I dreamed of playing on an English lawn.
The gentle ripple of applause as I waved acknowledgment
To all quarters for my prowess at staying out in the middle
As I knocked off the 100 runs
Before Tea
In front of a passionate Lords crowd.
Botham was my hero, joined at the hip
With Gooch when he scored 333
Until he flicked
The ball away in act of what seemed tiredness.
Botham was my hero, cricketing god
Joined by Atherton, Willis, Lamb, DeFretias, Hussain, Stewart, Tufnell, Cork
And in later years Strauss, Anderson, Cook
Flintoff
And Bell.
The delivery is perfect, the shoulder rolled
And shimmered in the bright sun hanging over the
Bowlers crown. The defence takes guard and
Rests.
I saw ladies and gentlemen in every empty seat
As I finally went to the home of cricket
And soaked up the thoughts of radio transmissions with
Dear old Henry Blofeld as my guide through wet days
Sick days, off days, and perfect days as the sunshine of my youth
Relayed to me every delivery, wide, full toss and stumping;
Of every six, four, hurried run, lazy approach and dropped catch.
The embarrassed silence peppered by the odd sound
Of name calling to the shame of the second slip.
First over, then over and over again.
My radio has changed shape, size and function,
It is my blade, my wooden shield against the
Force of nature of Kapil Dev, of Marshall and Thompson,
The brilliant scourge of Alan Donald and the terrifying
Appeal of the heroic umpire signalling me caught.
This is a dream come true.
The break for lunch, the interview held.
This is a dream of which I stood in the middle of the green grass
And wanted to take up arms
Against the foreign invader
In the 22 yards between me and the man
Who desired my wicket.
The taste of battles that raged long after the batsman
And bowler had locked horns in the arena
Of gentlemanly conduct.
Blood seeped out from every corner of the Long Room
Of the history that Thomas Lord had sought.
I take guard, I take pictures, snapshots with both my eyes
And my camera. The lens of one better than the lens of the other,
Yet I have imagined so much more being born to the sound
Of England winning The Ashes on the radio in ‘71.
My mum and dad, I imagined asking
Me to stay in the pavilion, booted up, until it was over and England had won.
Don’t you dare come out to bat
Until the last run is scored.
Lord’s on a September afternoon 42 years later
Is a million light years away from that day
With Peter’s Finger signalling it was time
For the sweat to be soaked up and for the pressure to
Begin
The presentations over, the picture with the urn taken
Holding a replica with gentle and unashamed reverence.
The picture in my head scoring the winning run to claim
The Ashes, weapon held aloft
In salute to the crowd that had cheered every flash of the blade
And cringed at every miss-timed shot of which there was many.
I leave Lords with my head held high, my bat gripped between my hands
With solemnity but a grin inside
That I never once was out to Shane Warne
That I was never bowled by Kapil
And I was never stumped for an answer
To one of Muralitharen’s deliveries.
Ian D. Hall. 2013