Eulogy To Boycott Poem by C Richard Miles

But Boycott was boring, crass critics can say
And I would have led them all, once of a day,
When I saw him at Reading one freezing, spring morn
And I really was dreading as he nurdled on.

For Berkshire had scored just a hundred or so
In their sixty overs; they struggled, you know.
As a meek Minor County against the big fish,
It was just as good as they ever could wish.

Now most first-class counties would knock off the runs
With a dash and a hustle and give the crowd fun
But Boycott and Athey proceeded in state
At two runs per over; they just needed that rate.

It was all that they wanted to finish the match.
Though he’d felled a few timbers and clung to a catch
And his bowling impressed me, with cap front to back,
Boycs’ sure-footed batting some sparkle sure lacked.

Then I saw him at Scarborough one fine summer’s day
When this magical maestro took illusions away,
For Sussex had set him a target to get
And so, single-minded, on mission he set.

He hadn’t much time to knock over the runs
And, as Peaseholm Park Lake’s naval battle’s loud guns
Echoed over the ground, that bewildering Boycott
Made the match come alive, as though he’d been shot.

He smote them for four and, to show off his tricks,
He waltzed down the wicket and smashed them for six.
The ball flashed on the outfield like a red ricochet
And so it continued the rest of that day.

We won by four wickets, with an over to spare
And, as for the others, I just couldn’t care
For that brisk batsman Boycott, in his calm, riskless way
Had won the match for us and made Yorkshire’s day.

His amazing statistics shine bright in the books
And, though he scored slowly, it’s not how it looks
For he judged to perfection what he had to do
And, on many occasions, he saw the job through.

As a supreme tactician, he’d swiftly assess
On a difficult pitch, he’d achieve some success
By saving his wicket to accumulate ones.
The scoreboard ticked over if he stuck to his guns.

The record books tell you how many he scored
And, if I forget those occasions he bored
To his hatfuls of hundreds, he outshone the rest
That evening at Scarborough: Boycott was best.