The twack of willow on sharp red leather, the crisp white uniforms, the knees stained green and thighs red. Goodness, what a delight. Could you spend a more pleasant afternoon, a more pleasant morning even?
Nonsense sex has nothing on this. The rhythmic rush of feet, the gasp of breath as a ball slams into padding. The bright blue sky, beladen with fat yellow sun! We stand here, under god, to do his work. The bowler runs, chucks and the ball spins and rushes towards the modern Knight errant. Thwack it shoots high and away, the silly mid-off dives and his back arches high in the sky, hands coming together. But too late, the ball is gone, but one bounce and a four is given. The knight waves his willow sword and acknowledges his ton. A cloud wonders across the sky, raising a smile from us all, it reminds us that winter is past. Love now is here, is summer, is cricket.