Backyard Cricket
Rupert McCall | June 08, 2023
When I sit and watch the cricket, there’s a place I often go
Through a window where I stare upon a yard that needs a mow
I am young again with brain cells that have not been faced with beer
Although those days have left me now, the memories are clear
Of a willow hurled in spirals to the calls of “hills or flats!”
By a kid who knows for certain – if he wins the toss, he bats
On a track where something well pitched up, could whistle past your scone
Where no man got out leg before, though ‘nick behind’ was gone
‘One hand off the house’ was fair – the road was ‘six and out’
And that six was often worth it if the fruit was there to clout
‘Hit the car’ “You’re gone my friend! The shed is that way son!”
In the name of backyard cricket, geez we had some bloody fun
And when you took the batting crease, you’d face like Brucey Laird
Then you’d bowl and stare like Thommo just to make the batsman scared
You’d shout “Howzat!” like DK did and chew the gum like Viv
For the sake of dreams, there was nothing that a player wouldn’t give
To be bowled by one’s own brother was the ultimate in shame
And until you knocked his melon off, you hadn’t cleared your name!
The skills involved in running called for common sense and class
As your partner crossed, you’d hit him with the perfect ‘Gray Nic pass’
What a bat it was! The old quad scoop with cherries toe to handle
And Kev, my neighbour, chucked… although it didn’t cause a scandal
The third ump wasn’t heard of then, so ‘close enough’ was in
And to tamper with the tennis ball was not considered sin
In fact you’d always wrap the ball in tape to maximize the swing
And then you’d let the perfect ‘outie’ go and think that you were king!
The sun had gone down long ago but still that blade would flash
“One last ball then up for tea!” would herald one last bash…
Am I wrong or are we living in a ‘caps on backwards’ world?
Will our children soon be reading how that backyard bat was hurled?
Will blades of grass in future yards be strangers to our youth?
With every corner shop that dies, I’m closer to the truth
But grief won’t get me anywhere and nor will innuendo
I know I must acknowledge that the game is on Nintendo
Yesterday is written and will wipe away like chalk
You can’t ignore technology and who am I to talk?
For here I am on Sunday with my hand on a remote
The grass outside will stay that long unless I buy a goat
So I think I’ll tape the old ball up and mow myself a wicket
(And then I’ll ring the boys)
“The square’s prepared – let’s play ourselves some cricket!”
Rupert McCall
Backyard Cricket is just one of the many great poems and stories in Rupert McCall latest book , ‘Best Of’ anthology, Golden Soil
