Everything sets up to bat this game out favourably,
after the loss of the toss and all those early wickets,
to dig down and in, suffer the attacks
of life’s fast unplayable, unreadable balls,
the minor as well as the major setbacks.
To not lose your footing, accept the thuds
on the pad as inevitable, the play and miss
and several rattling helmet cracks. Think Robin Smith
duckin’ and divin’ Ian Bishop. It isn’t pleasant
or pretty, tied to a pin, the lonely middle.
So, it’s amazing to be here still,
mid-afternoon, fluidly finding the odd four,
the outfield slicker; realising now you can chase more,
not merely endure, the fielders grown tired,
the slip cordon gone – they’ve shipped a few –
yes, your tally-of-being-here gradually grew.
