Hutton and Compton, Dexter, May – they all
were boyhood heroes, judged to be the best,
aristocrats with just a touch of brute.
I listened to the broadcasts of each Test;
deprived, I now must read the ball-by-ball.
Before I die, I want to see Joe Root.
I’ve read descriptions of his cover drive,
compliments for his cut, his pull, his sweep:
for every ball, he has a stroke to suit.
Age needs a trove of memories to keep
the commentary’s sober prose alive
from watching just one innings by Joe Root.
I hope, someday, to totter off to Lord’s,
sit with the agéd gents in floppy hats,
while all my senses still remain acute,
and capture all the magic as he bats,
then join the Test Match crowd when it applauds
a century completed by Joe Root.
