82 Not Out Copyright © Ann Knox Whittet 2010

From my seat above the rear mudguard
I look from behind your back, bent over
handlebars, your legs pumping the pedals
of the Raleigh bike that carries us along
those narrow Essex lanes on Sunday afternoons
in summer, when the sun scorched sky.

In the pavilion men pull on their white
flannel trousers and you slip over
your head the sleeveless cable sweater
with the blue v, the one mother knitted
during those cold winter evenings
as we sat in front of the coal fire.

You buckle up those protective pads
around your shins, and as you walk
across the pitch, with your bat tucked
under your arm and your shirt sleeves
rolled up, you pull at the peak of your
cap to shade the sun from your eyes.

A boy sits at the wooden scoreboard,
pegging up innings, runs and wickets.
At four o'clock play is suspended
for spam sandwiches and iced cakes
washed down with cups of strong tea
brewed in a brown enamel teapot.

On the way home we stop at the Fox & Hounds
where you gulp down a pint of brown ale
and mother nibbles a cherry on a stick
from her glass of Babycham; I slurp lemonade
through a straw and eat Smiths crisps
with salt shaken from a twisted blue wrapper.

These days you watch cricket from an armchair,
and remember those spin bowlers bouncing
red leather balls unpredictably towards
you; you can’t be caught out again!
Now, you are the night watchman defending
your wicket until the close of play