The Cricket Widow's Lament.

In my youth I had a vision of my life,
Of travel, fun, career and wife,
With husband, kids, a house with fence of pickets,
But……I didn’t factor in the cricket.

The travel came and career, not quite what I had planned,
No matter that the ‘Science’ career was canned.
I found I enjoyed my new career,
Selling sporting goods was nothing to fear.

With sporting men I did go out,
And watched them in their weekend bouts.
It did not ever consume my life,
As after all, I was not their wife.

Then along came another, again a sporting man,
Who seemed to be quite a fan?
Enough that he should want to be,
A husband to the likes of me.

He asked for my hand on a London street,
I said yes, not missing a beat,
We were on a cricket tour on that day,
Little did I know how I would pay?

The wedding plans were made with glee,
But there was a ‘sticking point’ you see,
We had to marry very late that day,
Because there was a cricket match to play!

Married life was an easy run,
Though summer Saturdays were not all that much fun,
A husband who would be gone into the night,
Surely this can’t be right?

At this point I have to say,
Who was it deemed that men should play,
In white for a game played on grass so green?
Grass stains they obviously never had to clean!

I digress, back to the narrative of my life,
My diatribe as a cricketer’s wife,
A child was conceived,
A boy…..my man believed.

On the scan it showed an arm, waving in the air,
‘A bowlers arm!’ if you care,
To believe what he could see.
‘A boy, a cricketer he will be!’,

Alas the babe was not as he had thought her,
A girl…we had a daughter.
He was happy anyway,
And it was also a Saturday.

So off he went, leaving me with babe in arms,
Playing cricket that day would cause no harm.
And he returned to me that night,
‘I hit 70!’ he related with delight.

Conceived again, another child, a boy this time was due,
I just knew he would be born on a Saturday too.
I warned my man he may have to delay,
His cricket game on that day.

Sure enough I was right,
The first game of the season I did blight,
For play he did, but was rather late,
I did have to give birth on that date.

Our life rolled on, without a care,
Cricket in summer was his usual fare,
Until one day he sadly said,
“I’m old and I think my playing days are dead!”

A year went by with Saturdays free,
Oh how glorious life could be!
Until one fateful day there came some news,
My carefree life was in the blues.

You see….the local cricket club,
With blokes deciding at the pub,
To form an ‘oldies’ team to fight
At ‘Master’s cricket. Oh, what a blight!

These Master’s men, over 40 they should be,
And liberally plied with ‘cricket tea’.
The tea, with cake and fruit is made by us females,
And after the match the men down very many ales.

Meanwhile the boy child decided he would play,
From 4 yrs old….cricket every Saturday.
So two lots of cricket whites to clean,
A not so happy woman, you may glean.

The years roll on as a cricketer’s wife,
I suppose I’m called the ‘trouble and strife’,
Masters, club and Rep games, the odd Grade match,
I cheer when either takes a catch.

I sit and chat and watch the game,
With mums and wives we applaud the fame,
Have seen a hat-trick from my boy,
Which was a day of great joy.

To this game I am resigned I think,
It’s either that or taking to the drink.
I care for my men, rub muscles to remove the kinks,
Make tea and cakes, wash whites, sell pies and drinks.

You see, I was not prepared to be,
A wife, a mum who did not see,
Her men, as their sporting days go by,
”If you can’t beat them, join them!” is my cry!

The Cricket Widow's Lament.

Floralynne

Frenchs Forest, Australia

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