The June sun beat down on the anvil of the wicket like a celestial hammer. Tom took his guard and looked up to see the new bowler, a tall, unshaven farmer from Ockbrook, furiously polishing the shiny side of the maroon ball on his trousers. The umpire juggled stones in the pockets of his jacket, producing a gentle, rhythmic clicking sound like the ticking of an unseen clock, and in the distance, beyond the small white flags of the boundary, the red brick walls of the ancient almshouses shimmered in the heat haze like a mirage.
…..‘Play,’ the umpire said, and the farmer began his run to the crease from twenty yards. Tom tightened his grip on his bat handle and felt the soft leather inside his gloves yield under his fingers. The farmer wheeled his arm over. Tom saw a flash of the ball against the parched yellow grass, flailed at it with his bat and missed. He heard the stumps and bails collapse in a clatter behind him, then the cheers of the opposition, and began the long, lonely walk back to the pavilion. Hobbs, bowled Palmer, 7, it would say in the scorebook. He was losing his touch.
…..Tom sat down to remove his pads on a bench in front of the pavilion. Next to him sat old Jeff, the landlord of the Hawk.
…..‘Hard luck, lad. That bowler looks useful though.’ Jeff puffed at his pipe, and hot tobacco smoke mingled with the aroma of the new-mown grass.
…..‘Thanks. I think I’m getting too old for this caper.’
…..‘Don’t be daft. How old are you?’
…..‘Thirty-five.’
…..‘You whippersnapper. I’m seventy-two. I’m the one who should be retiring.’
…..‘You ever think about it?’
…..‘Every day. It’s hard work, running that pub. Jean is always on at me to let it go. I’ve had a good innings.’
…..‘Play,’ the umpire said, and the farmer began his run to the crease from twenty yards. Tom tightened his grip on his bat handle and felt the soft leather inside his gloves yield under his fingers. The farmer wheeled his arm over. Tom saw a flash of the ball against the parched yellow grass, flailed at it with his bat and missed. He heard the stumps and bails collapse in a clatter behind him, then the cheers of the opposition, and began the long, lonely walk back to the pavilion. Hobbs, bowled Palmer, 7, it would say in the scorebook. He was losing his touch.
…..Tom sat down to remove his pads on a bench in front of the pavilion. Next to him sat old Jeff, the landlord of the Hawk.
…..‘Hard luck, lad. That bowler looks useful though.’ Jeff puffed at his pipe, and hot tobacco smoke mingled with the aroma of the new-mown grass.
…..‘Thanks. I think I’m getting too old for this caper.’
…..‘Don’t be daft. How old are you?’
…..‘Thirty-five.’
…..‘You whippersnapper. I’m seventy-two. I’m the one who should be retiring.’
…..‘You ever think about it?’
…..‘Every day. It’s hard work, running that pub. Jean is always on at me to let it go. I’ve had a good innings.’
*
Tim Barlow Writes 
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