IMAGES AT FINE LEG. December1986.
The pavilion yawns in concrete behind me.
Once, we stepped out from a ramshackle antique grandstand which cast its white-anted wooden shadows on the turf of ages.
Now white concrete shimmers in chartered squares.
Trees surround the ground but no branch softens this tribute to the utilitarian age.
This lacklustre morning, dry with December heat, holds little interest. I ride the boundary. Is it possible to feel so little enthusiasm half an hour into a game?
Legs stumble. Hands fumble. Arms flail. The throw is wide. Distant flickering flannels back up.
When will I bowl?
Military overs pass by. Runs trickle. Maidens accumulate in fragrance of dust.
Why doesn’t he bowl me?
Which picket was split by Nothling’s rifle shot drive in 1920?
Did Taylor, fleet of foot, scorch this piece of earth during his 253 over sixty summers ago?
Can I bowl now?
We defend in the infield.
I’m left to the humming cicadas in the outfield.
The distant carillon rings out Christmas carols. Deep and crisp and even?
No crispness here. Just lethargic moments.
Bat on ball is a distant thud. They’re playing another game.
When will I bowl?
He signals.
“Next over. This end.”
I walk tall. Roll up my sleeves.
James Rodgers