Selected sporting terms

‘Let [1] me have my inheritance,’ asked the son, but with considerable spin, [3] and not in a fair way [2]. He was one of a dozen workers, some of whom would just pitch [2][3][4] up casually.

He smiled, making the most of his dimples [2].

‘Why the deuce [1] would I do that?’ his father declared [3], making a silly point [3] in an attempt to draw [1][2][3] it all out [3].

‘Consider it a backhander [1]… Just put [2] it in [3] my hand. Gimme! [2] I don’t want you to pin [2] me down, pater, no!’

Ster[4]nly his father calculated his wealth. ‘Six, four, six, four, seven, six, six, one [1]… that’s forty [1] shekels, net [1][4].’

‘Which makes what? 25 for 1 [3] of your sons (my older brother), while I’m entitled to fifteen [1]!’

     

‘Love [1] you, my boy,’ said the father, sadly. ‘Bye [1][2][3].’

       

A little while later the son walked [3] over [3] the boundary [3] and took two, four [3], six [3] steps and was soon away down a gully [3] towards a foreign land.

       

He was somewhat green [2] but appealed [3] to several first class [3] singles  [1],[3] – he knew how to bowl a maiden over [3]. One was quite a catch [3][4], with long leg[3]s and, when he lead [4], some followed on [3], but not one of them was a keeper [3]. So he started to spoon [2] with them, making googly [3] eyes, ordering doubles [1]. But he was on a bit of a sticky wicket [3].

       

After a while  his  wedge [2]  had run out [3],  and  there  was nothing to eat and nothing to drink – not even Robinson’s Lemon Barley Water [1].

       

He was starting to fade [2] and his smile didn’t seam [3] such a beamer [3]; he felt as hungry as an albatross [2], and looked after pigs, longing to eat their pods – even though they were a bit mashie [2], covered with flies [4] and marked with bogies [2].

There were worms [4] and maggots [4] and they didn’t seem to have come from a glasshouse-equipped nursery. End [3] of the day came, and he dismissed [3] the idea, although he was absolutely stumped [3]; he lost a lot of weight [4] and ended up considerably less wide [3].

He thought of home. He knew there were XI [3] hired hands, (without him they would be handicapped [2]) and he could be the twelfth man [3], well capable of using a broom to sweep [3], or to scratch [2] at the soil with a hook [2][3][4].

He decided to bail [3], to leg [3] it, and, even though it was a long slog [3], approach [1],[2] the farm again.

Although he was still a fair way [2] out [1][3], on [3] the offside [3] (beyond the tramlines [1]) and padding up [3] the path, his dad saw him. His night-watchman [3] attitude was far from driving [2] the boy away, and he’d kept using his Twenty 20 [3] vision, despite the bad light [3]. He ran at medium pace [3] to greet him.

He said ‘Ace [1]! This is the best day since my boy went! Worth [2] making a few sacrifices, now, certainly… slip [3] a ring onto his finger, give him a coat that covers [3] him and some shoes (replacing this worn out pair – look, he’s got a hole in one [2] of the soles) for extra cover [3].

‘Now, kill Niblick [2] the Calf and swing [2][3] the hatchet to make the cut [2] again and again; flag [2] up a par[2]ty! Iron [2] my suit – give the trousers a sharp crease! [3] Burn some wood [2] (this might create Ashes)! [3]

‘Yes, set [1] up silver service [1]… we shall have game [1] pie, fish [4] and fry [4] a chip [1][2] or two. And we could serve [1] lob[1]ster as an extra [3] course [2] – oh, plus some roast duck [3]!

‘And a big slice [1][2] of oval [3] cake, with a cup [1][2][3][4] of tee [2] brewed with leaves cast [4] in from the caddie. [2] Use the best crockery – yes, the china.

     

‘Man, [3] we can have a ball! Boy [1] of mine had crossed the line [4] but by the Lord’s [3] mercy is found; he was food for worms [4] (which was rough, [2] since we had no trace [4] of his whereabouts) but has managed to rally! [1] Keep it reel!’ [4]

[1] Tennis ( 26)  [2] Golf (34)  [3] Cricket (57) [4 ] Angling (18)

Olfactory

The pungent tang of crops and livestock wafted across the yard as the boy took the crisp, ink-scented notes from his father. He splashed on some aftershave and took off for the windy city.

He drifted through the heady mix of alcohol evaporating into the air, perfume and cigar smoke, until the wedge was gone. The smell of fear and famine struck, and the boy’s nostrils were filled with the stench of pigs and their rotting food. He even longed to fill his stomach with the putrefying, mouldy compost material.

The light went on in his head and he realised the joyful aroma of his father’s love.

He prepared himself to be a stinking servant, but his father saw him from afar. He ran up to him, kissed him and hugged him. It was obvious he’d not had a shower. He gave him a ring, a coat which smelled of conditioner, leather shoes, and some lovely warm beef in a rich aromatic gravy.

‘My son was a decaying corpse, but now he’s my ever-fragrant boy!’

Pseudo-Shakespeare

 Dramatis Personae:

                  Old Man       a farmer of considerable wealth

                   Reckless       his son; of reckless wantonness

      Mistress Rapido       a bartender of disputable morals

            Three Cooks       wizened crones of dubious cleanliness

Scene One: Without the Farm

Enter Old Man and Reckless, with trumpets and ledgers

Old Man:  Five score groats hath now o’er filled this agéd

                          casket marked wi’ my monogram

                   And silver-fleckéd years of joyous thoughts.

                   My name writ firm in crops and creatures

                          both far and yon and thus and such.

Reckless:  Fie on’t! Gist mine share, thou pock-faced loon!

Old Man:  ‘Tis pity; ‘tis; ‘tis true; ah me.

                   (aside) The cankered, thumb-biting, chiding chops           

                            of one’s loin-spring was ever so;

                    Yet thusly will I convert all sounds of woe

                    To hey nonny nonny.

                    (to Reckless) My son, neither a borrower nor…

Reckless:    (aside) Yea, angels and ministers of grace

                    Spare me from this pigeon-liver’d

                             rambling witless buffoonery!

Old Man:   Fare thee well, splenative lad o’mine!

                    Thou seemest not smiling on my kidney;

                             yet heart’s sweet sorrow.

Reckless:    I go. (exit)

Scene Two: Boar’s head tavern, with cups

Enter Reckless and Mistress Rapido

Reckless:    Another goblet of thy most excellent mead

                    With all haste, prithee! Mine tongue swelleth 

                             most comfortlessly beyond double

                    And in a trice rasps thrice sandpaperingly

                    Upon my lips and palate;

                    Forsooth this thirst must of force be quenched and       

                             quelled and soothed and smoothed.

Rapido:       I wouldst thine fair request obey right soon

                    But thy drawstrung velvet dubloon bag hath

                    Dwindled most grossly. It afears me that 

                              thy mettle is most assuredly run dry

                    And spent paperwork doth thy name offend.

                    Up-hard thou art. My nose I thumb;

                    This much denies thine slake-request.

Reckless:    Such as this low-life hag would refuse e’en me?

Rapido:       Get thee hence!

Reckless:    I shall seek justice and mercy in yon house 

                              of less iniquity (exits)

Rapido:       Ha! May fortune smile upon thy request

                              where e’re thou maketh it,

                    For demand and table-rap alone lack strength   

                              when backed not up by jangling token.

                    Now is a winter of discontent and growling guts 

                              about to break upon these shores

                    All will grossly starve perchance lest they 

                              find themselves, right quick, hoggish chores.

Scene Three: A street, with pigs

Enter Reckless

Reckless:   Oh woe is me, for all mine adversaries hath

                    Gathered about and grimace withal,

                    Struck me thrice upon mine heart and soul,

                    And tainted me with pangs and pains.

                    Thou grunting, snorting chops!

                    How now, thou sow?

                    Forswear unto me thine podlike picnic…

                    Yet still I am an man,

                    Can’st mind’s eye bear to depict

                    Mine teeth o’erflowed with distasteful swill?

                    Marry, here’s the rub; rude hiréd strangers

                    Take sparkling cup and happily baked meats

                    In thoughtless supper tomorrow and tomorrow

                    Where parental provision plates their portion;

                    Enow! To bow’s the how, I know,

                    Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of my father;

                    I’ll to his hallowed portals withinward go

                    To serve him there with doff and scrape

                    And forelock’s tug, and yessir and amen –

                    Perchance to gain a meagre coinly recompense

                    As hired man of no familiarity nor name.

                    Here’s rosemary, pansies and wither’d violets

                    For thoughts, remembr’nce and

                    Destroy’d faithfuness: his son no more,

                    But yet within his walls and heart? (exits)

Scene Four: A road, with trees

Enter Reckless

Reckless:   Fourscore mile have I trod to return to home.

                   (aside, as Old Man enters) How now,

                    Here cometh thus my paternal parent;

                    I’ll plead mine unfretting case 

                            with smile and curtsey at his feet.

                    Watch how his fierce countenance

                            shalt mellow towards me!

                    (he doffs to Old Man) O maketh thou me 

                             an servant, for thy sake, I beg,

                    Since my worthiness hath thawed, melted and       

                             resolved itself into an dew…

Old Man:   (with tears) My son, should not I call thee

                    Pribbling folly-fallen canker-blossom

                    Or any such retribution? Nay…

                    And neither shall I e’re speak thusly 

                              of loin’s sweet issue,

                    But grasp thee to my hollow chest –

                    Tush thy mouth and hold thy whisht!

                    For I shall give thee this precious charm 

                             of purest gold for thy finger

                    And this tailor’d vestment

                             and these shoes t’enswift thine tread.

                    I shall slay choice meat – yea –

                             e’en upon the hoof

                    And revel until dawn’s first tender kiss 

                             upon the cloudless mantle of the sky.

                    For strong breath and spirit hath returned;

                    So much better than reportingly!

Scene Five: An Party

Enter Three Cooks, with cauldron

Cooks:         Now we three have met once more

                     To stew an celebrate-meal for

                     The farmer who hast lost and found

                     His son! Now let us stir around.

                     Leg of bat and partridge-throat

                     Eye of rat and spleen of goat –

Cook One:   Nay, sisters, this our feasting pot

                     Right toothsome is – for potions not!

Cooks:         Grain of wheat, both husk and chaff

                     Cream of chicken, flank of calf

                     Neck of lamb and rabbit spine

                     With flagon-fill’d of malmsey wine!

Enter Old Man, Reckless

Old Man     Ho! Everyone that thirsteth!

                     Gather ye hither, yon villagers, mine;

                     Rejoice greatly, one and all!

                     Ye minstrels, play tootlingly upon pipes!

                     We fain would have a ball.

                     My son held fast by death’s appalling glance

                     Now lives! Come, let us make a merry dance!

                     Strike up, pipers!

(They revel with trumpets, caper and much celebration)