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Mind Games

There were no gold medals to pin
and no starters gun to begin
but for sure we were out to win
          the Baptism by Fire Games.
There on the PCG we played
and so it was the toss was made
but this dumb Kiwi looked afraid
         and down he went in flames.

But like the Phoenix he got up
and from his beer had one more sup
wishing like hell he had a cup
                   or box to protect him.
But the very next ball he'd face
was a yorker at his shoelace
honing in at frightening pace
        and things were looking grim.

There he was on the green top mat
jumping up and down like a cat
on a hot tin roof with his bat
                     like a hack tailender.
So lest he retired hurt or worse
and need a doctor or a nurse
or be carried off in a hearse
                I asked "you surrender?"

As the "Ashes" in us did burn
soon at the crease it was my turn
and for him a lesson to learn
                    like in the Rangi nets.
You don't bowl to Skeet in the slot
or give him width to play a shot
when he shouts "gimme all ya got!"
               and plunders all he gets!

As the cricket lesson went on
it was like bowling to "The Don"
when victory was sweetly won
            and new lows he did stoop.
It's no place for the faint hearted
but I ended what he started
when his next ball I well carted
                  over the chicken coop!

Yes, we played many a rematch
under the house on his home patch
but a win he'd so seldom snatch
                 from the jaws of defeat.
I recall it sure was fun though
when a new grip he'd wildly throw
and smashed the veranda window
                    as Ted sat in his seat.

Then his bat under his arm tucks
when he scored two first ball king ducks
and yelled all innocent "that sucks!
                    Skeet, I wasn't ready".
But the video didn't lie
so he erased it and that's why
to this very day he'll deny
                but I'm no Blind Freddy!

At every play and miss I'd smile
or when he'd in his tourettes style
nick one more into the woodpile
                and then refuse to walk.
But I'd wait for the umpire's call
and check behind the keeper's wall
then re-tape up the tennis ball
               and let him talk the talk.

For whether clean bowled or an edge
he'd lose it and begin to sledge
or unfair dismissal allege
              and grand excuses make.
But I with a twinkle and spark
in my eye walked back to my mark
musing to myself "what the fark!"
         and took a long drinks break.

So were the days of idle youth
but you don't have to be a sleuth
to discern bull from the truth
              the pointed finger blames.
And so it was back in the day
until stumps or bad light stopped play
back in that garage in Browns Bay
      we played out our Mind Games!

Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee,
you can't hit what you can't see!

Dedicated to Craig "Duck" Bowden.
My unfortunate clueless opponent.

                 May 2014

Copyright © Keith Trestrail