, Inspire the hands that hold the bat and ball – and then, To flow as fluently as them, this ball-point pen. [What scorer was it who asserted that The pen – dot dot – is mightier than the bat?] Far to the west, obscured from common eyes, Reserved for heroes under light blue skies, Leckhampton’s trees conceal a field of battle, Clare Hall in view across a field of cattle. Attend, you cows, warm, cowherds, to my theme: Today is Midsummer, a time to dream. Watch while a score of heroes throng the scenes And in their midst two sportive heroines. Step up, respective champions of your bands, Iain the Black, sable as Vulcan, stands And Aftab, garbed in white, whose name portends A special destiny e’er the evening ends. Both take the field to give Great Jove his due, He holds the key as all good porters do; Deciding Fate, mortals he’ll toss like bails While Iain calls for heads to roll and Aftab, tails. Targets are garnered from the sylvan glades, Tree-stumps to form two wicket-gates – and willow blades To act as weapons in defence of these When cannon-balls come hurtling from the trees. No helmets for these warriors, though gloves Are worn as tokens of their loves. Each buckles up in turn, goes out, takes guard, Observes the field positions, digs in hard. Shots very soon are heard and echo round, Triumphant shouts and loud appeals sound. Jove stands impassive as a thunderhead, Not moved to raise a finger, nod his head. The battle ebbs and flows all afternoon, Fortune runs out for some, their lovers swoon. Young heroes strike a blow, old warriors fall, Sometimes a bat the instrument, sometimes a ball. Stonewalls are breached and boundaries are crossed, Tea barely takes its toll e’er all is won – and lost, So many shattered stumps and with them hopes Of immortality on Jove’s Leckhampton’s slopes. Do get on with it, interrupted Graham. The contest over, warriors, winners all, Retire to feast and celebrate in Hall And when at night, elated, go their way, They leave the cows to take the field next day. Spiked, said Graham. Rubbish. That won’t do at all. No-one will read such stuff. Captions is what you want. Write captions for Lene Foss’s photo-ops. Umpire Bites Bowler, that sort of thing. Try again. PROSPECT OF A GRAND CRICKET MATCH ETC. II. Midsummer’s Day, the Sun calls Play To those who like their cricket. Weeks in the Net we’d all got wet And some got injured with it. Oh, no, groaned Graham. The Nets were as much fun as the game, said Desmond. Graham groaned again. The dawn reveals on Corpus fields With an amplifier, Tim Cottage. You’re far too loud to be allowed, (Be off, no go, you’re not Benaud), Says Corpus Christi College. The captains had planned all winter a grand Clare Hall Challenge Match. Staff and Fellows v. Students. There follows An over-the-wicket dispatch. To honour the name of their captain this game, The Staff were kitted in black. The Students wore white but not out of fright, They had an impressive attack. The players brought their near and dear To grace their deeds that day. Whatever their doubts about ins and outs, They made a bright array. At 2 the Umpires dressed in blue Provided the first surprise: Some new bye-laws to give us pause, New laws involving byes. And only Farhana can suss this falana Of extras and overs and runs; Liz joins in pursuit of this complex compute Till the scorebook’s all zeros and ones. STUDENTS BAT FIRST The Students bat, but you wouldn’t bet Which side was going to win. Vice Sam Martensz made no pretence: He wanted Ace Aftab in. But Aftab’s coy, employs a ploy He reckons is practical, He sends two rookies to run decoy (It isn’t true, please don’t annoy, It’s truly tactical). As I walked in with Desmond Lam, said Kai, the sky was amazingly blue and clear. There was so much light and space around us. Tim B. unfazed steps up with pace To expose this as a sham, Bowls fast and straight to seal the fate Of a sacrificial Lam. It was all so different in the Nets, said Desmond. Before the day was over a lot of others had reason to echo his comment. The Staff, odd fellows, leap for joy And this is just as well. Much more they’ll leap but in the deep As balls fly past pell-mell. The other man in, the Ferocious Finn, Kai in his hunting cap, Strikes one ball far as the Arctic Star Where it falls on an unknown Lapp. Then Aftab sure and Elliott More Take charge as they would have done If instead of going in 3 and 4 They had gone in 2 and 1. Aftab wears a blood-red cap, Elliott, red-rimmed glasses, Make Iain’s team match the colour scheme With red eyes and red faces. A pity Elliott wasn’t wearing braces, said Graham, you could have had a full rhyme. Sam’s ancestors were tropical stars On Lanka’s tear-drop isle, He never lobbed one dolly-drop But they walloped him in style. Next man to put a new jersey on And enter into the hunt Was a seasoned batter from over the water Who couldn’t tell block from bunt. Cricket, said Robin, gave me a weird sense of being at home in a foreign country. Strike one (dear me), strike two, strike three, But not strike three and out, Strike four (for four), strike five (for more), Oh my, but Robin could clout. Strike a light, said Graham, never played before and ends up top scorer. I thought you said Farhana and I were the top scorers, said Liz. Holding catches will win us matches, Iain proclaimed to his team, But soon he muttered, your fingers are buttered, Fetch a barrow, others scream. John Barrow is fetched and without being stretched He only holds on to a catch. The others all swear they had it just there, How rude of the Fates to have snatched. The Students to teach us as if in the bleachers Started to cheer and to chant, This cheesed off poor Tim who remarked full of vim, A shame that some can and some can’t. Ram, Ram, they cried and Ram replied, I am happy to enlarge From Delhi to Philadelphia Ram’s brand-new Cricket Raj. A day at cricket, said Ram, really does create a new sense of community. Ram draws applause for his four fours And is still going great guns When another Babe Ruth (to tell you the truth It’s actually Nick looking rather slick) Hits up some more home runs. A double whammy, said Graham, Major League draftees on top of people from the IPL. Belal belabours the bowling like Bell And hares like Gareth Bayle, Puts no foot wrong but stays so long What’s left to tell of the tail? Said Robert to Aftab, leave me out, I’m playing this game from scratch. You’ll pitch beginning the very last inning, Said Aftab, to win us the match. (And Amanda added, although she was padded, I’m not here to bat but to catch). I’ve always been a pitcher, said Robert, but the footwork of bowling is the interesting bit I had to get down. For the record, said Graham, Robert did bowl out the last Staff man in and Amanda did take a memorable catch. Picture that. A late cut to slip cut Ian’s top lip, It’s tough being ‘keeper, you see. Though blood flowed unchecked, with the greatest respect, The rest of us went in for tea. No, Graham, urns of tea, not barrels of beer. Well, I declare, with players to spare, Said Aftab, but sad to say We’ve just had tea and so you see There’s no time for Kaveh. THE STAFF BAT The Staff’s two openers take their guard And Tim pats down a divot. The fielders form two rings of steel Around a central pivot: Aftab and Elliott alternate In the bowler and ‘keeper spots, Spectators gaze in dull amaze At cricket’s ingenious plots. In Life’s brief innings, disaster strikes And leaves us black and blue. We never can know when falls the blow. It happens in cricket too. Graham, ah, Graham. Great idea of yours, that photo-op. Four ducks in a row. Lovely stuff. Centre-page spread. Take your bow. Graham, ah Graham. For such as Graham Medea spreads cricket nets. He was stretched and strained and racked and pained Till the bookies laid off all bets. John R’s first game had promised him fame, In the nets no bigger hitter. But he skies his first and before it’s burst, Amanda gathers a sitter. I held my breath, said her opposite number Kathreen, when I thought I’d held my catch. I don’t think Amanda’s was a sitter. Well, that’s how she describes her catch. Before I learned to toddle, The menfolk made me field for them, Catching’s a real doddle. John Barrow scores his runs in fours: Pythagoras again. He will not run for singles Any more than for a train. (He treats them with disdain). They show the learned Judge from Holland What stumping is about. Sounds much, he says, like double Dutch And so they stump him out. That’s British justice for you, said Michiel. And all this time Tim stands his ground, Then opens up full throttle. He has a double-barrelled name (Fires on both barrels all the game) And one of them’s now Bottle. Jason is never one to fret And is going really well When he loses his fleece to a magical piece, Belal’s Welsh bowling spell. Then in comes Captain Iain Black And plays in Boycott style, No battering-ram moves him or Sam And not all Belal’s guile. Highlight for me, said Belal, - face-off With Iain – wily spin – ball popped to mid-off – slow motion – ecstatic with the chance – footing gave way – ball bounced past. They put the shutters up, stonewall And would have forced a draw But they were stymied, timed out by A new-fangled bye-law. Don’t forget Ram, said Aftab, by now he was in the attack with Belal. Hadn’t played for 25 years. We thought he was lost to history. Kathreen counts sheep asleep on the steep, A Rocky Mountain Swiss. She’s given out caught which causes her thought, When should a Miss hit, a Miss miss? Dave Smith did some haymaking, Till, running, came up short. But he’ll not run or be caught out When you catch him in West Court. What about the fielding? asked Graham. What about that chap from Iran – Persia to you – his Dad bowled aerial lobs sideways in the Nets? Kaveh, he ran, and fielding ran Like a pilot flying solo, His flailing limbs mauled every ball Like mallets swung in polo. That’s the man, said Graham, very brave, took ‘em on the shins. They couldn’t stitch up Ian F, Although he needed stitches. Struck by a blow, he struck stout blows That ended up in ditches. A third John took his turn at the crease, First time for 50 years. Smuggled in twelfth, they toasted his health With another duck egg for his peers. Say, said Graham, that means all 3 Johns were out for a duck. Isn’t that some kind of a hat-trick? Only one Graham was out for a duck. Mine was the best duck, trumped Desmond, a golden Peking duck. You poor duckies, added Kathreen, my duck was a Canada goose. The day being done, the match lost & won… Hey, you’ve left out the umpires, said Graham. Andy had tailored his umpiring To suit not taking sides. He had no tricky LB calls, His calls were all for wides. The other umpire, said Graham, was the only International Player present. Darshil Shah. Plays for Thailand. Siam in your time. The day being done, the match lost & won, A dinner was held in the Hall, John Parker presented the Shield to Aftab, Declaring we were winners all. And while that was true, some honour was due To two who had come to the fore: Tim took a bottle he couldn’t rebuttal And Elliott called for one more. I sat beside Tim, said Desmond, the one who knocked me out. You know what? We had a good time in the day and an even better time at dinner. That’s happiness. Happiness, echoed Graham, they didn’t even present us with wooden spoons. You and I were out for ducks, dropped catches, took no wickets. What can you say about us? Well, whether we sit on Olympian Heights Or lie in Elysian shade, We can tell the gods, whatever the odds, We were there that day. We played. Sentimental claptrap, said Graham. Forget that day. It’ll be a whole different story next year. Clare Hall’s 50th. Best of three. See you there. TWELFTH MAN
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