Scorebook

Time marches on, the years fly by, the seasons come and  go;

The cricketer grows wistful, he’s comforted to know

That should his memory grow dim as one day may his sight

One vital aspect of his life is down in black and white.

And while life's small achievements have seldom been rewarded

At least his exploits on the field are faithfully recorded.

Moments of exuberance, skill and graft and pain

By looking through the scorebook can be lived and lived again.

It has its limitations, its formulation such

That while it seems to tell you all it doesn’t tell you much.

The scorers are anonymous, there is of course no mention

If he, whoever he might be, was paying ,much attention.

It tells us what we settled for and gives us little signs

So those who played, on looking back, can read between the lines.

Take all the ‘RUN OUTS’ it records, you almost can depend

On ‘Inzamum ul Eddie’ being down the other end.

Simply writing ‘CAUGHT’ won’t help the reader to be knowing

How low, how high, how much it spun, how fast the ball was going.

‘Caught Cowell’ for instance can’t convey the tension and the doubt,

The circling round beneath the ball, the scurrying in and out.

‘Caught Garner’ hides a sleight of hand no other catch surpasses,

Swooping low at short square leg, left-handed, without glasses.

‘Caught Bradbury’ sounds quite ordinary, rather sportsmanlike;

No mention of the jerking thumb and cries of “on yer bike!”

Batsmen like to see their scores but most of us it’s true

Have had some luck on level pitches;  made a run or two.

Good knocks here from Sykes and Waldorf, Keppler and Magoo

Every dog has had his day – even me and you.

So let the book fall open;  see which page is thumbed

And guess which batsmen secretly to ego have succumbed.

Barry’s ton and Lambo’s fifty, Grumpy’s ninety nine –

That’s the grubbiest page of all, the fingerprints aren’t mine.

Big scores down the batting order always rouse suspicion,

Like bowlers coming back to polish off the opposition,

Average boosters fancying an easy bowl or bat.

Thank goodness Captain Grumpy never does a thing like that!

He works hard for his averages like every skipper should;

The game is more important;  that’s why they’re not so good.

The scorebook tells the story, protest with all your might,

It’s no good arguing the toss, it’s there in black and white.

“Bowled Salway’s” rather meaningless, it can’t begin to say

If it ‘went on with the arm’ or ‘went the other way’.

If it beat him ‘in the flight’ or ‘ with a change of pace,

Or hit a bump which, truth to tell, it usually the case.

“Bowled Rayer” used to be confusing failing to discern

If he was bowling medium pace or trying to get some turn.

Here’s an over, ‘Single, Single, dot, dot, dot and then

Whoops – a six, that’s when he tried his Chinaman again.

      Those little Gallic chevrons look innocent enough

But batsmen often feel hard done by, getting out is tough.

Good decision?  Up in front?  Got a snick or hasn’t he?

The scorebook won’t explain the umpire’s  name was Macatasney.

Despite perceived injustice Mel or Barry do not linger

Or mutter rude obscenities when Trigger lifts the finger.

Our batsmen are exemplary;  they don’t wax loud or shameless

Or vandalise the changing room like one who shall be nameless.

While you are grinding the gerund or suffering as a Tutor

Cowlly’s in a little corner with his new computer.

The scorebook’s open on his desk, he knows what he’s about;

In go runs and wickets and our averages come out.

Perhaps some players haven’t done as well as you might think;

They’re glad it’s cricket that we play and not ‘The Weakest Link’.

Then – Crisis time – our scorebook, Cowlly’s data base for ages,

Had itself been judged ‘RUN OUT’, we’d used up all the pages.

Trigger’s brand new scorebook was greeted with euphoria

Despite the fact it’s dated for the reign of Queen Victoria.

It’s all a bit confusing but the payers at least will know

They weren’t around to play the game a hundred years ago.

As Trigger’s book is slowly filled some players who never knew him

A debt of gratitude will owe anonymously to him;

And though the dates are slightly wrong a scorebook’s never boring

And a hundred out is not a lot when Trigger does the scoring.

                                                              By Arthur Salway