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There once was a man called John, but me and the others didn’t get along with John and told him to take his bat and ball and stick it where the sun don’t shine. Then me and the others met a bloke called Kevin. Kevin told us he had a lovely piece of willow and would let us see it later.
Kevin only liked to pad up to Dorothy Dix. But even with Dorothy’s gentle swing deliveries, Kevin didn’t stand up straight and tall and smash the bastard into next week. Oh, no. Kevin would execute a tickle down to fine leg, or attempt to slice it through the slips. Increasingly the daft bastard just let the delivery go through to the keeper. He seemed to have forgotten we were playing, too.
I got despondent with all the smoke and mirrors, and looked around for an opening bat with balls.
5 comments:
This is brilliant, Julie. You've presented an engaging slice of a much bigger character, bigger story.
And I love the image. I can see a ball sailing right through any one of those windows.
I don't get cricket.
But this is not about cricket.
Well it's got bats and balls and pads and willow and stuff in it which says Cricket to me. I gave up trying to decipher subtext.
Darn then. That means that I have not managed the presentation of irony at all well. Back to the zee old drawing board.
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