On the Hollies pitch where the sun did blaze,
Ploughmans took the field in a furnace haze.
Rushed warm-ups done in the morning heat,
We chose to chase and not to beat.

New faces in, the squad looked sound,
Champion Boss had come around.
CRS and Ritik with the new ball flared,
The pitch misbehaved, the batsmen scared.

Bouncers flew and edges whistled,
The cordon ducked, the stumps they bristled.
Duray at gully dropped a chance,
Broke his finger with one poor glance.

Roehampton’s Ruble rode the storm,
A flowing fifty was his form.
But spin then tightened every thread—
Dom Scott struck thrice, enough said.

Azarul then turned the screw,
Four fine wickets, steady and true.
Though Hector swung for a brisk run-a-ball,
One-eighty-six was their final call.

The chase began with Sean and Gus,
A pair with style, no need to fuss.
Sean struck sweetly, timing pure,
But left a straight one—clean and sure.

His helmet smashed, emotions spilled,
The DSG echoed, tensions thrilled.
Suri then with strokes did shine,
A tidy twenty-seven, holding the line.

But trouble loomed in the form of spin,
A slow old tweaker reeled us in.
He tossed it up, he held his nerve,
And half the team lost grip and verve.

Enter Duray, finger bruised,
But with calm and class, he simply cruised.
Fifty-six not out, brave and clean,
Our captain led with grit unseen.

Baron helped, then Ritik stood,
And blocked with poise—yes, Ritik could!
No helmet worn, no ramp this time,
Just textbook strokes, almost sublime.

A final drive through extra's gap,
A left-hand flourish, a winning clap.
We chased it down, seven down, still proud,
With five and a half in hand and crowd.

Not our best, but heart we showed,
In heat and chaos, grit bestowed.
With tougher tests still on the way,
The Plough push on—bring next Saturday.

Match poem from Leo "Percy Bysshe" Connolly