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