Pujara has his timing off,
No deep resounding boom today,
Instead a day of guides and flicks,
Which have a value in their way.
They lift him up to forty one,
He blocks, no comfort there,
Pujara leaves the moving ball,
He watches each – he cares.
Each one might be his wicket ball,
Made lies upon the track,
His pose holds firm, with ball long gone,
The offstump doubled back.
His stillness caught, his pose retained,
His erred judgement revealed,
Pujara leaves at forty one,
Pujara leaves the field.
I was at Day Two of Essex v Yorkshire yesterday. This is the first of a few poems about that.