Catch (March)

“Dropped catches lose matches” was Mr. Wenzel’s rule for the school team. Latin teacher, his dictum had the pith of Cicero. March, non-finalists’ laidback end of the season. Walking under river gums at oval’s edge we watch them scoot fours into grass. Bails fly, teammates howzat and gather. Hunker down again for next delivery, as though heatwave, like climate change, is hearsay. A close shave in gully. I remember Mother’s weekly phonecall news, “…oh and old Wenzel died last week.” Never the cricketer in the family but I held the hit, my response the impromptu obituary, “Dropped catches lose matches.”