Poetry: Cripples, Fractures & Broken Things

They say it’s an old man’s game
For the posh and the privileged
Rich kids, spoilt brats
Those with good coin

A game with a treacherous history
Riddled with misfortune and mystery
An enjoyable hobby but a brutal game
A sport with a downplayed name

Broken noses, fractured ribs
Knocks on the head
Here comes a beamer
Damn! Fractured femur

5½ oz at 90 miles per hour
Cricket is ridiculously violent
Vicious, dangerous and intimidating
A hand stitched seam sees broken jaws and skulls

But it can be fun
When we play hit and run
Seam bowling is my thing
Bouncing off the crease with a ping

Yorkers, googily and I see bouncers
Go whizzing past my face
Out in the field, time slows down
It’s me, myself and my thinking frown

It’s a battle with one’s mind
Like in a boxing match
You need your brains and wits
To survive this sporting conflict

You could be floored and knocked out
Face messy and bloodied, into a sleep
From which you will never wake
Get out-of-the-way or hit the ball

An old man’s game? I should think not
It takes true spirit to step on to the green
True courage, will and bravery
To play a sport that’s so unsavoury