An Unfinished Play for Voices
Brit: It’s a lovely day here on the Worrumbygadhampshire (pronounced Whomp) cricket pitch.
American: It’s cold an’ wet.
Brit: Brisk. Today we have a special treat for our listeners, guest commentator Guy Max, who has come courtesy of our new Yankee-Redcoats Commentator Exchange Program. Guy, tell us about yourself.
Guy: Well, I usta play football.
Brit: Dribblin and goalin and scorin and all that. Jolly good.
Guy: Who dribbled? That’s old people. And basketball players, I guess. Old basketball players maybe dribble for two, eh?
Silence.
Guy: Heh. No, I usta play FOOT-BALL. As in touchdowns and quarterbacks. FOOTBALL.
Brit: Footer.
Guy: Hmhp. Yeah, whatever. Well, I usta play, but then I got my injury. Then that injury got injuried, and then another one piled on, and what with all the injuries I thought, Guy, it is time to retire. Graceful-like. So now I talk. Dat’s my story. Hey, somethin’s happening. There appear to be figures, kinda flickering through the rain.
Take it, Brit.
Brit: Today we have an exciting match- a grudge match, a historic match- between the School Tie Squirearchies and the Buggerunderbuggerunderbog (pronounced Bug) Under-Dogs.
Guy: I see a bat. Is that a bat?
Brit: The Bug-Dogs are playing on a sticky wicket today.
Guy: There is something wrong about that bat.
Brit: Hilary Fossdyke and Evelyn Pandernose are first up.
Guy: That bat… it is a bat, but it ain’t. Hey, so this is a women’s team?
Brit: I fail to understand you, Mr. Max.
Guy: Call me Guy. Hilary. Evelyn. Girls. Ergot, a girls team. Maybe dat accounts for the not-rightness of that bat.
Brit: Hilary Fossdyke, fourth Lord of Hamtoe, steps confidently up to his wicket. The rain does not seem to be troubling him much.
Guy: I feel an injury recurring to me.
Brit: Have some lemon squash.
Guy: No. [Guy faints]
Brit: Ladies and Gentlemen, Guy Max will no longer be enlivening this historic grudge match. [speaks off] Haul him away. Do we have a back-up? Then get him out, man, get him out!
Brit: Our back-up Yankee, Mr.-
Bang: Bang. Mr. Bang.
Brit: Mr. Bang.
Bang: but you can call me Bang.
Brit: Thank you Bang.
Bang: If I can call you [a noise obscures this colorful request]
Brit: Bang, you come to us from the world of
Bang: America. I come from the world of America.
Brit: Technically, I think, Britain and America are on the same world, Bang.
Bang: Nah.
Brit: From your formidable physique and rather remarkable garb, Bang, I take it that you are some sort of professional pugilist?
Bang remains silent.
Brit: Mr. Bang?
Bang: Buddy, you talk to me in English or I don’t know you’re talking to me. Then we get radio silence, and if your people here are like our people there, then we got a problem.
Brit: Are you a boxer?
Bang: Nah. Pro Wrestler. Bang Bang Baby. And now I’m making remarks.
Brit: Yes you are.
Bang: Professionally. When are they gonna get started?
Brit: Dear God, they’ve started already. Yes… yes, it looks like Lord Hilary of the school ties has scored a respectable six; Evelyn, Earl of Endersham, seems to be feeling the rain rather.
Bang: We’re all feeling the rain. I’m feeling the rain in my injury. Are those blurs people? {Suddenly and shrilly} COULD DOSE SHAPES BE MEN? [He faints]
Brit: Ladies and Gentlemen, please remain calm; Mr. Bang is only dead. No, no, I see a slight movement of Mr. Bang’s head. Speak to us, Mr. Bang.
[A horrid groan]
Lemon squash is being applied. {OFF} Carry him off and bring another. At this rate, we’ll have the colonies back by teatime!
Voice: Hey.
Brit: [Screams] If thou be of flesh, show thyself! Fiend!
Buck: Easy. I came out to see what was doin. Guy was mumbling something about bats. Bats are in my line.
Brit: You- you are a bat?
Buck: I am a Buck. Buck Hairoil, at your service. Say, you seem like you’re an announcer short.
Brit: Buck Hairoil steps into the breach, Ladies and Gentlemen. [There is a respectful hush and a sussuration of rain]
Brit: What’s your game, Buck?
Buck: Baseball. I played third base, but mainly they wanted me in to hit the home runs. I hit ‘em with a bat.
Brit: A Batsman.
Buck: Aw, shucks. I ain’t no hero. ‘Cept I guess to the kids back in Ottatunqua Iowa, my home town. They kinda look up to me, like a big brother who don’t write, don’t call, and don’t come home for reunions.
Brit: Very filial.
Buck: Naw, it ain’t like that. ‘Cept I guess for my three prom dates back in ’78 out behind Ottatunqua Central High’s dumpster. That got kinda- what you said. But enough ‘bout me. Someone said there was a game that needed describin’.
Brit: And so there is. Lord Hilary is gesturing; he doesn’t look happy.
Buck: He probably wants this [produces cricket ball from pocket]. Probably they all want this. It hit me right in my injury while I was moseying along to see what was doing. Thought I’d keep it with me a while to see it didn’t get up to more mischief. [Hurls it at Lord Hilary; it strikes Lord Hilary in the brain and he goes down and sinks into the mud].
Brit: Ladies and Gentlemen, Ladies and Gentlemen, is there a little fussy man with a Gladstone- ah, they’ve found one. They’ve raised Lord Hilary out of the mud. The little fussy man is shaking his head. This is a solemn moment for us all. Oh, no, it is ok, Lord Hilary’s heir, Lord Hilary, has been produced from the crowd. He has picked up the bat- and the heavy mantle of responsibility that comes with any real title. He is a plucky-looking youngster. He stands before the wicket- and before the world- they are taking the body away.
[Brit is overcome]
Buck: I would step up to the plate for my comrade, who is weeping like a woman and pulling up the grass, but I frankly have no idea what is going on.
[There is the sound of tramping boots]
Constable 1: Ho!
Constable 2: To be precise, ho!
Buck: Can I help you gentlemen?
Constable 1: I am Constable Keepcalm, and this is Constable Carryon.
Constable 2: To put the matter more precisely, this is Constable Keepon, and I am Constable Carrycalm.
Buck: Buck Hairoil.
Constable 1: I would refrain from making any statement, sir, until you are in the presence of a solicitor.
Constable 2: Keep mum and come along.
Constable 1: Ahem. We are arresting you, sir, for the slaying of a member of the aristocracy.
Constable 2: Though he rarely appeared in the House.
Constable 1: Because he rarely appeared in the House. [They begin to drag Buck Hairoil off]
Constable 1 prods Brit with the toe of his boot.
Constable 1: Buck up. Stiff uppers and all that. The BBC expects it of you.
Brit: The BBC. Yes. [Resolutely] Send me the next American!
Brit: Ladies and Gentlemen, I must apologize for my unseemly conduct. Though I was not, for the record, weeping like a woman. I shed a single tear in honor of the passing of Lord Hilary. And as for ripping up the grass… well, I ask you, what else can any true Britisher do when he observes a weed besmirching the purity of the cricket grounds? [Cheers] Lord Hilary- young Lord Hilary- is looking pensive. Could he be contemplating the state of the Home Farm? Brooding over the tragic fate of his father? Evelyn swings- Ladies and Gentlemen, it is a hit! Evelyn runs hot for the wicket. Lord Hilary- Lord Hilary is just standing there.
A Voice: I don’t blame him. He probably don’t get it. I know I don’t.
Brit: Ah, jolly good. That unmistakable Yankee twang emerging from the fog. I believe- yes, ladies and gentlemen, we have the next American. Step up to the pitch. Mind the gap. Ha ha. We have Mr.– oh! We have a lady this time. And what a lady! Ms–?
Voice: What’d you just call me, sugar?
Brit: A dame. You are, of course, Ms.–
Voice: Duval, Ms. Belle Duval, an’ I play Volleyball.
Brit: Ah. Volleyball. A sport. A completely legitimate sport. Yes. Oh yes. Good. Jolly good!
Belle Duval: Do you think you can explain this lil ol’ game to me, sugar?
Brit: Frankly, no, but I’d love to give it a try. If you squint that way, yes, and tilt your head slightly to one side, good, and lean forward just a bit, oh yes. Now tell me what you see.
Belle Duval: Your weddin’ ring.
Brit: Blast!
Belle Duval: And if you’re suggestin’ that Volleyball ain’t legitimate-
Brit: Oh no. [Alarmed] She’s advancing on me. She has a look of grim determination on her face. She’s about to mention a high attainment in some martial art.
Belle Duval: I’ll have you know I have a black belt in Judo.
Brit: And now she will kick me in the usual spot. [There is a thwack]
Belle Duval: OW!
Brit: Sorry, duchess, but I do get kicked there rather a lot. I’ve learned to take precautions.
Belle Duval: Right in mah injury! Ow ow ow!
Brit: You really shouldn’t assault people with your injury, you know.
Belle Duval: Oh, go boil your head! [She limps off]
Brit: Right. That one was a dolly. Next, please.
