Another great poem by Al. ------------------------- My nervous bat taps on the ground. There isn’t any other sound except my heart within my chest struggling now to do its best to quell the sickness in my belly stop my knees from being jelly. The crowd is silent, biting thumb, we only need another run. The problem is we’ve now lost nine. The honour of the last ball’s mine. The bowler, who is eight foot tall and snorting like some fighting bull with devils horns & fiery eyes, rubs more blood into his thighs and with an evil mocking laugh stamps his hooves upon the grass and starts his languid, loping stride For me there is no place to hide. I’m on my own with no escape a matador with willow cape A master of both pace and swing The bowler tightens up his spring by running faster, then he jumps unleashing fury at my stumps. He’s hid the seam so I don’t pick it A blur is buzzing down the wicket Its beaten me it’s come to quick. I try to drive but get a nick. And now the ball heads in a hurry straight for the giant hands of gulley. But wait - its falling short My luck is in – I’ve not been caught. Meanwhile my mate runs down the track I yell too late - “Get back”, “Get back” He impolitely recommends that I get to the other end. Off I go just like a hare that’s caught its hind legs in a lair. This could be a real disaster tired legs just wont go faster. Feeling like a soggy sponge I take a final desperate lunge. (I’m told this bit – I don’t recall gulley picking up the ball and throwing it with all his might exactly at my new found height and as I’m now not on my feet ball & face destine to meet) I give the ball a bloody kiss which is enough to make it miss the stumps and more, it travels on its way for four. As I celebrate the win, I give the world a fat-lipped grin. The cheering crowd dispel the pain topped up with aspirin and champagne The moral of this story then, to win the accolade of men and keep your hopes and dreams alive its sometimes best to take a dive