on time

we're saying good-bye today
a friend made through cricket

known for how he bowled
bent back, arm whipped round
like a butterfly swimming stroke
thick mop of black hair
swinging across his face
during the unusual nature of his delivery
off the wrong foot, it's said
face looking down at the pitch
as the ball left his hand
from his flurry of arms and legs
all too surprising for the batsman
his bowling so difficult to judge for pitch or spin
regularly effective
then gradually less often so

known for how he batted
somewhat stooped over the crease
rosy cheeked, somehow never tanned
(it must have been that tousled mop of jet keeping the sun off)
his leg pads seemed loosely attached
his cricket whites dusty, grass stained at the knee from last weekend's game
his shirt baggy
creased and crumpled from his kit bag
he understood how to play
with a hockey player's eye for putting bat to ball
he scurried between wickets
although rarely fit, not fat
he could bat and bravely
swatting away nasty fast bowlers with swift swipes
his deep voice carried across the field
"Wait!" "Yes!" "No!"

he was known for sardonic humour
occasional grim observation
an aside of few words to sum up an opponent's character
or to apply an apt nickname to a new team mate
or droll, acidic comment on an umpire's decision

batting together in a tour match
somewhere on the line between Southwold and Hertford
time running out
the winning target beyond us
the prospect of a draw a possibility 
dusk forming about us
the opposition holding the upper hand
getting through the last 20 very quickly
he strolled towards me between overs
I thought as he approached and the opposition moved into place ready for the next over
he was about to pass on some of his tactical nous
some advice to tweak my batting technique
an opportunity seen for runs from the latest field adjustment
a warning about a change of bowling
time was an issue 
too little for them
too much for us
we needed to stay calm
use up time
Anything worth watching on telly tonight, old chap? he asked

his life seemed to be quietly controlled chaos
like his bowling
and like his batting
he was a regular victim
as the cricketing jargon goes
to appalling umpiring decisions
criminally unpredictable pitches
team mates calling him for an ill-judged run
but he never played the victim
he bore the worst pains of life
on his slightly rounded shoulders
found words to keep things in proportion
made light of the weight fate bowled him
managed to deflect the slings and arrows
before, with a weary heart
his innings abruptly closed

~

CLP 25/09/2025