Date: 07/09/2019
Opposition: Old Wimbledonians
Venue: Old Wimbledonians
Man of the match: Mik Horvath
Prat of the match: Keerat Khaira

Seeking council & guidance in that faithful night before,
The skip turned to Lord Culham, for inspiration and more.
Our tour scribe and poet, a Wick member of old,
Whose wise words of wisdom are nothing but pure gold.

Stomachs of butterfly’s though nerves of steel,
Wick’s 2nd XI team, knew exactly the deal.
Old Wimbledonians our foe, to avoid relegation,
The prospect of MW and our season’s salvation.

Round 1 Old Wimbledonian’s, Wick loose the toss,
Put in to the field, we’d soon show them whose boss.
Leading the line, the 2’s opened with Harry Fitz,
Whose raw pace and power left the oppo instantly in bits.

Next a thunderbolt from the batsman, plucked by Eddy C.
Thankfully the skipper, had known the place to be.
Ever sharp in the field, we’d soon turn the screws,
4 teams fixed to Whats’App, eagerly waiting news.

Step up the man named Sunny, on another cosmic plane,
A loose one toward the boundary and a mark against his name.
Like a bolt to the boundary though, Linter’s speed was frightening,
It’s come to little surprise, Charlton nick-named him ‘White Lightning’.

Hurled to the boundary, ball clawed millimetres from the rope,
Could that type of energy, give the Wick some hope.
And though the batsmen steadied, catching breath from their run three,
It was that very next ball, the Wick shouted joyfully with glee.

Poetry in motion, Matty D diving to his left.
He can’t have taken that thought the batsman, that amounts to theft.
5 down by drinks, now facing that crucial in-game lull,
Yet this fateful game, would prove anything but dull.

“We’re in this together”, “let’em know that we’re here”,
We wouldn’t shy away, we wouldn’t disappear.
And just like that, I Tong joined the parade,
Two wickets in an over, batsmen’s hopes began to fade.

“Lift” “9-10-Jack” “backing you”, cried the skipper,
Jubilation for Micky who bagged another with the Flipper.
Now 169-9 they stood, that tail had begun to wag,
The faces on the outfield knew this game wasn’t in the bag.

Sudden cries of elation, Fitzy’d got his man at last,
The skipper takes the catch and the innings was in the past.
170 the winning total, we knew what we had to do,
A YouTube link now working, the club would tune in too.

And so we set about it, our daunting testing task,
The untimely demise of Keerat, proving him to be an arse.
Returning to the clubhouse without scoring a single run,
He’d soon be sat beside us, once the helmet smashing was done.

Cool, calm and collected Matty D and Bob ploughed on,
Racking up the runs they too were eventually gone.
So to the original MW, that Aussie extraordinaire,
So comfortable at the crease, he began to show his flair.

His innings cruelly cut just short, the fielders then ran-a-muck,
Contentious run out circumstances? More so just dumb luck.
A dropped caught and bowled off DJ, deviated to the stump.
Clemmo out of his crease, we knew he’d have the hump.

The torch passed to Dominic, eager for that Match Winning spot,
A fine and mature innings, 41 runs was his lot.
And so we entered that golden hour, the wicket bathed in light.
A gladiatorial arena to showcase our final fight.

Aghast … Charlton exited, just as fast as he did enter,
The oppo smelling blood, sending shivers to our centre.
A further cauldron of toxicity, Old Wimbs. think they’ve got their man
Riley’s finger in his pocket, could he now face a ban?

Arms aloft, seething faces … the oppo were more than mad,
Calm down now then boys, Micky’s clearly nicked his pad.
Iain Tong and Micky-Blu, courageous they would be,
That is until a wicket, Whelan’s trapped I.T.

The Wick fell silent, heads stooped in hands,
“Who’ll they send in” – Fitz … Sunny? – cried the anticipating fans.
“Linter’s promoted himself … what the hell’s he think he’s doing?”
Confidence personified … was that Harry Copeland booing?

Cries of cheat could still be heard, but Micky was in his bubble,
For it was he and Linter at the crease, that would guide the Wick from trouble.
The countdown on, fingernails bitten to the bone,
For those two in the middle, they could feel they weren’t alone.

From Nairobi to the Wick and to members new and old,
For those who revelled in this tale of fortune, this heroic story told.
And as the skipper finished it, a hastened single of poetic form,
That evening celebrated Match Winner Micky, a true Wick legend born.

Ambrosia nectar and ‘Back Street Boys’, equally in full flow,
Sadness notwithstanding, for the Kiwi departing down below.
Though with fines in session and nelson’s stacked galore,
We reflect upon the people and that Wick crest that we adore.

And so on to next season, ever stronger teams we’ll pick,
I leave you with this departing message, “Up the fucking Wick!”