I don’t understand it, it all seems so slow, I find it excessively boring.

What are they doing, what is the point of it, that man slumped in the stand, is that the sound of him snoring?

There they all are, dressed in white, standing, waiting, fanned out across the wide field of grass.

But then one of them, the bowler, is running to those stumps, almost as fast as a soccer ball pass. 

Up goes his straight arm to propel that hard red ball down the finely cut pitch of twenty two yards.              

To describe the many detailed intricacies of this game has been a challenge for many an academic and those learned Bards.

In waiting, the batsman poised, defends, clad in gloves, pads, cap and face guard armed with his bat,

Striding to meet the travelling missile, twists his wrists to make contact, smashes it, hardly a pat.    

Not intercepted, the ball reaches the boundary to add to the scoreboard, four runs.

On beaches, in gardens for decades, fathers have drilled these techniques into their sons.

To deal with fast bowlers, to cope with the spin, and to pass poised fielders, the batsman opens his stroke box of tricks.

Defiant the ball is projected high above fielders, beyond the boundary, to score the maximum six.

But the dread of his wicket to be bowled, caught, L.B.W. or run out prompting appeals of How’s That!, the loud fielders’ shout.   

A long pause whilst the umpire considers before he raises his finger to declare it’s dismissal, yes OUT!  

When either all batsmen are dismissed, or one team’s score is more than the other.

Victory declared unless the rain interrupts and there’s a cry of take cover.  

Is it the accuracy of the bowler as he conquers the batsman’s defence?

Or the stroke of the batsman hooking the ball to land beyond the beer tents?

What is the magnetic attraction that holds our attention to invest in that ticket?

Keep watching, you’ll see through the veil to discover that magic of cricket.