Winner
Boxing Day Test by Cecilia White

twelfth man leaves the field, we tumble back to our places
sitting cross-legged below a semi-circle of lanky shinned uncles.
men, exhausted by another year’s hard labour
and christmas day.

our skin sticks to itself on boxing day in new south wales.
the geography of each body is irrigated by sweat
it is impossible to imagine standing outside
for each over, and over again.
the cork and willow clap in the dry summer heat
of another state.

our uncles lean into the room,
lean forward towards the box, as if they were next bat.
tensing muscles deep in bare redbrowned arms
they are in the memory position,
revisiting lives they dreamed as boys when
they could imagine up a roaring crowd
that would lift them high above the drudgery
of normal men.

(132 words)

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One of the last four
The Last Knock by Leanne Wicks

Granny died this morning.

Without warning
wicket fell short of a ton.
Day 2, asleep at the crease
then it was over.

After lunch,
Grandpa thankfully
televisions the cricket.
Lounge now lopsided
like an abandoned see-saw.
Johnson earns 6/38:
a worthy diversion.
Widower briefly smiles.

Commentary a sibilant calmative
for our grief, which is a silly point for sure
but Gran would have cheered us on.

We witness a nation’s loss
as White Lady knocks.

(75 words)

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One of the last four
The Cricket-Speaking World by Graeme Philipson

“It’s just not cricket”, so they say, that means it’s just not right
“Hit for six” is out of bounds – or just belted out of sight
The game is part of life, you know, part of everything we do
It’s entered the vernacular, from here to Potchefstroom.

A straight bat means you’re fair and square, clean bowled means that you’re dead
And bowling under-arm’s a curse, especially in EnZed
“I’ll call it stumps” you say to me, when you’ve really had enough
And you take your bat and ball and go, you just don’t give a stuff.

A sticky wicket’s tricky and a bouncer’s hard to play
You let the ball go to the ‘keeper when you’ve nothing more to say.
A duck’s no good and silly’s close, sledging’s insults that are hurled
These words are known and loved throughout the cricket-speaking world.

(143 words)
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One of the last four
The Bindi Edge by Stuart Gregory Reiss

C’mon taped up tennis ball don’t let me down
A run past the clothes line, the release of the ball
My brother swings away, no front foot at all.

I’ve got to get him playing that Bindi defence
The Pelican has no shoes on, for sure he’ll take offence
A slow ball pitched short is all that I need
Those sweet little bindies, my weapon unseen

He launches forward to smash my short ball
Hands clenched on faux willow no quarter at all
A foot impaled on bindies, a yell a shout a cry!
Tactics echo Larwood’s journey, a slog shot gone awry

A “Bindi Edge” to garage wiki your out I cried your out!!
Unfair you saw those bindies there, there’s no way that counts
And then the call of failing light “Boys it’s getting late”
The epic game resumes tomorrow for that I cannot wait

(147 words)
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Broadcast Days by Adam Gibson
across the rail yards,
smoke rising in the afternoon,
you heard the sound of whistles and sirens and
the Eveleigh rail men screeching metal on metal,
and yet, still; the transistor sound of something distant,
ghost voices from the Overland Telegraph Line,
a lime green capsule transported from that distant ground,
hushing all into reverence, carrying
like a thread of cotton on the westerly.

afternoon barefoot walks from Botany Road,
hearing the huddled cheers from the
blood-gutter pubs of Chippendale,
the secret rituals of the radio broadcast of the match
in a time when we believed in soup and buttons,
in a time when we thought that everything was possible;

but, later, your father livid about the bowling,
the grey-eyed uncles not speaking about that catch,
mum making herself scarce, invisible,
and it dawning on you that sometimes
it’s better not to know,
sometimes it’s better
not to hear a thing.

(150 words)

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The Bell in the Ball by Ken Hillman

McGilvray’s voice crooning with authority
Merging with cicadas, flies and Christmas
Before partisanship
Just the wonder and beauty of the game
Moving murals on my mind
“Meckiff turns, runs in, bowling to Sobers…”
The black prince, on his toes, sways back
The tips of Mackay’s fingers burn
The long-on picket splinters
“Beautiful,” mumbles Bradman
I hear McGilvray; see the ball
The tinkling gets louder
On my toes, sway back
The bell hums
Silence
The ball trapped by blind but safe hands
The Seeing Eye umpire
Grunts a raised finger
White sticking my way towards polite applause
I look back and see the bell spinning in the ball

(107 words)
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When Old Blokes Play the Game by David Campbell

Where once we’d pound in from the fence
to bowl in Lillee-style,
or bat for hours, resolved, intense,
all dancing feet and guile,
we now curl offies down the track
and keep our innings brief,
to ease that tender, aching back,
and give our legs relief.

These days our knobbly knees are shot,
our eyesight’s none too good;
we find that we can’t do a lot
of things that we once could.
The girls who came to watch us play
are now our wives, who sigh
and, knowing of the price we’ll pay,
keep liniment close by.

Yet still we keep on turning out,
for cricket is much more
than just a game, it’s not about
that final winning score.
It’s bonds we’ve forged through lessons learned,
the friendships, not the fame,
the mates we’ve gained as seasons turned…
when old blokes play the game.

(145 words)
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Strauss’ Waltz by Kevin Martin
Dance 1: Present, tense
The Lions of England confront the old foxes
(An Indian trio in vintage proof boxes)
And reticent cubs, their technique incomplete,
Learn quick how chin music unchains leaden feet.
Bandmaster Jim Anderson makes the ball sing
Employing a rhythm that’s termed Jimmy’s Swing
And this has the Indians poking and prodding
A slip that, in time, they find most unrewarding.
Stew Broad, the Enforcer, discovers new length
Which fine tips the balance in this Test of strength.

Dance 2: Past, perfect
Cook deglazed the cherry, Bell tolled the last post
While KP and Morgan recalled Banquo’s ghost:
Pale Indian bowlers were put to the sword
No more No. 1. Hit the deck, hit the road.

Refrain: Together, boys

The pitch and the toss may decide us
But instinct is what lies inside us
When History upped and defied us
We showed how the Willow Boys’ Dance.

(150 words)
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A Cricket Spring in an English Village by Bob Ramsay

In the cosy pocket of an umpires coat
Left on the clubhouse wall,
A Robins nested there this spring
When we answered crickets’ call.

Ruffling breeze with chilly nip,
Limpid sun on fresh new buds,
Blackbirds sing and squirrels scuttles,
Pheasant calls from deep to wood.

Some scudding April showers,
Two jumpers, blown on hands,
Horse chestnuts, thickening trees,
Winter’s left our greening land.

Coloured caps and skiing suntans,
Bucolic pinkness from the pub.
A new inch added to last year’s waist,
Grass stains defy hard scrubs.

Opening bowler warming up,
A windmill whirl of arms.
Batsman tries his forward defence
With a new man from the farm.

Umpire wears a new white coat
The Robin’s left in nest.
The game begins, we’re fired up
And start the season’s quest.

(130 words)

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God’s Eleven by Neville Allen
They think I’m cold and callous,
That my heart’s a piece of stone.
When they drag another mate in,
Leaking blood and shredding bone.

Well my tears dried up last Easter,
When a soldier yelled “Hey Ray,
There’s an injured digger asking,
‘are you game enough to play?”

I’d heard those words a hundred times,
Shouted loud and clear,
As Jackie Johnson challenged us kids,
To the test match of the year.

And oh! What mighty games they were,
With six or eight a team,
All thoughts of boring homework
Replaced with a Bradman dream.

And Jackie Johnson, my bets mate,
The biggest hit of all,
Just toss him up a loose one
And it was over the church wall.

When I reached the ward he smiled and said,
“I just got a look at Heaven”
And before he went and told me,
To play in God’s Eleven”
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AFTERMATH: CONTRASTING REACTIONS AFTER I FAILED TO SCORE THE WINNING RUN IN THE TOOWOOMBA U15 SCHOOLBOY CRICKET FINAL by Phillip Donnell
We left before I had a chance
to smile at you. I wish we’d still been able to high-five
hands in the post-match mayhem. I wanted
to stem the toxic tears, gouging like angry
rivers down my face, but simultaneously I was reaching out
for the spring in your heart whence some sympathy might surge,
warm as blood. I could see your forbearing fingers probing
the sultry summer air. I pressed my face to the glass;
I was calling to you – Coach! -  as we screeched away into
the distance, my whole body tingling like nettle-rash.
You were mouthing something I still remember, the noiseless words
piercing me like the abuse that flew up, mad as a cut snake,
rising eerily into the sky. The subsequent silence
was the one clear thing I could decipher –
the roar of the engine overshadowing your voice,
with my father’s rage between us.

(150 words)
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Opening Bat or OCD by Loretta Ann Hayes
Left sock,          right sock,        same jocks
glide       the        creams       on.
Collar          up          zinc         on
check                 the                  bat
pack the kit,    tighten the screws
place    the       gloves      upright.
Check                         the                            bat !
Greet                  the                 lads,                 sit             apart
isolate      the    thoughts,       ignore            the         taunts.
Don’t                     touch                        the                        bat !
Pads               on               adjust                 the                strap
helmet                on              adjust              the              strap
gloves               on,               check                the                grip.
Cradle                                       the                                       bat !
Stride     to      pitch,         line      up      middle      and     leg.
Check           the           field,           watch          the           ball
caress           the            ball,             off           the           mark.
Bless                                      the                                           bat!
Face                again,             adjust               the                box
sweet                 cover                drive……………….boundary.
The          runs        fantastic,               timing        orgasmic.
Knick                      to                     slips,                   dismissed,
drag                      the                     wicked                      willow.
Helmet                         off,                        gloves                    off
pads       removed,       shoes       unscrewed,       open        kit
turf                         the                     bloody                             bat

(124 words)
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The Run Away by Lilliana Allen
Heavy with wool
she breaks free
from the mob
as if she’s been hit
for a six
chased by the dog
as if a cunning fieldsman
legs move
a country depends
on such athletic prowess
over the dry summer pitch
hot wind urges them forward
the silent crowd cheers
she’s caught
at the fence
and directed back
to the rest of the team
while the dog secretly hopes
there will be more
to run out.

(75 words)
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Stealth Captain by John F. Knight
So many years Shane Warne stood close to Ponting
in the slips.  So many wins the team
enjoyed.  Was it the classic ‘spin and seam’
approach?  Or something else?  Perhaps you’re wanting
more?  Like genius tactics, muttered soft and low
across the cordon.  Try new placings, bowl a batter,
tiny tweaks but oh how much they matter,
to keep the dreamy lads on song from go to whoa.
The wowsers loathe his texty peccadilloes.
No!!  Genius bad boy Warnie can’t be captain!
So off he goes, retires to Hurley burley.
Team collapses, Ashes, weeping willows.
All gone.  The ball still played, but not the man.
And Warne returns triumphant, vindicated – but in Rajasthan!

(113 words)

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Watching Wesley Hall on Archive Film by Philip Salom
Wesley Hall running in to bowl that final over
is the closest an elegant man gets
to a broad-shouldered gallop, running in
long Carribean waves onto the strip.

He runs in from the rickety pavilion end
from tangling steel bands in his memory-towns,
running in again and again, banging down
that final over.

In 1961 listening to the ABC,
my imagination, the bleached white marker
for his run-up, adrenaline was loping to galloping
in my legs: older than love is imitation:

in my back, in my small-boy shoulders,
I was Wesley Hall running towards the pitch
like blood converging on the heart
as three wickets fell under Australia.

2011: I watch him stand and turn at his mark
to bowl that final over, Wes Hall and I turn
at our mark, loping then running at full speed
in black and white undulating silence.

(143 words)
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The Bronze Age by Peter Hansen
The most effective bands
numbered ten to fifteen,
light and fast,
but strong enough together
to hunt and fight
the mammoth and others,
so it becomes eleven scattered on a savannah,
below a stadia of hills,
with painted chest crouch,
then advance on a pair
anchored, backs to a fence of sticks,
haunted by the closing pack,
forced to spin and glance behind,
pull their hooks and cut,
duck and feint,
drive for cover, dash up and back
well-worn pads, testing the chase
until escape comes in bad light

(89 words)
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Fifty on Debut by Penelope Cottier
The batsman has become deeply creased,
as he heads towards fifty —
each run seems miles long.
Knees feel like slipping out,
to be caught at silly point.
Starting as gazelle, he’s become hippo, and
he’s looking behind now, just as much as forward.
But the masked wicket-keeper, Death,
says nothing (and he never will).
He’s gloved in discretion,
— which is just as well —
for who could swing and maybe miss,
if he knew what lay back in the change-rooms,
after umpires confer, and find the light has faded,
and we all troop in, as soon enough we must?
Then we’ll see what lay hidden,
behind that darkening grid —
whether scowls or skully grins.
But for now, let bowler send down the sun again,
quick, barely a flash between hand and wood.
For what else is there,
but this day, this brief innings,
and the soaring score of years?

(148 words)

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The Dismissal by Jonathan Hill
the scent of spring      the pitch           the moisture  the silence       the expectation
the new kookaburra                               the approach                                the release
the length                                                      the late swing                                             the play
the miss                                                         the thud                                          the keeper
the glare                                                        the walk back                                             the shuffling start
the rhythm                                                   the crescendo                              the expulsion of energy
the seam                                                        the steep bounce                        the sway
the fizz                                                            the thud                                          the sledge
the pressure                                                the concentration                      the tap
the tap                                                                           the shallow breath                    the ball
the angled seam                                        the waiting cordon                   the expectation
the still head                                                the unblinking eyes                  the light feet
the balance                                                   the soft hands                                             the instinct
the front foot                                               the straight willow                   the deviation
the whispered edge                                 the dive                                           the left hand
the soft palm                                               the clasp                                         the jubilant appeal
the guilty stance                                        the absence of eye contact    the raised finger
the deep breath of disappointment                the walk                           the solitude
the arrival                                                     the possibility…

(146 words)
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Grandpa by Anni Morris
Grandpa always favoured this ground
Circled by oaks spreading and round
No longer a player but reliving his youth
When he used to hit sixes over the pavilion roof.

Creamy cable knit becomes soft checked shirt
Nimble legs now arthritic and hurt.
Eyesight once sharp and keen
Replaced with bifocals and a dream
Of those magical matches on Sunday afternoons
That he enjoyed and relished but ended too soon.

Instead of a full toss or boundary four
His eyes sometimes close while watching the score
He sips sweet tea from his thermos flask
His memory fades and he doesn’t ask
About his former team mates
And he just sits and waits.

Now he relaxes and watches from his canvas chair
A soft twinkle in his eye and wisp of white hair.
Memories are precious things that can always be replayed
Sleeping in summer’s  heat,  28 degrees in the shade.

(149 words)
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The Final Nurdle by James Payne
To begin, at the ending.
Last man in, flat-footed and fiftysomething tired, pensioner
grey and shiraz soft, number 11s it to the middle.
Three to win.

For the last time, marks guard on the crumbling crease,
draws a line under his account, regards the shattered rebuilt castle behind, and turns to face -
Bounding chestybonded, facebooked, cokecommercialled youth,
gathering in the distance, itching for his scalp.

Umpire’s arm descends; the horse is bolting, fluid kneed and shinysided
ball cocked, towards the bunny in the headlights, towards the
cup-held-high and thrice around the shouldered green, towards the ten ale
pub.

Blur of leathered stitching, corker, yorker, sandshoe crusher.
Dying ember sparks eye and feet to move balance of weight back
and across flick wrist and ease it willow-softly past brought up to save the single fine leg.
Firstslip skipper looks undertaker blackly as redleather comes to its
nurdled rest in the losing gutter.
It’s over.

(147 words)