Blondin Park Blues

Blondin Park, 10/17/2026

Strongroom won by 67 runs
Strongroom: 296
Actonians: 229

View the Scorecard

(A rambling October cricket ballad in the style of Bob Dylan)
Well, the clouds rolled in over Blondin Park,
And the autumn wind was cold,
Eleven men came marching in,
With a story to be told.
They'd been beaten down by Pacific,
Their pride was bruised and sore,
But Captain Dave won the toss that day,
And said, "We'll bat once more."

Now Gower drove through the covers,
Like a king upon his throne,
And Shoaib swept the bowling,
Like a man possessed, alone.
They put on thirty-seven,
Before the fifth was through,
Jon made twenty-seven runs,
And Shoaib twenty-five too.

Rashid came with easy hands,
And knocked it all around,
Forty-six fine runs he made,
Before he left the ground.
He tried to clear the midwicket rope,
But the ball came falling down,
And another hopeful batsman
Went walking out of town.

Oh, the October wind is blowing,
And the winter's coming fast,
You can score three hundred runs, my friend,
But you still might finish last.
For the cricket gods are laughing,
And the scoreboard never lies,
And there's trouble down at Blondin Park,
Beneath those autumn skies.

Young Subhan played like poetry,
Fifty-one with grace and pride,
Lovekaran made his twenty-two,
With technique on his side.
But Gagandeep came thundering in,
With fire behind his eyes,
Eight fours went racing through the grass,
And three balls kissed the skies.

Two hundred and ninety-six they made,
In thirty-nine overs played,
And the Actonians bowlers gathered round,
To count the price they'd paid.
Kush had found some bounce and life,
The spinners had done their best,
But Strongroom walked to tea that day,
With confidence in their chests.

Now the beans were rather tasteless,
And the rice was rather plain,
It was six out of ten for the café,
And nobody could complain.
But Rashid brought his potato curry,
And saved the hungry crew,
For there's nothing like a decent meal,
When you've got a job to do.

Then Hanzla came out swinging,
With a left hand smooth and strong,
And Sharma stood beside him,
As the runs came rolling along.
A hundred and fifty for two they stood,
With twenty-nine overs gone,
And Strongroom's fielders suddenly found,
That something had gone wrong.

For catches fell like autumn leaves,
And throws went far and wide,
The ball went through a dozen hands,
And rolled out the other side.
The footballers had scarred the ground,
And the bouncing ball ran free,
But you couldn't blame the footballers,
For everything you'd see.

Oh, the October wind is blowing,
And the winter's coming near,
There's a man at square leg talking,
And nobody wants to hear.
You can bowl a perfect delivery,
You can make the batsmen fall,
But you can't stop Farooq talking,
And you can't catch the bloody ball.

Now Farooq had found a problem,
Where the grass met plastic green,
A little strip of nothing much,
The strangest thing he'd seen.
He'd run towards that boundary,
And his rhythm would depart,
For the no-ball lived inside his head,
And troubled his poor heart.

Then they sent him down to square leg,
Where the umpire stood alone,
And Farooq began explaining things,
In a never-ending drone.
He talked about the bowling,
And the field, and God knows what,
Till the umpire stared across the grass,
And wished that he were not.

But Captain Dave stood steady,
Though the fielding made him pale,
And he called upon Gagandeep,
To turn the sorry tale.
Gagan bowled with fire and swing,
Full and fast and true,
Three for thirty-seven came,
And the Actonians were through.

Moiz took another couple,
For twenty-three runs conceded,
And Subhan caught one cleanly,
Which was just what Strongroom needed.
Eight wickets fell for eighty runs,
And Hanzla stood alone,
On ninety-five they gave him out,
Though perhaps he'd edged it home.

Oh, the October wind is blowing,
And the winter's drawing nigh,
Some men leave with centuries,
Some with questions asking why.
And the umpire's finger rises,
And the batsman's dreams are gone,
But the game goes on without you,
And the game goes on and on.

So Strongroom won at Blondin Park,
Though the fielding was a crime,
They'd batted well and bowled with heart,
And somehow crossed the line.
Gagandeep was the hero,
And Proctor held the reins,
Through the dropped catches and the overthrows,
And the chaos on the plains.

Now Pacific must meet Actonians,
On October twenty-four,
And Strongroom's fate will hang upon,
What happens when they score.
But the men had done their duty,
And the daylight slipped away,
So they found themselves a public house,
And drank to end the day.

And one by one they wandered home,
As the evening turned to night,
To put their bats and pads away,
And leave behind the fight.
The winter winds were gathering,
The season's song was sung,
And somewhere down at Blondin Park,
A final voice still rung.

For Farooq was talking to the umpire,
Though the others all had gone,
And the autumn leaves were falling,
And the conversation carried on.

Oh, the October wind is blowing,
And the cricket fields lie bare,
There's a silence in the pavilion,
And a coldness in the air.
But somewhere in the darkness,
Where the grass and plastic meet,
There's a man explaining no-balls,
To an umpire on his feet.

And the answer, my friend, is blowing past the stumps…
The answer is blowing past the stumps.

In the scene below we see the magnificent scenes under a blue, autumnal sky at Blondin Park





Written By: J.Gower