

Reuben and his Father
by
Barry Norris
Barry was an HMI in Estyn. He is an award winning poet
and has had poems published in Welsh and English.
Reuben, every time I bowled at you,
I saw your elegance, time and follow-through,
and the ball would race across the grass
as if drilled by a snooker cue.
To me, at 15, you were the best of batters,
well above us mere toilers and triers.
I thought you would get into the Essex team,
then England, an Ashes test, assured fame.
Your father, unlike mine, spent endless time
in the nets throwing ball after ball at you
to hone that elegance, time and follow-through.
I remembered a sunny wicket at Westcliff-on-Sea
the other day, where, as usual, you smashed me
about the pitch with your unassuming disdain.
So I looked up your name in Wisden
to see the trajectory of your cricketing self.
But it was a struggle to find you there -
only eight games for Essex, an average of 12,
short stints at Suffolk and Hertfordshire.
Every game a truncated, unremarkable innings,
always out before you were really in.
I imagine the elegance, time and follow-through
mattered little to you after the howzat,
the umpire’s finger, no pavilion clap.
I wonder now if it was so great after all
to have a father watch your every ball,
then to see his disappointed, downcast look
as he kept your cricket score book.