cariT AS REGV

12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

COMPETITION

12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

Benefit verses

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1688 you were in- vited to write a poem in the manner of either Housman or Hardy on the retire- ment of a well-known sportsman or sports- woman during the last 100 years.

I was grateful not only for a very good entry but for the bonus of new (for me) facts some of you threw in. I never knew that Grace in his last innings, aged 66, scored 69 not out, or that England's women's cricket team had a captain with the charming name of Rachel Hayhoe- Flint, or that Fred Perry's forte was origi- nally ping-pong, or that Harold Gimblett, after a distinguished career with Somerset, was denied entry to the Long Room at Lord's, or for that matter (and neither did you) that Jimmy Stewart was the Accring- ton Stanley centre forward in 1956; he was celebrated by James Tebbutt:

And the sward which you graced with your hither-and-thithering (Though the devil himself might be running you down) In sweet, green Septembers endures not where withering Cudweed and burdock and fescue embrown.

High praise for Roger Woddis, Chris Tingley and Alanna Blake, but the money (£16 apiece) goes to those printed below, and the bonus bottle of Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky, after a tug-of-war between Alyson Nikiteas and Tim Hopkins, is wrested by the former.

Steve Donoghue Times have changed — 'tis true, Sir, true Since you were born (I was forty-four). Too apt we old ones are to rue That things are not as in days of yore.. . Six Derbys? That was you, Sir, you?

No need to furrow an anxious brow Though of your past I'm an invader! But I wonder how they'd take it now If you rode a horse called Gay Crusader? Merry the journals would make, I trow.

Now others ride a rougher race And earn naught but admiring looks. Prison? You had not that disgrace, And Guinness has got you into his books. Quiet be the pastures where you pace.

And I honour you, Sir, as is due, is due.

(Alyson Nikiteas) Suzanne Lenglen 0 sweet Suzanne, You now resign The trophied scene, O'er which you reign Undoubted Queen, Most fleet Suzanne!

Most dear Suzanne, So full of grace, So limber-limbed, Whose exploits I Have often hymned, Sans-peer Suzanne!

Farewell, Suzanne!

As your finesse And skill imbue My memory, I pray that you Fare well, Suzanne! (Martin Fagg) Eddie Paynter

`Twas the year I was born that his high tide came,

When he rose from his Brisbane hospital bed And marched to the middle to save the game.

Twelve years on, with his great days fled, He turned up as pro for our local side, In a faded cap with a rose of red.

His tiny legs would the game bestride, In field or at bat; of complaints he'd but one: That he couldn't both bowl and 'keep beside. On weekdays as well, in chill or in sun, He'd watch us boys play; join in if he could. For him, any cricket was better than none.

No more will the sound of leather on wood Be met with that high-pitched call: `Wun run!' We loved him. I hope that he understood.

(Noel Petty) George Best When he was one and twenty, He played as none can play, With feint and swerve and footwork, He took the breath away; For him no buried talent, He multiplied its worth, And shared the splendid harvest Until the years of dearth.

When he was one and thirty,

I saw him play again,

The shadow not the substance, The husk but not the grain; The camel's back was broken, By who knows which last straw: King Midas touched his daughter - And shrank from what he saw.

(Tim Hopkins) When I would strike in boyhood The random ball for four, My innings seemed for ever, Or even rather more.

No bowler could affright me, No umpire could astound; Before the lifted finger, I simply stood my ground.

The fate that governs cricket Turned me a kindly face; The sunlight seemed for ever, For I was Doctor Grace.

But now that I am growing Obese and short of breath, I fear to face in darkness The Demon Bowler, Death.

(Paul Griffin)