63 Not: A Tribute

63 Not.

In an everyday house, on a suburban street

A 30 year old boy tries to sleep

Stirred by what he’s seen today

An unknown force keeps his mind at play.

 

Life is a cruel and mysterious game

One that man has struggled to tame.

Many try to climb so high

And can fall so suddenly in front of our eyes.

 

63 not, the scoreboard will say

A baggy green gone at the end of the day,

Thoughts are with the one who steamed in,

All he was doing was trying to win.

 

I never met this quiet young man

But I gladly watched him from the stand

We all gave energy to help him succeed

As he guided red leather all around the field.

 

Is it strange that still my eyes are weeping?

When normally right now, I would be sleeping

Something inside me tosses and turns

My thoughts with a family that gravely mourns.

 

This stuff happens all the time

Innocent people plucked from their prime

Why the hell do I feel so hollow?

When I never even met this fellow.

 

This is it, this great sport thing.

It ignites a passion deep within.

One that triggers a range of emotion

From joy to despair in short fleeting moments.

 

And with every four and with every six

And every wicket and each stumping missed

Our proud country rises and sometimes falls low

As one whole team we learn and we grow.

 

So on this day, within this mess

Our hearts beat hard from within our chests

A young man now continues his knock

High above the world, 63 not.

 

*  *  *

 

By Toby Shain, edited by Alex Shain

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