Alan Patrick Herbert -- Ninth Wicket

A.P. Herbert -- Ninth Wicket


The bowling looks exceptionally sound,
The wicket seems unusually worn,
The balls fly up or run along the ground;
I rather wish that I had not been born.
I have been sitting here since two o' clock;
My pads are both inelegant and hot;
I do not want what people call my 'knock',
And this pavilion is a sultry spot.
I shall not win one clap or word of praise,
I know that I shall bat like a baboon;
And I can think of many better ways
In which to spend a summer afternoon.
I might be swimming in a crystal pool;
I might be wooing some delicious dame;
I might be drinking something long and cool--
I can't imagine why I play this game.
Why is the wicket seven miles away,
And why have I to walk it all alone?
I hope the Bottle's bat will drive today--
I ought to buy a weapon of my own.
I wonder if this walk will ever cease;
They should provide a motor-car or crane
To drop the batsman on the popping-crease
And, when he's out, convey him back again.
Is it a dream? Can this be truly me,
Alone and friendless in a waste of grass?
The fielding side are sniggering, I see,
And long-leg sort of shudders as I pass.
How very small and funny I must look!
I only hope that no one knows my name.
I might be in a hammock with a book--
I can't imagine why I play this game.

Well, here we are. We feel a little ill.
What is this pedant of an umpire at?
Middle and off, or centre-- what you will;
It cannot matter where I park the bat.
I look around me in a knowing way
To show that I am not to be cajoled;
I shall play forward gracefully and pray...
I have played forward and I am not bowled.
I do not like the wicket-keeper's face,
And why are all these fielders crowding round?
The bowler makes an imbecile grimace,
And mid-off makes a silly whistling sound.
These innuendoes I could do without;
They mean to say the ball defied the bat.
They indicate I was nearly out;
Well, darn their impudence! I know all that.
Why I am standing in this comic pose,
Hemmed in by men that I should like to maim?
I might be lying in a punt with Rose--
I can't imagine why I play this game.

And there are people sitting over there 
Who fondly hope that I shall make a run;
They cannot guess how blinding is the glare;
They do not know the ball is like a bun.
But, courage, heart! We have survived a ball;
I pat the pitch to show that it is bad;
We are not such a rabbit, after all;
Now we shall show them what is what, my lad!
The second ball is very, very swift;
It breaks and stands up steeply in the air;
It looks at me, and I could swear it sniffed;
I gesture at it, but it is not there.
Ah, what a ball! Mind you, I do not say
That Bradman, Hobbs and Ranji in his prime,
Rolled into one, and that one on his day,
Might not have got a bat to it in time...
But long-stop's looking for my middle-stump,
And I am walking in a world of shame;
My captain has addressed me as a chump--
I can't imagine why I play this game.