This is my poem to retiring Aussie skipper Michael Clarke.
Farewell Clarkey.
I will miss your skip down the pitch to the spinners,
your tentative dives in the slips,
your short catching men in front of square on a slow pitch in the subcontinent a desperate 400 behind,
Your elusive over of accurate left-arm orthodox in the final over of an ODI with the game in the balance.
Your cobra pose in between overs,
your no-fuss dosage of anti-inflammatories at drinks,
your wave from the pavilion to call the boys in after George Bailey clubbed 28 runs off that James Anderson over,
your fondness of the long-sleeved variety of Test whites.
May you ride out the decline of your reflexes with two seasons in the Big Bash (the contract already signed), a lucrative IPL cameo and transition into a general celebrity and TV personality under Warnie’s guiding hand.
And may we listen to your commentary-box banter in the unrounded accent of 1990s Sydney in years to come, the bitterness of three consecutive Ashes away series losses forgotten, and the glory of the 2011-12 summer against India forever.
There have been so many MRIs, so many time-frames, so many dutifully-carried-out core stability sessions, dear Clarkey.
You bore the weight of poor Hughes’ coffin on your compacted discs,
a century the next week with restricted glances and nudges,
each twist of the torso in pain,
lower back in spasm,
at mid on taught hamstring finally tearing with the duress of it all.
There were to be no more centuries,
you would never regain formm
career prematurely ended but your honour proved.
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