To See Bell-Drummond Bat At Lord’s.


, , , , , , , ,

I make not even the slightest apology for this. I saw Daniel Bell-Drummond hit a cover drive for four at Radlett early in the One Day Cup and it was the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in years. If I had oils and an easel I might not have left until I captured it.

To see Bell-Drummond bat at Lord’s,
Those strokes played on the greatest stage,
The perfect lines and perfect form,
The perfect sound of perfect shots,
The resonance of timing.

To see Bell-Drummond bat at Lord’s,
To see him build his innings,
They paint the matches here sometimes,
The brushes, should they beauty seek,
Can settle on Bell-Drummond.

To see Bell-Drummond bat at Lord’s,
To bat, bat well, and long,
Beneath a scorching summer sun,
In front of Kentish singers’ songs,
The game was meant for such as this.

To see Bell-Drummond bat at Lord’s,
As do men with binoculars,
To better pick those silken drives,
The easy wristy flicks to deep,
The hope that all those runs begets.

To see Bell-Drummond bat at Lord’s,
If only in a losing cause,
He stopped, when out, on 86,
And all of Lord’s should hold its breath,
And then he walked and with him summer,
And then he walked and with him hope.


The Lingering Death of Rilee Rossouw


, , , , , , ,

I feel a bit bad that this is the only poem I came away from today’s Royal London One Day Cup Final with but it was busy and noisy and hot. His was the definitive innings of the day, and a game that Hampshire deserved to win. I bear no grudges, just that this passage of play was the one that resounded loudest with me. So half-apologetically, I post this.

You see it in the feet at first,
That like a boxer’s slow,
The rapid skips down dusty tracks,
Another thing to go,
The shot selection comes confused,
And yet we see his total grow,
And running less, just singles now,
No bother more than beat the throw.

A paddle sweep straight to a man,
A hundred scored belies,
The signs were there, another scare,
Of imminent demise,
The ends of overs must be strange,
Your partner clearly tries,
Until the end caught in the deep,
And all of Lord’s will rise.

Ode To The Chuntering Woolley Stand


, , , , , , ,

I love the Woolley Stand. Its home. Its normally pretty quiet, too, but maybe the light, maybe the heat, certainly Middlesex, made it a little busier. There was conversations all around me.

They talk of Colin Cowdrey here,
With reverence as you should know,
The numbers of his whole career,
And everywhere he chose to go.

They also raise Lord Harris’ name,
Expecting you know him as well,
They never saw him in a game,
Their fathers told the tales they tell,

And Deadly Derek’s name is heard,
As lesser spinners twirl away,
For Deadly is the final word,
Knows anyone who saw him play,

One day they’ll talk of Denly, too,
And Darren Stevens’ golden autumn,
Our sons will tell the tales we do,
We’ll listen on and know we taught ’em.