How 2 play cricket.... You have two sides one out in the field and one in . Each man that's in the side that's in goes out and when he's out he comes in and the next man goes in until he's out .When they are all out the side that's out comes in and the side that's been in goes out and tries to get those coming in out .Sometimes you get men still in and not out .When both sides have been in and out including the not outs , THAT'S THE END OF THE GAME !HOWZAT !!!!! 'The game of cricket has its own tantalising mystery.' cricket is an art form, stuff your silly logistics. Lies are only lies but statistics are damn statistics. The Devils challenged the Angels to a game of cricket."But we've got all the cricketers," said the Angels."Yes. But we've got all the umpires!" exclaimed The Devils. In the 1970s, two dedicated Yorkshiremen were at the match. One discovered that he'd left his wallet at home and friend offered to go back for it. He returned pale and shaken. 'I've got bad news for thee, Bob. Your wife s run off and left thee, and your house 'as burned to the ground!''I've got worse news for thee, lad. Boycott's out.'
The sightscreen slightly to his right Old ashiq enjoys a perfect sight Of swing and bounce and turn and flight At the pavilion endHe never sits beneath the tree: True cricketers should always be Behind the ‘arm where they can see At the pavilion endThe bowling might as well be wide To those who watch it from the side Thank goodness they have never tried At the pavilion endNext-in batsmen come to say “What’s the bowling like today?†The teapot’s never far away At the pavilion endTime was when he would turn his arm With guile, variety and charm But now he sits beyond all harm At the pavilion endSome day when things are not the same A wooden bench shall bear his name – “MOHAMMAD ASHIQ KHAN, who always watched the gameAt the pavilion endâ€. *********************************************************** While soccer has its day and cricket sleeps The old pavilion its vigil keeps;Made fast from wind and rain it is at its best A place for dogs to sniff and birds to rest, An incidental thing, but to a few, Surety in kind for better things to do. Let’s take a detour from this frosty field And see what things of interest lie concealed.Unknown yet well known; none, yet all the same, Cloned to a likeness by a common game; The dressing rooms where lesser mortals might Transform themselves to demi-gods in white, The seats that secretly lift to provide Compartments where a cricketer can hide Metal scoreboard numbers, boundary flags, Nets and stumps and heavy canvas bags.And opposite, across the stud-plucked floor Beyond the glazed half open kitchen door An ancient water heater, plug pulled out, A folded dishcloth flung across its spout; A brown enamel teapot, cups and spoons Exclusively for match day afternoons The helpers with the players snatched away Like swallows with the ever short’ning day.Cold and silent: sunk within its walls The echoes of a thousand summer calls; Shouted batting orders, discontent, Muffled curses, loud encouragement, The heavy sounds of boots on hollow boards And mock abuse that comradeship affords. And in the nadir of those winter suns The ghosts of cricket’s long forgotten ones.Should passers-by imagine they have found A park or council recreation ground And wrongly think it offers, if you please, A place for summer fetes or jamborees The wooden sentinel reserves its peace ‘Til cricket takes again its summer lease And strangely driven folk as strangely clad Resume their rituals with bat and pad. ***********************************************************
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