The week before last we were in Bearsted watching their village team, albeit from a distance. I should add that, while I condemned the bowling as slow, there was a couple of lads came on later (and had perhaps bowled earlier) with a bit of pace. Harsh on the lower order, that.
Their wives and girlfriends watch them play,
With gin and tonic, Chardonnay,
The slow right armers wheel away,
Like every other Saturday.
And children kick a different ball,
Against the tired village hall,
While wickets regularly fall,
And runners knees decide the call,
They play each ball as it were great,
They watch it pitch and take it late,
A puff of dust and through the gate,
It helps maintain the over rate.
In this you see our cricket thrive,
An influence on many lives,
No fluid, perfect cover drive,
Just twenty two, each week, who strive.