ODD BOY OUT

‘O-o-ve-e-r! o-o-ve-e-r!‘ The word buzzed down the pitch
with pollen on its wings. At deep fine leg
I swayed before I joined the dance, then sliced
at plantains with my green-stained canvas shoes
from deep fine leg to deep fine leg across
a scorched rectangle where the heroes played,
slow wall-of-death of intersecting paths.
Next over, infinite agony of balls
re-numbed my brain. Shrill exclamations came -
‘'Ow's 'at!‘ or ‘LBW!' - without
impinging on my dream. From knee-high grass
behind, a cricket's plectrum scratched the air.


Sir wildly dragged, smoke bleeding from his nose:
‘Mold, Pennington, choose sides.'
And I stood with the rest
in the depleting pool.
‘You!' ‘You!' ‘You!' ‘You!' they went
as boys who were not me
were drawn aside. Without
Sir's presence they'd not pick
me - not at all. The worst
was an odd-numbered group:
‘Sir, do a Solomon!'
or ‘x plus nought is x, he makes no odds.'


December dulled the senses more as I
ran up and down a winter cricket pitch
in seasonal disguise as football field,
mud squirting at my calves, air steaming out
its locomotive wheeze from injured chest.
A leather trophy that could cut your breath,
castrate, or punch you in the mouth, went up
and down the pitch while energetically
I feigned a close pursuit that kept me out
of danger. At half-time my sweat would freeze;
I knew chilblains would be my just reward,
the final whistle my sole recompense