I met a player from an eastern land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of flesh
Stand on the pitch. . . . Near them, on the astro,
Not sunk a kentish visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeful things,
The stick that mocked them, and the shots that went;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Bottomley, King of Kings;
Look on my 'trick, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the display
Of that colossal tech, boundless and fair
The line, and level turf stretch far away.”

We played Newmarket.
It was a great game. 
We played well.
I spilt my beer.