by

P. C. D. McCarthy

It is a privilege to have been asked to contribute an article towards the Centenary of the Royal-Thornian. This truly historic game of cricket has survived the passage of time, each year bringing new faces, experiences and thrills to the arena of this great game.

It's a revelation, just watching small boys waving flags bigger than themselves shouting advice to players who can't hear a thing because their own hearts are pounding louder, wrestling with their own torment of nerves, trying to look calm and yet shivering all over with excitement. Batsmen walk to the crease on "cotton wool' grass, numb all through, and take guard with a bat that feels there as a fishing rod, tapping down imaginary holes in the pitch to steady their nerves.

Bowlers praying that the first ball they bowl is not clean off the wicket, and wicket-keepers wishing they had gloves as large as cricket nets. Slip fielders saying to themselves, "I hope he doesn't snick one to me."

'Silly point' and 'Crazy Leg' hoping the batsman doesn't bore a hole through their skulls; while batsmen in pads in the pavilion waiting for their turns to go in, quietly tell themselves, "I hope to heaven, the guy out there doesn't get out," in the meantime making several trips to 'you know where' to 'do' practically 'nothing' to release their nervous tension.

The "cloud nine' feeling of 'hero' batsman being carried shoulder high by joyous supporters and getting their bottoms pinched for 'Good Luck.' The mortifying feeling of being bowled first ball for a 'duck' and the long trek back to the pavilion wishing all the way that the earth would open and swallow them up.

The 'inspection' of the wicket by hordes of kids, looking for something mysterious that doesn't exist and Autograph hunters frantically trying to get near their idol for that 'Autograph', scrawled so fast or to be practically indecipherable— but treasured.

Old boys sitting in the stands, some with friends and some with 'foes', telling each other how they 'murdered' such and such a bowler in 'their' day.

Captains chewing gum, or the ends of their shirt collars, while coaches sit quietly at the Bar sipping 'Old Stuff' trying to calm their obvious emotions.

Umpires hoping they never have to make a decision— and never win anyway, while masters chat among themselves probably saying "I wish 'he' had as much brains for Maths as he has in his bat".

Supporters parading the ground in packs exchanging abuse and taunting jeers with friendly foes, while the fair sex glamorously clothed, drive the young bloods crazy with excitement. The traumas are endless!

And! finally after the match is all over, may it be won, lost or drawn by the 'gladiators of the day', all stagger home weary, worn and with hoarse throats; while many an old boy still 'bat on' deli­ghtfully bemused, to reflect on all that might have happened "IF".

So the day ends, with visions of "We'll show in next year", thoughts. But! what a day it has been and I'm sure that there is no experience on earth that can match the thrills, spills and emotions that encompass all at the "Royal-Thomian". Would you miss all this? I wouldn't miss it for Worlds-see you there!

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