Early Season Cricket

Early Season Cricket

Oh! To be in England now that April’s here,

Dust off the bats, clean up the wicket:

Time to get back to our great Summer game -

Forget about football – it’s time for some cricket!

It’s the start of another great season,

Which we always do at this time in April,

But the Sun’s not shining high in the sky,

And out in the County, the air remains chill.

As tens of fans huddle in the grand-stands,

And light braziers to keep themselves warm,

The players don extra layers of clothing,

Which is considered terribly bad form.

They’re all dressed in layers of thick jumpers,

With thermals and long-johns beneath,

And you can’t hear the whack of the bat on the ball,

For the sound of their chattering teeth.

The pads and the gloves aren’t helping much,

And the fielders gather together in huddles,

You can’t hit the ball straight through the covers,

Cos it just gets stuck there in the puddles.

There’s icicles hanging on the sight-screen,

The grounds-man’s not even managed to mow,

But there wouldn’t really be much of a point,

As the outfield’s still covered in snow.

The ground’s all lumpy out there in the middle,

There’s big worm-holes quite close to the stumps,

And the ball is bouncing all over the shop,

As it sticks in the mud, or skids off the bumps.

The new batsman can’t stop shivering,

His County cap’s all covered in mould,

He can’t be at peace, standing there at the crease,

When he’s shaking and trembling with cold.

There’s no incentive to make a big score,

Stuck in the middle, out there in the field.

It’s more perishing than brass monkeys,

Stand still too long, and your blood has congealed.

Everyone’s running around like a mad-man,

It’s just the same with the fast bowler.

They’re all doing their best to keep warm,

But it’s hard when the weather is polar.

  

The wind is howling, it’s likely to rain,

At the moment it’s always bad light,

And the only thing you’re likely to catch

Is a bad case of terminal frost-bite!

They’re turning vermillion in the pavilion,

Despite wearing a great-coat and scarf,

And the very idea of having a cold beer -

It’s freezing – are you having a laugh?

The boundary-line looks like a ditch,

The green sward is like a paddock of mud,

The line of the pitch plays like a bitch,

Playing today surely can’t do any good?

Whatever happened to Summer’s warmth?

Now large hailstones is about all you can see,

And you can’t wait to be back in the Club-house,

With a cup of hot Bovril for tea.

So if this ain’t the right time for cricket,

Then I’d like to ask the question – when is?

Never mind – soon time for strawberries & cream:

It’s never like this for the tennis!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2014