waztinaname
a great verse on “slasher” mackey. the 60’s “slasher” , slightly different from the T20 ones u get today
WHEN SLASHER SAVED THE MATCH
There was a chap born years ago
A little wrinkled fellow
His mother called him Ken.
There was no way that she could know
That later on he would become
A giant amongst men.
Known to the world as Slasher
A nomenclature ironic
For K.D’s batting was indeed
No kind of cricket tonic.
He didn’t hit the ball, like some, with brutal force,
His method was more subtle,
And though some folks sneered, of course
He heeded not. For in the battle
His forte lay in leaving balls alone
That passed so closely by the stumps
They caused the bails to wobble.
He oozed the ball into the gaps,
Unlike more flashy chaps.
He didn’t swagger to the crease,
Like Richards later did,
And crunch the first ball though it was a bumper.
He didn’t slap the pill past point,
With wristy elegance.
His method gave no hint of Victor Trumper.
He didn’t skip right down the track,
Like Harvey in his prime,
And crack the cherry out into the deep.
His style was more the kind of thing that puts a crowd to sleep.
You couldn’t tell, so it was said,
If he was live or he was dead.
“He doesn’t hit the ball,
He squirts it!” said one wag
And it was true.
But Slash was made of sterner stuff than men like me or you.
His bowling style was much the same
It didn’t have much glitter
Nagging line and length were more his go.
He didn’t play for show.
He didn’t deal in thunderbolts,
He didn’t make the ball rear up,
Just put it on a length or slightly shorter.
And wise old heads told toey youths
“Don’t try to belt him round the place -
I’m telling you, you really shouldn’t oughter”.
But oft they took no heed and paid the price.
With just enough variety
He made batsmen who’d been around the block a time or two
Snap their caps
And suffer bloody rushes to the head
Producing suicidal slogs out to the deep.
And later on they’d drink too much
And later still in bed
A restless night deprived of sleep:
“Why did I not just block the ball instead?”
And as for sledging, well
It hadn’t then impinged upon our lives
And Slasher was a man who would as soon concede a run as speak a pointless word,
And wouldn’t dream of making vulgar talk about opponents’ wives.
The Fourth Test of the series
It was a hard-fought match,
As Tests are meant to be,
The Windies team was on a roll.
They’d won the latest Test,
Their players, radiating confidence,
Were keen to show their best,
And so they did.
Frank Worrell dealt quite nicely, thanks, with all the balls the Aussies chose to bowl,
And scintillating Kanhai scored a ton in both his knocks,
But in the other camp the Aussies did it tough
No Davo, Harvey, Meckiff in the ranks,
And though the players gave their best
For which we all give thanks,
T’was clearly not enough.
When Kline went to the centre he was the last man in
There was a muted ambience, not like the usual din.
Near two hours left, the Aussies were a mile behind.
Of hope they were bereft, and yet
The Slasher still remained.
This Kline he was a bowler,
His batting wasn’t flash
Not many thought that he could last the session out with Slash.
And when he warmed up in the nets he got out twenty times
And all that he could think of was being maimed or worse,
And echoing around his head
That ancient Chinese curse:
“May you live, sir, in interesting times!”
But Slasher wasn’t fussed,
His concentration never wavered,
The draw was there, the match not lost -
He knew that they could save it.
He knew that he must farm the strike to shield the hapless Kline
He knew as well he’d have to put his body on the line.
This Hall, he was a Hercules, a giant of a man
Who could propel the ball at fearsome pace
His bouncer made them duck and weave
And when it passed you could perceive
The beads of sweat their brows [upper lips?] had got,
And when his yorker hit the spot
They just weren’t in the race.
And Worrell tried with all his might
To put a finish to the fight
And Gibs and Val both gave the thing their best.
Gibbs already had a hat-trick, and deserved it there’s no doubt,
But Slasher farmed and blocked and pushed,
And even Sobers couldn’t get the bugger out.
And when the time it rolled around
For Wes Hall’s final spell
The crowd was hushed, no sound.
But Slasher chewed upon his gum
With bovine equilibrium,
And stunned the most ferocious balls
As if he’d taken Valium
And Kline hung in as well.
At six o’clock when giant Hall
Propelled that last historic ball
I tell you true, no fibs,
It reared up nastily.
And to the crowd’s collective sigh
Old Slasher held his bat up high
And took it on the ribs.
“Well done, Slash!” the skipper cried
When he regained the shed
“Thanks, Rich” was all that he replied,
For he was kind of tired,
And feeling like a quiet ale,
Then tucking up in bed (his ribs were sore).
He didn’t know his final score (or give a stuff)
He did know, though, that he had done enough
To save the match:
‘Twas worth the pain.
They say that cricket is a funny game.
It surely is a hard thing to explain:
Americans and Frenchmen just don’t get it.
“What? Play five long days and end up in a draw?
What kind of fools d’you take us for?
Five days in the sun for what? Forget it!”
But every cricket lover knows
There’s dreary draws and draws that draws applause
And they’re the ones that see grown men break down in tears
Of joy and admiration, and tell the tale for years.
Some think that winning is the one and only thing
And that the world’s made up of those who lose and those who win
And nothing in between.
But if that’s true I’ll eat my hat
I know the world’s a subtler place than that.
Instead I doffs me hat to Slasher.
And thanks me lucky stars that I was there to watch
Upon that legendary day
When Slasher saved the match.
REPRODUCED without permission from Kim Sanders/ www.kimsandersworldmusic.com
I would gladly compensate Kim for using his wonderful lines here, what do u reckon ?
a ticket for the T20 world-cup this year perhaps,
or a princely sum of 100 AUD for every 1 Million hits to my blog..
