Out first ball

Hair cut close, like a squaddie's bristle
they're well turned-out today, these guys
With their smart blazers and striped ties
they'll go over the top on the whistle.
Torpor, snobbery – an English afternoon.
The cloying smell of newly-mown grass
hangs thick over the field, like trench gas.
Fear clenched in the knotted gut. Go on son!
For the school! It's your chance to stand tall.
Mortified. The rancid sweat and hollow laughter
of the changing room, a prelude to slaughter.
A black grenade drops from the sun. Out first ball.
It's only your legs gone. You girl! Hide your pain.
I hated cricket. I never played again.

Note. Others like cricket. It never worked for me, probably because I was no good at it. At any rate, this poem is true. The one time I had a go at batting, I was out within seconds. Humiliating