Richard Jenkins
Cricket Spectator
Our age is retrospective. It builds the sepulchres of the fathers; it writes biographies , histories and criticism.
Why should we not also enjoy an original relation to the universe?
Why should we not have poetry and philosophy of insight and not of tradition ,and a religion of revelation and not a history of theirs?
With this in mind it is in this spirit that I intend to walk the path with you, the path toward those new lands, new thoughts . Let us demand our own works, and laws and worship.
Man has no notion of moral fitness but from education. Naturally he is only a natural organ subject to sense.
In green acres speckled and spangled , the soft wind blows amongst those evergreen leaves. As the ever lengthening shadows dip, into the teatime of the soul , the wispy clouds billow by. The church clock slowly groans and tones time, the messenger to the game, as the bails of hope are slowly placed on the stumps of time, between them are sown the seeds of time, those that are watered by the hands of those who know and who are known. The fielding side shuffles out into the middle, sunlight echoing off the whites, caps all coloured and the new ball shiny, heavy and red. Then hands are warmed in clapping as the opponents struggle out, encumbered by their clothing and their fear and expectations; Two umpires bent and crooked, like Father time himself, the counters hollow out their palms and the score is never dead.
‘Play up, play up and play the game’ the cry goes out and the play begins. There is no victor but youth itself and those who play touch again their lips to its overflowing cup of joy.
Why should we seek to compare, comparison is odious. We are all but different , not better nor worse, and lets us rejoice in this difference and raise our hearts with joy to the creator and praise him for this beautiful game.
Cricket
The joy, the passion, the game.
I’d welcome your feedback and your friendship too. Join me in this joy, and raise yourself up with glad tidings. Summer is here with its grace and warmth. Bury yourself in its bosom.
The best of life is always in the second innings.
In this refulgent summer, it has been a luxury to draw the breath of life. The grass grows, the buds burst ,the meadow is spotted with fire and gold in the tint of flowers. The air is sweet , full of birds, through the transparent darkness the stars pour their spiritual rays. The scoreboard illuminates and the crowd shuffles into the day-nighter. The chameleon purple pipers players in their pyjamas parade their magnificence, and the hum of excitement and expectation crackles through the atmosphere. The Umpires bounce out, sprung to life, busy and wired with power. Young players, perfect in their performance start the contest, take aim and fire. The cool night bathes the players as the world with a river. The mystery of nature was never displayed more happily.
From that fruitful soil springs fourth our game, its ever passion exploding into our beings.
Bowl the ball, and feel the weight of the ball, send the delivery bouncing, bouncing across that silvered out field.
Lift up your cup, and drink in these dreamy draughts. Life is for living , and cricket for playing. Each time you face the opponent , you face only yourself .
Face yourself full in the knowledge of this. Cricket is your game, the best game there is.
There is a difference between one and another hour of life in their authority and subsequent effect. Our faith comes in moments yet our vice is habitual. Yet there is a depth in those brief moments which constrains us to ascribe more reality to them than to all other experiences. So it is with cricket. This patch of ground, prepared and nurtured, these players, expectant with fear and joy, these spectators, fickle with their viewings yet loyal with their following, this ocean of greenery, enveloping the arena, its envelope brightly garnered with gaudy advertising.
Those weary feet that tread the path, wearing into the turf,
Life then is such as cricket. Never mind the ridicle, never mind the defeat. Experience, up again old heart, there is victory yet, even from defeat .
Defeat. That place that teaches us those most important lessons,about change and improvement, so the next ball will be treated with a differing response.
What we write here is what our inner voice tells us in our sane moments. The essence of that voice is cricket.
Why should we not also enjoy an original relation to the universe?
Why should we not have poetry and philosophy of insight and not of tradition ,and a religion of revelation and not a history of theirs?
With this in mind it is in this spirit that I intend to walk the path with you, the path toward those new lands, new thoughts . Let us demand our own works, and laws and worship.
Man has no notion of moral fitness but from education. Naturally he is only a natural organ subject to sense.
In green acres speckled and spangled , the soft wind blows amongst those evergreen leaves. As the ever lengthening shadows dip, into the teatime of the soul , the wispy clouds billow by. The church clock slowly groans and tones time, the messenger to the game, as the bails of hope are slowly placed on the stumps of time, between them are sown the seeds of time, those that are watered by the hands of those who know and who are known. The fielding side shuffles out into the middle, sunlight echoing off the whites, caps all coloured and the new ball shiny, heavy and red. Then hands are warmed in clapping as the opponents struggle out, encumbered by their clothing and their fear and expectations; Two umpires bent and crooked, like Father time himself, the counters hollow out their palms and the score is never dead.
‘Play up, play up and play the game’ the cry goes out and the play begins. There is no victor but youth itself and those who play touch again their lips to its overflowing cup of joy.
Why should we seek to compare, comparison is odious. We are all but different , not better nor worse, and lets us rejoice in this difference and raise our hearts with joy to the creator and praise him for this beautiful game.
Cricket
The joy, the passion, the game.
I’d welcome your feedback and your friendship too. Join me in this joy, and raise yourself up with glad tidings. Summer is here with its grace and warmth. Bury yourself in its bosom.
The best of life is always in the second innings.
In this refulgent summer, it has been a luxury to draw the breath of life. The grass grows, the buds burst ,the meadow is spotted with fire and gold in the tint of flowers. The air is sweet , full of birds, through the transparent darkness the stars pour their spiritual rays. The scoreboard illuminates and the crowd shuffles into the day-nighter. The chameleon purple pipers players in their pyjamas parade their magnificence, and the hum of excitement and expectation crackles through the atmosphere. The Umpires bounce out, sprung to life, busy and wired with power. Young players, perfect in their performance start the contest, take aim and fire. The cool night bathes the players as the world with a river. The mystery of nature was never displayed more happily.
From that fruitful soil springs fourth our game, its ever passion exploding into our beings.
Bowl the ball, and feel the weight of the ball, send the delivery bouncing, bouncing across that silvered out field.
Lift up your cup, and drink in these dreamy draughts. Life is for living , and cricket for playing. Each time you face the opponent , you face only yourself .
Face yourself full in the knowledge of this. Cricket is your game, the best game there is.
There is a difference between one and another hour of life in their authority and subsequent effect. Our faith comes in moments yet our vice is habitual. Yet there is a depth in those brief moments which constrains us to ascribe more reality to them than to all other experiences. So it is with cricket. This patch of ground, prepared and nurtured, these players, expectant with fear and joy, these spectators, fickle with their viewings yet loyal with their following, this ocean of greenery, enveloping the arena, its envelope brightly garnered with gaudy advertising.
Those weary feet that tread the path, wearing into the turf,
Life then is such as cricket. Never mind the ridicle, never mind the defeat. Experience, up again old heart, there is victory yet, even from defeat .
Defeat. That place that teaches us those most important lessons,about change and improvement, so the next ball will be treated with a differing response.
What we write here is what our inner voice tells us in our sane moments. The essence of that voice is cricket.