Our cricket was played in a cow paddock. There was a railway line on one side and a road on another, with an embankment where the road passed over a railway bridge. This embankment was the grandstand, and we kids used to sit there on a Saturday, watching the men play cricket and dreaming of being grown-up and playing for our home team.
We’d arrive early and help chase the cows and horses off the pitch, shovel off the cow-pats, level the hoof marks and run a manual push mower over the wicket area. As we retired to the ‘grandstand’, the men then pulled a rusty old roller up and down the wicket before marking out the creases with lime.
This particular Saturday was when I started growing up.
Bush Saturday cricket
We sat on a rise, overlooking the pitch
Johnny and Billy and me
for the cricket was starting, although one man short
but the players could not let that be
Up came the captain, scratching his head
“who’ll make up the numbers today”
and his eyes looked us over and noted our strengths
as we vied for the honour to play
Now Johnny and me were thirteen, you see
with Billy just one year ahead
and the captain looked long at our untidy throng
“yer’ll do us, young Billy,” he said
Now Billy leapt up with a cry of delight,
leaving Johnny and me in despair;
we weren’t big enough, not adult nor tough,
and Billy went fielding with flair
Next our team went to bat but didn’t do much,
then Billy strode up to take guard
in spite of our envy, we wished him good luck,
hoped he’d bat like he played in our yard
The bowler was fearsome, he hurled the ball down,
it dug into a hole in the ground,
then it rose and hit Billy full square in the ribs
and Billy went down without sound
He didn’t get up, the teams gathered round;
no-one spoke, they just stood there in dread
they sent someone off to call for his dad,
word went round that Billy was dead
Billy lay there quite still as his dad reached the ground
legs that stumbled and, shaking his head,
he stood there and wept as he looked at his son
now for sure we knew Billy was dead
As Johnny and me walked slowly on home
thinking of chances that be
it could have been us, and I’d only been saved
because Billy was older than me.
Bush Saturday Cricket
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Re: Bush Saturday Cricket
That's a powerful story Bob. What a terrible event for a young bloke to see.
Good old bush ballad style.
Good old bush ballad style.
Neville
" Prose is description, poetry is presence " Les Murray.
" Prose is description, poetry is presence " Les Murray.
Re: Bush Saturday Cricket
That's sad Bob. Well told though and I like the way you finished it. Makes you stop and think doesn't it?
Heather
Heather
