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I ask to go in the slips —

anywhere else make me dream —

no time to think of home,

what I'll do with a first girl friend.

This is where I concentrate,

hunched over knees for a catch

edged off the bat. Thought

of the ball hitting my head

keeps me awake. Sometimes I lose

attention, think about mother’s

lamb chops, the latest issue

of Health and Efficiency

hidden deep under my pal’s mattress

and how I’m going to get hold of it.

Then there’s the thwack of the ball.

Everyone’s running.  It’s been hit

to the boundary (my head’s

still out there) but now it arcs

back to the stumps. Holdsworth

has his wicket keeper’s gloves open

and hopeful. He looks up, sways

a little. The ball paints the sky.

I hear myself say, ‘Doesn’t it look red

against the blue’. It drops towards me.

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