At a Lancs V Sussex County Cricket match in 2007.






Finally, the ankle surgery

has mended.

Flintoff, the big, forthright man

is thumping down the pitch,

filling in the footmarks.



Down at the Lancs. stand,

a father with a paunch

talks to a mobile.

'The usual rounds of

ice-cream and drinks'

he says, turning

slowly in circles.

He stumbles over

a blue nylon boundary rope.

as three boys

play Darth Vader with their

tiny replica bats.

'Ross' he shouts, holding

the phone to his belly,

waving admonishments with

the free hand.



Ross has been kicking up

the dust, twitching

the blue rope.



Ahmed jigs in for the

Sussex side

drawing swallow circles in

the summer air

beyond trampled grass

and plastic cups.



At the close of play, all

three boys have beguiled

Hopkinson into signing

fake score cards

and miniature bats.



'D'you all play?' he enquires,

laughs an Aussie laugh,

full and fruity,

larger than his life.



He bends over to scrawl

big hoops and crosses

on each card.



His blue eyes are backlit

by an ice cream sweater.

He turns round and

his name is written

in maroon on it.



Ross waves the cards

at his father, turns to his friend.



'D'you know the highest score

in the Ashes'? he says

'It was 18 for 8'

He pauses to let it register,

then goes on.



'How old is your bat?'

'Got it at Christmas'.

'I've had mine for two years!'

'Yeah, yours is marked, though'



'So-you can put it in the washing machine'

was the last word, putting down

the Yorker after

a few seconds, smothering it.'