I have been fascinated by "inning". To see the word without an "s" on the end seems so quintessentially American, more so even than bathroom and suspenders.
It made me miss John Whitworth, sharply and suddenly, and I wished he were here to join in this pleasant conversation. His love of cricket has already been mentioned and I recall that he once asked me, during one of our long email exchanges, whether there would be cricket in Heaven. My reply formed part of a longer poem and went thus:
Oh, will there be cricket in Heaven -
The impact of missile on bat,
The sensation of play
Going on miles away
From the place on the grass where you’re sat?
But of course there’ll be cricket in Heaven
For isn’t it just what God meant;
Making poor flannelled fools
Follow mystical rules
For the promise of tea in a tent?
I miss John. His innings was cruelly curtailed and the team is the poorer for his dismissal.
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