Competition

Highly Commended

The Old Man’s Splendid Ball
by Steve Lewis
Holmview, Qld

‘Twas the Townsfolk vee the Farmers, at stake the Drover’s Shield,
A game of hard fought cricket, where neither team would yield.
The closest thing to battle, and a chance for men to shine,
No quarter asked nor given, for pride was on the line.

The Townsfolk were the first to bat, they made a mighty score,
Fifty overs, six men out, two hundred and thirty four.
A break for lunch (and truth be told, a few cold ales as well),
Then the Farmers came to bat, and a tale it is to tell!

Their master bat was Harris, standing over six foot tall,
His shoulders wide as bullocks’, and his bat a willow maul
He made the oval echo as he blasted in attack,
Bouncers, seamers, wrong’uns, met his blade with a mighty crack!

But the bowlers they were crafty, spinners and men of pace,
And not for naught did they hold the Ladder’s senior place.
Lesser men were beaten and the wickets slowly tumbled,
None were apt as Harris, and the run chase surely crumbled.

But Harris, being Harris, played his natural game,
Regardless of the bowler, he played them all the same.
For not for him quick singles that those lesser mortals sought,
In boundaries and in sixes, his battle would be fought!

And so the final over came, with only three more runs to get
With Harris to face the bowling, Farmer’s was the bet.
But nine batsmen had departed, one ball could win the game,
For heads to lift in triumph, while others hung in shame.

The Townsfolk paceman readied, and he hurtled down his first,
Harris took a mighty swing, a narrow miss, and cursed!
The second ball was much the same, and barely missed the edge
And Townsfolk fielders gathered close, to snicker and to sledge.

Then the third ball whistled down and Harris smashed it on the rise,
A drive back to the bowler, and struck him right between the eyes!
His head snapped back and down he went, he didn’t make a sound,
And players and the umpires quickly gathered ‘round.

So while they carried the fellow off, Cricket Laws were read,
Rare in friendly games as this did players leave the field for dead.
Who would bowl the last three balls, to win, perchance, or lose?
The Laws were very clear it seemed: the batsman, he could choose.
  
Now one was there, a towner man, and no-one knew his name,
Snowy hair and toothless grin, he had never played a game.
Harris saw him sitting there, a stubby in his hands
“I’ll take him!” he pointed, at the old bloke in the stands.

So while the old bloke struggled into something vaguely white,
The Captains fiercely argued if the choice was wrong or right,
But Umpires and Laws agreed, so Harris had his way,
And as the old man took the ball, the Umpire called “Let’s play!”

His run-up was a stagger, three steps and a little twist,
The ball rolled out so tamely as he rolled his scrawny wrist.
Harris raised his mighty bat to smash the winning run,
And the lofted ball hit the dusty pitch…and spun!

It shot through like a flipper, it broke from off to leg,
It crashed into the timbers, and knocked back middle peg.
The ground was filled with silence, and Harris was aghast,
Then the Townsfolk raised a mighty cheer, the Shield was their’s at last!

Harris went on to bigger things (he won his Baggy Green),
And came renowned for his mighty strokes, elegant and clean.
But when locals speak of the Drover’s Shield, he hardly rates at all,
As they speak with awe and tell the tale of the Old Man’s Splendid Ball.