By: Peeush Trikha
As the first rays of the sun come out,
and spread through the windows and doors,
I take a glance towards the park below.
The mind wanders off…
Those 22 yards shortened to a few yards less on the ground,
The sticks called as stumps and the bails.
The red shining cricket ball,
or those green tennis balls gone brown by use.
That light morning breeze,
the chatter of the self-proclaimed leaders,
the reluctant wicket-keeper and the eager bowler.
Of the Tendulkar in making and the copycat of McGrath,
the argument on who would bat first,
the shouts, the fours, and the sixes.
The feel of the ball in the middle of the bat,
the run outs, and the fiery spells,
and a few zeroes and those quickfire innings.
The players rubbing their hands to keep warm on a cold winter morning, or the urge for water on a hot day.
So much to remember,
as I’m not there now.
of nerve-wracking victories,
and big losses.
Yet remembering those fitter days,
when we ran, and it was all about
cricket cricket cricket
and just cricket…
The Bat and Ball Rhythm beckons me
To get on the field just one more time…