"Scorecards! Cards sixpence each!

Get your scorecards here! "

The old man in the white coat was always there,

His booming voice echoed around the ground.

 

Balmy, sunlit weekdays at the festival.

Bright azure blue, and cloudless, skies.

Not even the merest breath of a breeze.

Seagulls squawking, eyeing up our sandwiches, 

As we lay out our picnic on a rickety old bench.

Happy, happy days on North Marine Drive.

 

The twack of leather upon willow. 

Dizzying white flannels against the green.

The cricket pavilion, of splendour, 

Which I scoured for glimpses of our Yorkshire heroes!

 

And I saw Graeme Pollock knock a ton, 

The fastest century of the season by a mile!

This wizard whirled his bat round, like a wand,

Caressing the ball to all parts of the ground, 

Suddenly, dispatching it over the sightscreen!

Where I catch it!

Metaphorically. 

Fifty years too late. 

And where I now serve it up,

On my memory's plate. 

 

And here is Trueman running in... 

To the beer tent for a pint or two. 

No time for autographs.  "Go away, you! 

I'm thirsty, lad, and it's bloody hot!" 

Most players signed for us, though. 

Including Boycott. 

 

"Scorecards! Scorecards! Cards sixpence each!" 

Happy day! Oh, happy, happy day! 

It was T. N. Pearce's Eleven versus Yorkshire.

I didn't really need a scorecard, anyway.