The Debut

A match freezes
on a lush green ground.
Young men in whites
prowl
the dust brown pitch
watching
in quiet expectation
the nervous debutant
taking his guard.

He imagines their eyes
on him. Eyes he has known
since the tabloid
tagged him
WUNDERKID.
He imagines
the usual refrain
No quarter, no quarter.
no quarter, no quarter.

No quarter
from the stout keeper
chevvying him
on his rose cheeks.
No quarter
from the veteran paceman,
the legend that nipped
a hundred careers
before they were set
in motion.

He imagines those eager eyes,
twinkling “Bunny, Bunny”,
those fingers
so firm
on the seam,
those arms
rising and falling
in imagined cadence
to a partisan crowd.

He fidgets a prayer,
draws his guard (on leg),
and eyes the patrol
surrrounding him. He waits
and waits and waits,
(it seems like eternity),
for his first ball,
stilling,
all those imaginations,
and that incessant voice,
in his head,
“Play straight. Play straight.”

He hears a roar,
a signal for four.
And he knows,
he is on his way.
He belongs. He belongs.

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Posted on February 20, 2006, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. Nice. I guess Dhoni can relate……

  2. *cheers*

    wow, poetry and cricket in conjunction! potent mix that. my two driving passions in life. 😀

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