Truman Nature – an
apocryphal cricketing story for Summer.
When I were a young lad in Yorkshire ,
Lived the greatest bowler,
it’s said.
His name was sometimes Truman,
Always known as Fiery Fred.
He was fast and he was fierce,
And he took many a Test wicket.
There’s many a batsman’s took
shelter,
When Fred was playing at
cricket.
Eventually, the time came to
retire,
And opponents heaved sighs of
relief.
In Australia
and the West Indies ,
Heads would come no longer to
grief.
So Fred took his missus on
holiday at last,
And went to Antigua
to take of his ease.
He soaked up the sun and the
sea and the sand,
With only his good self to
please.
One day, he wandered down to
the village,
And watched the young lads there
on the green.
They were playing knock-about
cricket,
The finest young batsmen he’d
seen.
A youngster came over and
asked if he’d like to play.
He explained that they were a
bowler short.
They didn’t know who Fred
was,
So to be friendly, he felt
that he ought.
He thought he could still
show them a thing or two,
How he could make a ball
swing:
He’d bowl some medium-fastish
And send the ball down with
some zing.
The young batsman came up and
took guard,
Aiming to hit Fred’s ball straight
out for Four,
But Fred sent the ball down
sharpish,
Pitched it up, and there it
was - plum Leg Before.
Fred turned round to the
Umpire,
But he soon became quite
amazed,
For in answer to his shout of
“Owzat, then?”
The official’s finger was not
raised.
Fred couldn’t believe what
he’d seen,
Walking back to his run-up with
many a mutter,
He decided he’d get this
bugger out,
By bowling his famous
daisy-cutter.
He came roaring in like a
train,
Delivering a venomous ball
that was short.
The batsman swung and missed,
But it clipped his glove, and
was caught!
“Owzat?!?!” shouted our Fred
once again,
But the batsman refused
clearly to walk.
To Fred’s chagrin, the umpire
agreed.
And under his breath started
to grumble and baulk.
What was going on here? He
thought,
I know that these things are
sent to try us,
But I’m the best bowler that
ever there was,
How can I get past this
cheating and bias?
He took an even longer run-up
this time,
Tossing the ball from hand to
hand in his ire.
His blood was up, his face
was red:
Like days of old, he was
breathing fire.
He sent down a delivery the
fastest he could,
Down the pitch with its lumps
and it bumps.
The batsman got nowhere near
to it,
And the ball demolished his
stumps.
The wickets went
cart-wheeling through the grass,
The bails flew high into the
air.
There was not a thing left
standing;
In fact there was nothing
left there.
Fred jumped in the air with
delight,
Hopping from foot to foot in
a mime,
Then he turned to the umpire
with a smile,
And said, “I think I nearly
had ‘im this time!”
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