There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night -- Ten to make and the match to win -- A bumping pitch and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man in.
I always liked Vitai Lampada (The torch of life) because it reminds me of my greatest sporting, indeed very nearly my only, sporting triumph. Because I was indeed going in last man in, in the House Cricket Cup at school. And it was ten to get and the match to win, or it might have been nine but you get the idea.
32 for 9
From which you will gather the standard of cricket at our school was abysmal. I was so useless I couldn’t normally get into useless team.
I was only batting because I was supposed to be scorer, but we were one short, and I only ended up facing one ball. The last ball of a limited overs match. One to get and the match to win!
Eric Phillips, an actual batsman, at the other end came up to me.
“There’s a gap in the covers where you can get a single,” he whispered.
I looked round at a complete circle of close in fielders. Eric was expecting me to hit a cover drive with big Barry Bull bowling. Did he actually realise I was the scorer playing at number 11! Oh well, I’d give it a go. Barry Bull comes steaming in. Over pitched! Perfect for a cover drive. I flashed the bat at it and it lobbed gently to Big Ben fielding at silly mid-on. Big Ben. The only player on the field less coordinated than me. He dropped it. Suddenly Eric Phillips was standing beside me.
He must have set off when Barry Bull was half way on his long run-up. He could have been Mankaded, believe me nobody was averse to Mankading (though we wouldn’t have called it that then), not in limited overs games.
‘Run!’ he shouted.
So off I set. Big Ben for some inexplicable reason decides to bowl the ball along the ground to Barry Bull. Barry Bull being as wide as he is tall does not fancy bending down to pick it up, tries to kick it on to the stumps, misses and it sets off into the outfield. I am home and have scored the winning run!
1 not out.
So that is why I like Vitai Lampada.
Here is the whole poem
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night -- Ten to make and the match to win -- A bumping pitch and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man in. And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat, Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote -- 'Play up! play up! and play the game!'
The sand of the desert is sodden red, -- Red with the wreck of a square that broke; -- The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead, And the regiment blind with dust and smoke. The river of death has brimmed his banks, And England's far, and Honour a name, But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks: 'Play up! play up! and play the game!'
This is the word that year by year, While in her place the School is set, Every one of her sons must hear, And none that hears it dare forget. This they all with a joyful mind Bear through life like a torch in flame, And falling fling to the host behind -- 'Play up! play up! and play the game!'
