If my childhood was set to a musical track,
The beat would pound out with a leathery “thwack”.
Eight to the bar, thumped out in balls,
Incessant, relentless, a rhythm that palls.
The whole lot was played in a high, droning pitch,
Pocked with crescendos rabid and rich.
Wild exultations then groans of despair,
Appeals to the umpire cutting the air.
When day’s play was over .. it wasn’t for me,
The music bowled on and was served up for tea
Ceaseless discussions on technique and form
Re-hashes, re-caps and replays were the norm.
Then out to the yard with caps, ball and bat,
And as darkness descended the cries of “ howzat”
Echoed down gullies, cleared birds from the thickets,
The volume as loud as in match-winning wickets.
In the long days of summer no peace could I find,
The voice of McGilvray scratched tracks in my mind.