by Brett Lee
‘Who is it?’
‘We were just wondering whether we could see Jimbo,’ I called into the darkness.
We stood there for a moment, a bit confused.
‘Here to see Jimbo, did you say?’ Jimbo’s mum stood at the door wearing a pair of jeans and a shirt way too big for her. She looked sort of neat and trendy. She had a mobile phone in one hand, and it was pressed to her stomach. She was obviously on a call. She was smiling.
Boy, this was like major security.
‘We’re not armed,’ Jay whispered under his breath. I nudged him.
Jimbo’s mum came out onto the porch and looked at us closely, as if she’d never seen kids before.
‘Well you’d better come in,’ she said finally.
‘He’s not busy?’ Jay asked, with a trace of sarcasm.
‘Jimbo? He’s always busy. Jimbo! There are some friends here to see you. Jimbo!’ she called.
The first thing I noticed, lying in the hallway, was a cricket kit, an old-looking one, along with a whole range of other stuff, lined up along the walls.
Jimbo’s dad saw me looking at the stuff and said, ‘Garage sale. We’re getting rid of a whole pile of junk.’ He kicked the kit. Jimbo had also appeared. He looked surprised to see us.
‘Toby. Jay. Hi there.’
‘Hi, Jimbo.’
‘You can’t be interested in that old stuff,’ his dad said, seeing me still staring at the old off-white cricket bag. The initials R.T. could just be made out on the front.
‘Come through,’ said Jimbo. We walked up a wide flight of stairs and into his bedroom. It was massive. It was like his own living room with a huge bed, a desk, computer with all the attachments, bookcases stacked with books and a couple of big, wooden chests. Probably filled with interesting stuff. He noticed me looking around.
‘I guess being an only child has its benefits,’ he smiled. ‘So, what brings you two here?’
‘Well, actually, I suppose I, well…we, really want to know why you can’t play in the cricket team.’
‘Even though you can make it to training,’ Jay added.
Jimbo didn’t speak.
‘Well, most nights you can make it to training,’ I said.
‘Yeah, except for Thursday night,’ said Jay. We were blabbering.
Jimbo sat on the bed, picked up a cricket ball and started spinning it in the air. He looked at the door, raised his eyes and nodded in that direction. I went over and closed it.
‘And, if I tell you, then you’ll go?’ he asked us.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘You really don’t want us here, do you?’
‘Do you want to be here?’
‘Yes. We came to see you,’ I replied.
He paused for a moment, then caught the ball and held it.
‘Well, the reason I don’t play is that my father won’t let me. I’m allowed to train three nights a fortnight, but I’m not allowed to play in any games.’
I was shocked.
‘Why?’ Jay asked.
Jimbo shrugged and shook his head. ‘Dad had a bad experience playing the game himself. It turned him off. He vowed on that day that he would never play again. It looks like his vow has extended to me.’
‘But can’t you tell him that his problems are nothing to do with you? This is your life. What the—’
Jimbo was looking at me impatiently.
‘It’s not your problem, Toby, but thanks for your concern.’ He was about to say something else, then stopped.
‘What?’ Jay asked.
‘Well, since you’re both so interested, there is one other factor. I won’t mention any names, but someone you know is also involved, indirectly.’
Jimbo wasn’t making sense.
‘Come again?’ I said.
‘Dad played against one of the fathers of the current team,’ he told us.
‘And that was his bad experience?’ I asked.
‘You’d better go, guys. I’ve got heaps to do.’
‘But it’s Saturday, Jimbo!’ exclaimed Jay, struggling to stay calm.
‘Unless it’s your cricket project,’ I offered.
‘No such luck. Can’t do that at home, either.’
‘Sounds like cricket doesn’t get much of a look in at your house,’ I said.
‘So how come you’ve got a cricket ball in your hand?’ Jay asked.
‘Mr Pasquali lent it to me one night after practice. Dad doesn’t know I’ve got it.’
‘C’mon, let’s go,’ Jay said, walking towards the door.
‘Well, see you round, Jimbo,’ I called.
‘You will. See ya, guys.’
‘Weird,’ Jay muttered. I was inclined to agree with him, and wondered what it was all about.
‘There’s something sort of different about Jimbo, isn’t there?’ Jay said to me as we grabbed our bikes.
‘I like him, but I know what you mean. I wish there was something we could do, you know, to get him to play cricket with us.’
‘What, like talk to his dad?’
‘Dunno. Maybe. I wonder if his dad knows just how awesome a cricketer Jimbo is.’
‘My dad would be over the moon if I was even half as good,’ Jay said, racing off ahead of me.
I clipped my helmet on and pedalled after him.
13 The Garage
Sunday—morning
GEORGIE came round the next day. She found me out in the garage, earning a bit of pocket money by cleaning the place up. I had stumbled across a box full of Dad’s books, and when she walked in I had just pulled out the find of the century—a couple of old Wisdens.
I looked up sharply as her shadow loomed over me. It was a spooky moment, especially as I was about to open one of the Wisdens.
‘You can’t keep your hands off those old books,’ she said, striding into the dimness.
‘Look!’ I said, holding up another three books.
‘Great! Let’s spend the rest of the afternoon sitting here in the dust reading them.’
‘Really? You mean it?’ Then I saw her face. She didn’t mean it.
‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘your dad said I’m not to distract you from the cleaning, and since I’m not too keen on helping, I’m going inside to write.’
‘Okay. We’ll make a new CROC site when I come in. Won’t be long.’
‘Cool,’ she called as she slipped away.
I settled myself comfortably on the box of books, and opened the Wisden at the contents page. I knew what I was searching for. I had noticed the year when Jim had pulled down the Wisden to search for Dad’s game. It was the obvious choice and a fantastic chance to try another time travel trip.
Would it work from the garage? Could I use Wisdens that weren’t from the MCC library?
I searched down until I came to a line that said Overseas Domestic Cricket. It was getting easier for me to navigate my way through the sections, trying to focus on the team names when they appeared.
Soon I sensed the rushing, swirling noises in my head as the names of the teams became clear. I had to turn away quickly, because the game turned out to be a Victoria–Western Australia match. A few pages on, though, it happened. The words Victoria and South Australia dissolved, then became clearer. I glanced down the page. There was a paragraph of writing and then the scorecard itself. It was impossible to focus on. The writing was small and the blur was making my eyes sore.
I dragged my eyes back to the top of the page. I was getting better at it. The whooshing in my head suddenly went quiet. I opened my eyes. There was a shout from somewhere to my left.
I was sitting in an empty part of one of the huge stands at the MCG. For a moment I just sat, hardly daring to breathe. The shout I’d heard was from a man who, along with a sprinkling of spectators around the ground, was applauding the fact that someone had just taken a wicket.
I looked up at the scoreboard. It wasn’t the electronic one I was used to. It was an enormous black box with all the players’ names. My eyes raced across it looking
for Jones. And there it was: P. Jones. There were no numbers next to his name, as there were with some of the others. Dad hadn’t had a bowl yet.
Then the realisation of where I was and who I was looking at hit me like a train. I wanted to jump and scream ‘Dad!’ and run out and say, ‘Hi!’. It was the weirdest feeling to be looking at my dad, and yet he wasn’t my dad. Not yet, anyway.
I walked down to the fence. It was hard to tell who Dad was. I could rule out the bowler and keeper. I should have asked him what position he fielded in. Maybe he would have forgotten. Maybe I’d be able to jog his memory when I saw him next.
I wasn’t nervous any more. As long as I travelled alone, it seemed easy enough to return. So I thought I would spend a bit longer here, exploring, and at least getting a good look at Dad, the cricketer.
And then I had another thought. Why not go and look at the old library while I was here?
I settled down to watch the match. I noticed that a little light went on next to the player’s name when he fielded the ball. It took a few overs, and I had eliminated most of the players by their build and looks anyway, but finally, out at mid-on, Dad stopped a full-blooded on-drive. He didn’t field it cleanly, and he spent the next few minutes shaking and looking at his hand. He got a good clap from his team-mates. I clapped pretty hard too.
‘Way to go, Dad!’ I yelled, before I’d had time to think about how stupid I was for saying it. A couple of heads turned to look at me.
A short time later the players left the field for a break. It was the perfect opportunity for me to visit the library. I had to leave the stand and walk around outside the ground itself, to get to the other side.
I used the little ticket I was given to get back into the ground, but a man wearing a blue coat stopped me from going into the Members’ section.
He was staring at me. Or, more exactly, at my shorts.
‘You’ll be pulling them up then, young feller?’ he said, frowning slightly.
I gave them a tug, but they slipped straight back down again. I took my baseball cap off before he made a comment about that too.
‘Hand-me-downs, eh?’ he chuckled. ‘You need a belt, lad.’
‘My dad’s playing,’ I explained to him, trying to change the subject.
‘Oh, is he? And who might that be?’
‘Peter Jones,’ I told him. ‘He asked me to take a message to Jim Oldfield—in the library,’ I added, as an afterthought.
‘Well, be quick about it,’ he said. The mention of Jim’s name seemed to work like magic, even back in this time.
I raced off before he had time to do some quick mental sums and realise that Dad would have to have been about 12 when I was born. Maybe the guy wasn’t a keen cricket fan.
The place was only half the size it was the last time I was here. It still felt the same, though. The secret door was still there, and the floorboards creaked as I made my way up the stairs and over to the oval table. I thought there was a whole row of Wisdens missing—until I realised that they hadn’t been published yet!
I got that shivery, goose-bumpy feeling again as I thought of just where, and when, I was. I wanted to tell someone that P. Jones would make 23 and not take a wicket, and that the Vics would win.
But the lines of the poem, some of them now locked in my memory, reminded me of the dangers of doing that.
And never speak and never boast,
And never taunt, nor ever toast…
So I walked quietly across the room and spoke to a man standing by a large desk near the card file.
‘Is Jim Oldfield around?’
‘He’s gone to lunch, young feller. Are you his grandson?’
‘No.’
‘I think he said that he wasn’t coming back in this afternoon, too,’ the man added. ‘Can I give him a message?’
‘No, it’s okay. Just say that Toby called.’
‘Toby. All right then.’
I took a last look at the Wisdens and headed back out.
I spent another 15 minutes soaking up the atmosphere of a sunny afternoon, watching the cricket. This time I found a seat a bit further back from the oval itself. I couldn’t take my eyes off Dad. He wasn’t getting to do much, but every time he fielded the ball I clapped loudly. One time he misfielded. The ball bounced from his shin and the batters stole a run. I felt awful.
I wanted to shout, ‘Head up, Dad!’, the way he sometimes shouted to me while I was playing sport. Now he was rubbing his shin. No one else was paying him any attention, but I couldn’t focus on anyone else.
I watched a couple more overs, then suddenly realised that I had other things I should be doing. I was supposed to be in our garage cleaning it out!
I found a quiet spot—away from the few spectators sprinkled around where I had been sitting—and reeled off a couple of lines of the poem.
Suddenly I was back home. The Wisden book I had used was closed and back in its box. For a moment I was worried that somehow time itself had done something weird, and I had returned a day later, or even a week. I glanced at my watch. It was five past five. I raced inside, belted through the kitchen and into the living room. Georgie was watching TV and Dad was reading.
My first thought when I saw Dad was to ask him if his shin still hurt, but I stopped myself just in time. Instead I just stared at him. He wasn’t just any old dad—he had just been playing cricket at the MCG!
‘Dad!’ I called.
He looked up, a bit surprised by the excitement in my voice.
‘Hi!’ Now Dad and Georgie were both looking at me. ‘Sorry I’ve been so long!’ I blurted.
They seemed baffled.
‘We’ve missed you terribly, haven’t we Georgie?’
‘Oh, terribly,’ she said.
‘I hear you found some cricket books out there,’ Dad remarked. ‘They’re not very interesting, you know.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ I replied.
The highest number of catches taken by a wicket keeper in a Test match happened in November 1995, when Jack Russell, playing for England against South Africa, took 11 catches. Bob Taylor (England) and Adam Gilchrist (Australia) have each taken 10 catches in a Test match.
14 The Agreement
Monday—morning
RAHUL was fired up about doing the Madras Test for his cricket assignment and, amazingly, had arranged a couple of interviews, as we’d discussed. The teachers were impressed too. They said that it would ‘add another dimension to his assignment’, whatever that meant.
‘I guess that should give you all you need, Rahul,’ I said to him, hoping that he had lost interest in getting back to India. No such luck.
‘Toby, I have an opportunity to see cricket in my own country. You cannot possibly not take me back. Just once more, I say. Please?’
I shook my head. ‘I can’t. Jim said something about how tricky it is to take someone with you. How they can make it hard by getting too involved.’
But Rahul wouldn’t give up. After he had interviewed Dean Jones, he became even more insistent.
‘Toby, you wouldn’t believe how Dean Jones suffered. I talked to him on the phone.’
‘Yeah? What’d he say?’
‘That he lost seven kilos from the heat and humidity and that it took him two months to put it back on.’
‘Phew, must have been hot.’
‘Hot! It was over 40°C, with the humidity at 90 per cent. He couldn’t keep any fluid down, but he kept on batting and batting. All through the day. When he was on 170, he told Allan Border, who was batting with him, that he’d had enough. That he was really sick.’
Rahul paused, shaking his head.
‘And?’
‘Do you know what Border said to him?’
‘Course I don’t. What did he say?’
‘He said, “Okay, I’ll get someone tougher to come in.”’
‘But didn’t Dean Jones make over 200?’
‘That’s just it. He got the message. He stayed out there.’
Rahul was waving around a wad of notes he’d obviously scrawled during his phone conversation with Dean Jones.
‘I need to get my notes in order, Toby. I’ll tell you more tomorrow.’
Rahul caught up with me the next day, during lunchtime. He was out of control with excitement.
‘Toby, I’ve been thinking carefully about what you said. And it’s true. When we went to Chennai I was just a bit overcome by the whole thing. But I know what to expect now. And I want to give you this.’ Rahul pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. It was a list of points. ‘Go on, read it!’ he said excitedly.
Toby is to decide when to do the travel, both to and from Chennai.
I will not question his decisions.
Toby is to carry this piece of paper with him while we are in Chennai.
I will never ask to go again.
I will tell Scott Craven everything I know about the time travel if I do not go once more.
Signed _______________ (Rahul) _______________ (Toby)
He looked at me expectantly.
‘You wouldn’t tell Scott Craven, Rahul?’ It was more a statement than a question, but it didn’t come out that way.
‘Yes, I would. I’m very sorry but I would. This is the opportunity of a lifetime for me. And for you, of course. You can’t go to India on your own.’
‘Why can’t I?’
‘Well, for one, you would get lost. You would need someone to help you with the language. With dealing with all the weird situations that can arise in a place like India.’
‘Maybe I don’t want to go to India.’
‘You know what? Dean Jones made 210 for the Aussies. He was throwing up on the field. He was totally exhausted. He was cramping. But he kept on going and going and going. When they finally got him out, he was taken to hospital. Or so they say. But was he? Or is it just a big myth? We can be the first to find out. As soon as I see Dean Jones lying in a hospital bed, then we can come straight home.’
‘But didn’t you ask him?’
Rahul looked up.
‘He has very little memory of what happened after he was out.’
