TCDE-Team at 23:03, 4 April 2026

2026-04-04T23:03:03Z

TCDE-Team at 10:08, 13 February 2019

2019-02-13T10:08:35Z

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''A Reminiscence of Cricket'' is a poem written by [[Arthur Conan Doyle]] first published in [[The Poems of Arthur Conan Doyle]] by [[John Murray]] on 21 september 1922.

on 23-25 august 1900, [[Arthur Conan Doyle]] play a first class cricket match versus W. G. Grace where he scored 4 and took the wicket of W. G. Grace who had scored 110.

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== Editions ==

* in ''[[The Poems of Arthur Conan Doyle]] - Collected Edition'' (21 september 1922, [[John Murray]] [UK])
* in ''[[The Poems of Arthur Conan Doyle]] - Collected Edition'' (14 september 1928, [[John Murray]] [UK])

== A Reminiscence of Cricket ==

Once in my heyday of cricket, 
One day I shall ever recall! 
I captured that glorious wicket, 
The greatest, the grandest of all. 

Before me he stands like a vision, 
Bearded and burly and brown, 
A smile of good humoured derision 
As he waits for the first to come down. 

A statue from Thebes or from Knossos, 
A Hercules shrouded in white, 
Assyrian bull-like colossus, 
He stands in his might. 

With the beard of a Goth or a Vandal, 
His bat hanging ready and free, 
His great hairy hands on the handle, 
And his menacing eyes upon me. 

And I - I had tricks for the rabbits, 
The feeble of mind or eye, 
I could see all the duffer's bad habits 
And where his ruin might lie. 

The capture of such might elate one, 
But it seemed like one horrible jest 
That I should serve tosh to the great one, 
Who had broken the hearts of the best. 

Well, here goes! Good Lord, what a rotter! 
Such a sitter as never was dreamt; 
It was clay in the hands of the potter, 
But he tapped it with quiet contempt. 

The second was better - a leetle; 
It was low, but was nearly long-hop; 
As the housemaid comes down on the beetle 
So down came the bat with a chop. 

He was sizing me up with some wonder, 
My broken-kneed action and ways; 
I could see the grim menace from under 
The striped peak that shaded his gaze. 

The third was a gift or it looked it- 
A foot off the wicket or so; 
His huge figure swooped as he hooked it, 
His great body swung to the blow. 

Still when my dreams are night-marish, 
I picture that terrible smite, 
It was meant for a neighboring parish, 
Or any place out of sight. 

But - yes, there's a but to the story- 
The blade swished a trifle too low; 
Oh wonder, and vision of glory! 
It was up like a shaft from a bow. 

Up, up like a towering game bird, 
Up, up to a speck in the blue, 
And then coming down like the same bird, 
Dead straight on the line that it flew. 

Good Lord, it was mine! Such a soarer 
Would call for a safe pair of hands; 
None safer than Derbyshire Storer, 
And there, face uplifted, he stands 

Wicket keep Storer, the knowing, 
Wary and steady of nerve, 
Watching it falling and growing 
Marking the pace and curve. 

I stood with my two eyes fixed on it, 
Paralysed, helpless, inert; 
There was 'plunk' as the gloves shut upon it, 
And he cuddled it up to his shirt. 

Out - beyond question or wrangle! 
Homeward he lurched to his lunch! 
His bat was tucked up at an angle, 
His great shoulders curved to a hunch. 

Walking he rumbled and grumbled, 
Scolding himself and not me; 
One glove was off, and he fumbled, 
Twisting the other hand free 

Did I give Storer the credit 
The thanks he so splendidly earned? 
It was mere empty talk if I said it, 
For Grace had already returned.

----
* [[Sir Arthur Conan Doyle:Complete Works|Back to Complete Works]]
* [[Sir Arthur Conan Doyle|Back to Conan Doyle]]

A Reminiscence of Cricket - Revision history

TCDE-Team at 23:03, 4 April 2026

TCDE-Team at 10:08, 13 February 2019