The Ballad of Westbourne

To Westbourne strode the Racqueteers,
With keen intent and purpose,
Desperate to rectify
Results that did besmirch us.

We came upon their comely ground,
With boundaries most inviting.
Our mighty warriors, Seacourt’s best,
Found prospects quite exciting.

To win the toss would be the key
And bat first on this wicket.
Up strode Collier I with the coin,
Finest tosser in all cricket.

Our captain did not disappoint.
The coin was in cahoots.
Two hearty yeomen donned their pads
And went out to fill their boots

McMurrugh M and Webber A
Smote the leather orb at will.
These warriors of the cricketing kind
Flat-batted fours until…

Webber A fell leg before.
The umpire’s call was rash.
McMurrugh M soon followed him in.
We feared a batting crash.

Boulton M played all around
The straightest ball in history.
How mid wicket caught out McCue N
will long remain a myst’ry.

Soon 38 without a loss
Became 51 for 4,
Heads once held so high and proud
Now resting on the floor.

Fear not, dear reader, as this is not
A sporting tale of doom.
As Gorbin A and Massey S
Went in to lift the gloom…

6, 6, 6, the ball did fly
To places far asunder.
No not the number of the beast;
A sign of Seacourt’s plunder!

A partnership of force so brute
The scorer could not record it,
So many balls lost to field and roof
Westbourne could scarce afford it.

Mighty blow after every blow of might,
The cherry flew all around,
Til Massey S reached a century’s half
and was persuaded to stand down.

Gorbin A went for 36,
But by then the work was done.
Jameson A added a swift 17
And the score reached One Five One.

The tail it tried its best to wag.
Trueman M scored a handy brace.
Young Venus V tried a second run,
But sadly lacked the pace.

Grant J, so often the bridesmaid here,
Was due a change of luck,
But spooned a dolly down the pitch
And was plucked like a golden duck.

So the innings chuntered to its end.
Racqueteers totalled One Five Five -
A healthy score, the best this year.
The match was much alive!

A quick turnaround was now required,
As light was fading fast,
and Trueman M was due in bed,
By nine with thirty past.

Could Westbourne match the Seacourt score
Or chance get anywhere near?
“No way” said every Racqueteer.
“Our bowlers they will fear.”

That was until Grant J’s first ball,
Which didn’t seem too dextrous.
Wide followed wide and then no-ball.
It seemed they’d win through Extras.

As Grant J battled through the yips,
No sign of line nor length.
A wide, no-ball and then four byes;
The team whispered “Give me strength”.

But undeterred, Grant J strove on,
Resolved to end the over.
A wide, a curse, another wide,
But then Grant J’s in clover!

The element of surprise won out.
All part of Grant J’s plan?
He pitched one up, right on line.
By God, he’d got his man!

That wicket, though, was not the norm.
It turned out just a fluke.
Grant J, he bowled so many balls,
They thought the lad would puke.

But Grant J battled on and on,
His muscles getting tighter.
By the time his spell had found its end,
Grant J was two stones lighter.

At the other end, young Venus V
Just couldn’t buy a wicket.
One ball, which reared up off a length,
Was smashed into a thicket.

The pitch didn’t help young Venus V.
The bounce became a farce,
Leading Collier I to demonstrate
A keeping masterclass.

More batting scalps they failed to get;
Wellar G was Westbourne’s anchor.
His 50 runs the Racqueteers cheered,
WIthout a hint of rancour.

After Wellar G had said farewell,
Westbourne began to struggle.
As night drew in, the shots flew high,
But the fielders didn’t juggle.

Man after man held ev’ry chance
That from twilit heavens fell.
First McCue N and then Grant J,
And Jameson A as well.

Of all the catches that came that eve,
AJ’s must take the biscuit.
He seemed to run for half an hour,
And no one thought he’d risk it.

But over fields and through barbed wire,
Jameson A just ran and ran.
Not once did he lose sight of the ball,
That eagle-eyed action man.

And when finally he grasped the nut
As it fell out of the gloam,
The Racqueteers, they whooped and yelled:
They knew they’d make it home.

Tight bowling ushered Seacourt through.
Westbourne wickets fell in a flurry.
It might have been a different tale,
But Patel S was making curry.

As Gorbin A sent down the last
Westbourne’s score was One Three Four.
The taste of victory was sweet,
Racqueteers – losers no more!

To the pub the boys repaired,
Drinking toasts to their success,
Despite the barmaid trying hard,
Their spirits to depress.

Beer was quaffed and curry scoffed -
Patel S had fed the crowd.
The Racqueteers, to a man (and boy),
Had done old Seacourt proud.