With Victorious Mien

Take this game ‘cricket’ and make
a solid guess where it came from.
Take any sport for that matter. There
is a growing clutter of dross attached
to origins obscured by ritual and time,
beware – some disingenuous, but let’s
clear the air and tell the truth, all,
in some form, derive from warfare.

That’s right, mortal combat, forsooth
blood, guts and gore, the kill or be
killed grunt and sweaty clash of bodies
smashing at each other – bent with
vagrantly honest intent on beating
crap out of a foe. Where is the show
of nobility in that? Who knows
who dares wins and who cares?

We play inside rules of the ancient
games, crowds sway in the terraces,
baying for blood in points scored over
late bodies of vanquished enemies
prostrate at the feet of our conquering
troops. There is succour in being a winning
team with victorious mien basking in
self-adulation. Or seeing ritual death

for failed leaders of the losing side,
losers can’t be choosers so we’ll have
your resignation by noon today or by suicide
tomorrow; a new coach will grace your place
at the foot of the flag, next to the bugle
and the Regal Standard. Onward we shall
go to glory in the name of the great game.
Oh, and England lost The Ashes.
© I.D. Carswell 2006