Interestingly, cricketers tell by preference the stories from beyond the boundaries edge more often than they do deeds glorious. Well, tell them in greater detail at least. Blazing centuries or superb catches or fast spells on hot days tend to be consigned to a few superlatives, a sumnative nod and then a silence whilst a beer is sipped. The longer, more animated stories take many minutes and quite a few interjections to be told well.
Perhaps it stems from long days under hot suns when opposition batsmen ground out their stays at the crease for only moderate returns, leaving fielders to their own devices but it seems to me, the best at assessing the catalogue of years and retelling the resultant stories are the slip fielders from then. Their tales are intricate, with carefully constructed details in layers to build the narrative. They had lots of practice between deliveries and talking then provided a distraction to the listener whilst the scratched and adjusted in a manner that would have them arrested in the mall.
They are also funny.
The poor old fine leg fieldsmen didn't get it then and usually contributes second hand details now - still, as he was then, on the outer and with little practise of social skills.
In the past ten years, these old comrades have come together a few times, mostly to pretend we could still posture enough across four days to outlast the aches and pains which arrived after the first game. These old mates - meaning mates over a long period - will always be young men whilst they believe it. Perhaps, whilst they can still relive the stories they tell. These have been some of my warmest days: days in which I really knew what mateship was for and about.
One of them rang the other day, chasing down the phone number of another and a few text messages was enough contact to check each other's pulse. Enough to know we are still there. Some I hear from more often and I'm always glad that I have.
After the last gathering, these words arrived at the end of my pen ...
Why Are They Laughing
Why are they laughing?
They move so slowly in splendid white and cream.
They bend with stop-motion stiffness
and roll languid returns shyly back to the action.
They bowl like grandfathers -a parody of younger selves -
but still shout with appealing passion.
Catches are spilled or missed or ignored
and they mull on what was.
But why are they laughing?
A total to chase, they go out now in pairs
whilst the remainder dissect the errors.
Pads with buckles and green-dimpled gloves
make louder statements than grey temples
but take their trusted place on sore legs and hands.
A quick single claims the first,
an impatient swing many more
but a few stand steady as memory serves
the best of them, best.
And they are still laughing
when play continues at the bar
and ales sooth unrealistic expectations
which had hoped for glory's return.
Here the past falls away, no longer of use.
They call to each other still
of businesses, relationships, marriages, lives
some ruined, some still flowering
and pain not shown on the field of green
lies about for mates to sort the pieces.
They find laughter still
among the devastation
as a chat becomes alternate shouts
and occasional interjectors with twopence to spend.
A quiet beer lasts through singing
and the antics of the clown in every circus
until the night is spent with the exhaustion
of men talking their troubles in twos and threes.
No problems solved
but aching silent hearts given voice
lightened by mates like these.
It ends.
Stiff legged, they promise return.
Strong hands, STRONG hands,
hands that will hold you up through time and distance,
tell me they love me
while their mouths swear and issue oaths.
Legends leave for that other life
which would make them myth,
their hearts pumping for brothers,
their mouths roaring like champions. ...
and they laugh and laugh and laugh
decoding years of programming
until permission only the company of mates will allow
brings anger and frustration and relief and love
closer than periscope depth.
The surface tension broken,
no murk left between hiding place and daylight,
acceptance and belonging lead them to salvation
and the real men their fathers talked of being ...
… and tears begin to fall.
Peter, Your timing is impeccable. On 19th Feb I will be attending the Jubille Dinner of Kingsgrove De La Salle Cricket Club. We are or if not one of a couple of clubs to have participated in the St George/Georges River Association for 50 years and have been represented in the first grade draw since 1972 with the exception of one year. We have managed to attract close to 250 people and it will be quite a night. I may well take your last offering and recite to the masses.
ReplyDeleteYou are correct about the story telling and as the super juice takes hold the yarns will stretch to urban myth proportions.......and so they should!