ON HIGH CRICKET AND LOW SPIT
Dr. R.R. Menon
Spit is in more than one sense
the essence of cricketeers in their tense
moments. Whether bowler or batsman,
he pays homage to this talisman
for sure, of success, and liberally uses it
as he walks the field to bolster his grit
and gusto, for may be a gamut of emotions
that adjust inner mood to outer motions
Indians indiscriminately spit, but the English
natty otherwise, seem to deem it a fetish
on the cricket field; elsewhere kerchiefs hide
this inconvenience from the public road.
Saliva, we know, has since time began been,
like Eve or Godiva, a help to man
bare-bodied, more than he recognises. It can
at a pinch, for his beard, serve as a polish
readily available, and in cricket, with flourish
Rare the player who doesn’t with his spit
rub the ball caringly before he bowls to hit
a wicket, or irrigates the green grass
as he turns from the pitch, or walks across.
Batsmen too, whatever his taste or talent,
spit out too often in his bid to be gallant.
Even the casual fielder would have his mouth
contribute to the already verdant earth
through forceful outflows others might loathe.
Ubiqitous seems the magic of spit
fostered by cricketeers who ever can get
to feel that ball, and gift off his bit.
But despite its antiseptic fame
noses don’t appreciate it with the same
cheer that eyes may see in its gloss,
or fingers feel in the lascivious hardness
firm, rounded and smooth, fondly to caress.