There's at least twenty reasons that I shouldn’t love cricket
Like the long walk back when I’ve just lost my wicket
The edge through the slips when I’ve bowled a rare beauty
Unimaginative nicknames like Stokesy or Rooty
 
Dropping a dolly and then four overthrows
Run out without facing, cursing my woes
Out for a blob and then pay my ten quid
Having to borrow a hot, sweaty lid
 
Dismissed by a twelve-year-old in his first game
Caught by the guy in shorts, pulling up lame
Finally middling one, to deep midwicket
Was he over the rope? Hmm, that just isn’t cricket
 
The grubber, the beamer that zips past my nose
The Yorker that homes in, crushing my toes
The thick edge behind from ‘innocent’ batter
No cricket in winter means each year, I’m fatter
 
The home-friendly umpire never gives an ‘LB’
Yet as soon as we’re batting, he’s triggering me
Umpiring in drizzle for a full forty overs
Then the ‘overseas’ drives my first ball through the covers
 
The angry fast bowler, down in Div 9
Still awaiting that call-up though he’s now 49
Even when it goes right, racking up a huge score
The other team then shuts up shop, for the draw
 
Six hours of cricket and still no clear winner
Home to the wife, once again late for dinner
Bore the kids with my tales of a fine 8 not out
And unsuccessful appeals that were never in doubt
 
The stalwart who trundles each week down the slope
Ooh’s and aah’s every ball that got smashed to the rope
The mystery spinner, mild and meek
The mystery being how he’s picked every week
 
A shortage of teas, cream before jam?
Thin, curled up bread stuffed with cheap, value ham
Fielding for half a game, watching it rain
Today was my day yet I’ve turned up in vain
 
Despite all of these things, I come back every week
Because sometimes the impossible makes it less bleak
The occasional ton with imperious drives
The cheers from our teammates, backslaps and high-fives
 
First wickets for the club on a bowler’s debut
The young girl in men’s cricket with something to prove
The club man who’s seventy with ten thousand runs
The ‘statto’ who tells you what everyone’s done
 
The one-handed screamer that’s plucked from the sky
The direct hit run out to a scampered leg bye
A cheeky reverse sweep that flies off the edge
Is suddenly ‘textbook’ straight into the hedge
 
Extravagant leaves that have everyone smirking
The googly, for the first time in my life, it is working
The ripper, the jaffa, the snorter and more
Tumbling stumps, the atmosphere raw
 
The crowd of fifteen sounds more like it’s eighty
Dismissing a batter who I know doesn’t rate me
Gifted a long hop to get off the mark
Off you go sunshine, fetch the ball from the park
 
Nerves in the nineties but gosh, what a thrill
When you reach those three figures with a fine show of skill
Never mind all the edges and all the false shots
These runs are all mine, as well as the dots
 
And what about five-fers, that bowlers all dream of
Or hat-tricks to emulate Anderson or Gough
A close, hard-fought match played with equal respect
A beer in the bar, a time to reflect
 
Days in the sun when we’re not in our prime
Have a habit of being able to turn back time
For us ordinary heroes, briefly we’re kings
Before back to the dullest, most normal of things
 
We stand on the shoulders of those here before us
And give days yet to come for the young who adore us
The greenest of fields for the women and men
Who know cricket is magic and it will be again.