Post by franklinmarsh on Jan 25, 2013 13:45:17 GMT
The smack of leather upon willow. Polite applause. Heavy tortured breathing as the white flannelled fools surge down the wicket in search of the safety of the crease. Sweat drips upon parched earth, amid small brown outcrops of withered grass.
“’OWZZAAAAATTTTTT!!!!!”
Feral glances at the man with six hats. A pause. The chime of the church clock. A twitter from the trees outside the boundary.
Slowly, so very slowly, the umpire’s arm begins its ascent, the index finger uncurls, the limb straightens, indicating the long walk back to the pavilion, shimmering in the unexpected heat haze.
“Shit!”
The expletive causes gasps from the thinly spread crowd of onlookers. Childrens’ ears are covered. The offending sweat-soaked Neanderthal hurls his bat to the ground, raising a slight cloud of dust. He spits, the moisture almost instantly dried ‘pon the sun-baked earth.
As he stalks, sneering toward the shadowy cool of the pav, the crowd surges ; red-faced, blazered Colonel Blimps struggle to rise from their deck-chairs. Immaculately groomed women finger their pearls nervously, as a slight breeze ruffles the brightly coloured summer dresses. Young men drop silently from the haycart.
The savage wipes the stinging sweat from his eyes, the rough edge of the batting glove causing him to wince. He continues toward his destination, unaware of the undulating amoeba-like mass approaching him from mid-on, mid-off and the boundary.
“Wha…?”
The barbarian is seized, the crowd jostling to grab, to pinch, to cut, to hurt.
The stained white clad figure is raised by strong arms, and transported toward the scoreboard. The howling mob hurl him against the black oblong, obsidian squares decorated with white numerals spill and shatter. An arm is raised and the hobgoblin shrieks as a sharpened wicket pierces his palm. Scarlet flows across VISITORS. The violent action is repeated with the other hand, and the muttering, seething avengers edge backward, leaving the batsman suspended in agony. His face, streaming with perspiration turns toward the sun, and he screams as the rays fry his eyes.
The umpire steps forward, a small flame flickering from his pipe lighter. Sturdy yeoman have moved hay bales beneath the scoreboard. Yellow tongues leap up, increasing the unbearable heat. The crowd joins hands, young and old, male and female, competitor and spectator, and begin to sing. Summer Is Icumen In. The encroaching flames devour the flannel, turning white black, searing the box, poaching the eggs inside. The aggressor, now victim, shrieks again. The sun looks down with no mercy. The batsman’s head turns back toward the wicket, and his sightless eyes regard his partner, still frozen at the far crease.
The bearer of the other bat trembles, shakes, a yellow stain spreads across the front of his flannels. He then cracks and, hurling his useless bat at the crowd, flees across the boundary, vaults a hedge and is bitten savagely by the waiting hounds of the now defunct hunt.
The crowd cackle with glee. They’ll recover his remains later, and add them to the fire. They turn toward the squat building. The rest of the visiting team stare from the locked pavilion, eyes wide in terror. The drooling mob look to the umpire.
“Tea!”
“’OWZZAAAAATTTTTT!!!!!”
Feral glances at the man with six hats. A pause. The chime of the church clock. A twitter from the trees outside the boundary.
Slowly, so very slowly, the umpire’s arm begins its ascent, the index finger uncurls, the limb straightens, indicating the long walk back to the pavilion, shimmering in the unexpected heat haze.
“Shit!”
The expletive causes gasps from the thinly spread crowd of onlookers. Childrens’ ears are covered. The offending sweat-soaked Neanderthal hurls his bat to the ground, raising a slight cloud of dust. He spits, the moisture almost instantly dried ‘pon the sun-baked earth.
As he stalks, sneering toward the shadowy cool of the pav, the crowd surges ; red-faced, blazered Colonel Blimps struggle to rise from their deck-chairs. Immaculately groomed women finger their pearls nervously, as a slight breeze ruffles the brightly coloured summer dresses. Young men drop silently from the haycart.
The savage wipes the stinging sweat from his eyes, the rough edge of the batting glove causing him to wince. He continues toward his destination, unaware of the undulating amoeba-like mass approaching him from mid-on, mid-off and the boundary.
“Wha…?”
The barbarian is seized, the crowd jostling to grab, to pinch, to cut, to hurt.
The stained white clad figure is raised by strong arms, and transported toward the scoreboard. The howling mob hurl him against the black oblong, obsidian squares decorated with white numerals spill and shatter. An arm is raised and the hobgoblin shrieks as a sharpened wicket pierces his palm. Scarlet flows across VISITORS. The violent action is repeated with the other hand, and the muttering, seething avengers edge backward, leaving the batsman suspended in agony. His face, streaming with perspiration turns toward the sun, and he screams as the rays fry his eyes.
The umpire steps forward, a small flame flickering from his pipe lighter. Sturdy yeoman have moved hay bales beneath the scoreboard. Yellow tongues leap up, increasing the unbearable heat. The crowd joins hands, young and old, male and female, competitor and spectator, and begin to sing. Summer Is Icumen In. The encroaching flames devour the flannel, turning white black, searing the box, poaching the eggs inside. The aggressor, now victim, shrieks again. The sun looks down with no mercy. The batsman’s head turns back toward the wicket, and his sightless eyes regard his partner, still frozen at the far crease.
The bearer of the other bat trembles, shakes, a yellow stain spreads across the front of his flannels. He then cracks and, hurling his useless bat at the crowd, flees across the boundary, vaults a hedge and is bitten savagely by the waiting hounds of the now defunct hunt.
The crowd cackle with glee. They’ll recover his remains later, and add them to the fire. They turn toward the squat building. The rest of the visiting team stare from the locked pavilion, eyes wide in terror. The drooling mob look to the umpire.
“Tea!”
