Festival Cricket

Sitting placed by Square Leg pint of bitter in hand; drifting across from Peasholme music from the band. This match is like a chess game, each batter settled in run rate slowly rising, one end tied down with spin. An edge of frustration causes a half chance. An attempted drive Gives a leg glance. Nagging little off breaks keep a batter on his toes; can’t afford a mis-stroke playing one of those. A delicate little floater causes a lapse. Caught by the Keeper. Well played chaps. I can rush for a refill as they take a drinks break, then it’s back to the battle of forcing a mistake O what a way to die. Couldn’t ask for more. Last sight seeing victory from a well driven four. Its stumps for now and I’m on my way. Be back tomorrow for the final day Oh how I love this beautifully clever game Small wars of wits No two matches the same.