The Don is Dead.
The images,
of authority and power,
an individual of character,
self-contained,complete,
striding assertively to the crease,
pounding the attack,
accepting his fate
uncomplainingly.
From a more gracious era,
the passing away
of the greatest Australian.
Immortality.

'He's just a cricketer',
his sister once said,
wondering about all the fuss.
Maybe,
and cricket is only a game,
after all,
played casually and carelessly
by kids in backyards and bush paddocks,
and grownups,more formally,
on manicured ovals,
with some achieving fame,
but in the final innings,
it is just a game.
Rather strange though,
silly really,
all that dressing-up
and preperation,
and what for?
Batsmen going in and getting out,
nothing much happens,
then,yell and shout!

And the record keeping?
Everything is noted down,
dutifully,
names,dates and times,
tallies kept,calculations made,
measuring the meaningless and mundane,
the trivialities of the insane,
contrasts and comparisons,
wins and losses,
the eternal question of the tosses,
still going,
balls bowled,runs scored,
figures forever,I am bored.
Enough!
what's really going on here?
Well,in this game between two teams,
nothing is what it doth seem.

Life and living,
a struggle to survive,
to compete to win,
cricket is our nature,
without the sin.
Instinct,
aggression,
controlled violance,
the cult of the primitive
in modern form,
and Bradman?
Absolutely,
the finest exponent,
his Test average,
99.94,
a glance,a whisper
from perfection.

The Don is Dead.
He was a man,
merely mortal,
but more than a name.
Don Bradman.
Utter these words,
slowly,with dignity,
stressing each syllable,
feel the sounds pulsating,
resonating,resounding,
affirming now,what is he,
always you and always me,
all that we aspire to be,
all there is,for all is we.

John Stuart