by Brett Lee
‘Well you can keep your foreign coin. That’s no good to me.’ He tossed a two-dollar coin back.
I opened my mouth, then closed it again quickly. He passed me back a few more coins.
We jumped out of the taxi and headed across the grass towards the first of the cricket games being played.
‘Hope none of those coins you have were made in the 1990s,’ Jimbo whispered to me. I hadn’t thought of checking. But it was unlikely the taxi driver would check himself. Still, it was a mistake. To have a coin floating around for 10 years before it had actually been made was something Jim would not be impressed with.
Jimbo had recovered well during the car trip, pointing out a few landmarks on the way that hadn’t changed. I think he was trying to convince himself that he wasn’t actually 20 years back in time.
There were a number of games going on, but it didn’t take us long to find the correct game just by asking for Jimbo’s father’s team. I could sense that Jimbo was getting nervous, what with the time travel and now the thought of seeing his father. He had been pretty calm during the travelling part, saying little. But now he was edgy.
‘Remember, don’t get involved,’ I warned him. ‘We’re just here to watch, from the outside.’
Jimbo licked his lips, and nodded. ‘Yep. I know.’
We sat down by a tree and watched the game. A few wickets fell but nothing much seemed to be happening.
‘I reckon that’s him coming in to bat now,’ Jimbo said, as we watched a guy wearing glasses stride out to the pitch.
The first ball was a lifter and Jimbo’s dad just managed to fend it off his chest. The fielders were urging on the fast bowler, who we hadn’t seen bowl before.
‘C’mon, Cravo, give it to him!’ a fieldsman yelled.
‘Oh, my God,’ I whispered. ‘It’s Scott Craven’s dad!’
I stared at the bowler. He was big and strong, mean and fast, just like his son was going to be.
‘Like father, like son,’ I whispered.
But Jimbo wasn’t listening. The next delivery reared up and struck Jimbo’s dad a glancing blow on the side of the head. The next ball thudded into his chest. Jimbo winced and jumped to his feet.
‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘He’s a tail-ender.’
A few of the fielders turned to look. Scott’s dad, who was bowling, didn’t. I grabbed Jimbo by the arm and pulled him down.
‘Jimbo, no!’ I said to him. ‘You can’t interfere. Remember?’
The last ball of the over was another bouncer and it caught Jimbo’s dad right above the eye. Jimbo gasped as his dad crumpled to the ground. His bat fell from his hand and toppled against the stumps. There was a shout of ‘Howzat?’ from the bowler. The umpire nodded, then raised his finger.
‘Yeah!’ shouted Craven and he pumped his fists in the air just the way I’d seen Scott do it so many times before.
I looked at Jimbo. There were tears streaming down his face and his fists were clenched. He wasn’t moving, though, which must have taken a lot of self-control.
A few of the fielders had run in to help Jimbo’s dad. There was blood streaming down his face. For a moment I felt sick, not only because of the injury but because of the rule that allowed a bowler to intimidate a player in that way, and even get him out just because he had lost control of the bat after being smacked in the face.
It just didn’t seem fair and I could sort of understand Jimbo’s dad’s decision never to play again.
The highest score made on debut (someone’s first match) in women’s cricket was by Michelle Goszko. She scored 204 in the First Test against England in 2001. She was playing for Australia.
16 The Enemy
‘C’MON, Jimbo. We’ve seen enough. Your dad’ll pull through. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, watching this.’
He wiped the tears from his face.
‘Jimbo, wait here. I’m just going to check the scorecard, and make sure it was Craven. Okay?’
He nodded and watched forlornly as his father was helped from the field. I raced over to a group of players, standing and waiting for their batters to arrive. The fielding team had headed off in a different direction.
I wondered whether it mattered if Jimbo’s dad actually saw me. Would he remember my face? Would anyone else? Surely not. But I certainly wouldn’t be doing anything stupid or freaky that someone might remember. Just in case.
‘Can you hear me?’
I froze.
A harsh, gravelly voice had whispered in my ear. I spun around.
A tall man wearing a hooded cloak was walking away from me. Had he been talking to me? Everyone else was looking at Jimbo’s dad, who was sitting on a chair, with ice and a blood-soaked towel wrapped around his face.
I turned away quickly. No one else seemed to have noticed him. And yet how could they miss him? When I turned back again he had disappeared.
I raced over to Jimbo. My heart was thumping.
‘Jimbo!’ I yelled. He turned.
Then suddenly there was the creepy man again—between the two of us. Again he seemed to have come from nowhere. He had his back to me and was walking towards Jimbo. He looked so out of place in the park here, but still no one saw him. The few people scattered around the ground kept on with their picnics or their walking. The man was tall, but the weird cloak he was wearing made him look bigger than he was. He definitely looked sinister. He kept his head down and his back to me.
I stopped. Jimbo wasn’t moving either. He raised his eyebrows slightly, as though he was asking me if everything was okay.
No, Jimbo! Everything’s not okay! I tried to will my thoughts across the space between us.
‘What do you want?’ I asked the man, my lips trembling.
‘You’re going to help me, you hear?’ he said, but without turning his head. His voice hissed and spat. He was only a few metres away. A horrible stench came from him.
‘Y-y-yes,’ I stammered.
The figure stopped and turned slowly.
I seized my moment. I yelled at Jimbo, then started reciting the first line of the poem. I wanted a glimpse at the man’s face, but the need to escape was more urgent.
I kept on with the poem, dashing towards Jimbo and grabbing his hand as the final words of the second line came out.
My head crashed into the side of the garage and Jimbo piled on top of me a moment later. He looked at me incredulously as he gathered himself up.
For a moment neither of us spoke. Jimbo was breathing hard and staring at me.
‘Jimbo,’ I stammered. ‘Did you see that man? Who was he?’
‘I dunno.’
We both turned at a noise from further back in the garage. Without another thought we scrambled up and out of there. Then we stopped, hearts pumping.
‘My kit,’ Jimbo said, looking at the garage door swinging to and fro.
‘Yep. The directory too. C’mon, let’s get it.’
‘Then straight back into the house?’
‘Yep.’
We snuck in, eyes down, avoiding the darkness near the back, heading for the kit and the directory. I found the Wisden, closed it and shoved it back into its box. We were out again within moments.
‘Toby?’
I turned and looked at Jimbo.
‘I’m sorry—’ I began.
‘No. Thanks. That was incredible.’
I nodded. ‘I know.’
I raced up the path to the front door and nearly crashed into a man standing on the first step. I almost fainted in fright.
‘Hello Dad,’ I heard Jimbo say.
I looked up. How long had he been watching us for?
‘You boys been playing cricket?’
I didn’t like the way he said the word playing.
‘Actually, we’ve been watching cricket, Dad,’ Jimbo replied.
Well, it was an honest answer.
The front door opened. It was Mum. She was nodding and smiling and welcoming Jimbo’s dad into the house. As we followed them in I wondered
if things could really change between Jimbo and his dad.
What a shocker. Sometimes, in the early days of cricket, teams got caught on stickies. These were rain-soaked wickets that were drying out. Wickets back then were never covered. On this particular day, Victoria, playing against the MCC, were knocked over for 15. They lost their first four wickets without a run being scored. And it would have been 5/0, but the next guy was dropped.
17 The Advice
Saturday—morning
‘SO, you guys went on the prowl instead of to the nets the other night?’ Dad said to me first thing on Saturday morning. I’d slept in on Friday morning and Dad had got home too late to catch up with me on Friday night.
‘Yeah,’ I grinned, trying to look relaxed. I sat down, hoping that I didn’t look as tired as I felt.
‘Gee, you look whacked,’ Mum said to me, one hand on my shoulder, the other setting down a bowl of cereal.
So much for that hope, I thought to myself.
‘Big game today,’ I explained. ‘Kept on going over it. Couldn’t get to sleep.’
‘Well, if it hadn’t been raining for the last six hours, I would have to agree with you, Toby. John Pasquali phoned through about an hour ago. We thought we’d let you sleep on a bit.’
I was in such a daze that I hadn’t even noticed the grey day outside, the water on the window and that cosy feeling when you wake up and it’s raining on a non-school day.
‘It’s going to be this Thursday, after school,’ Dad said.
‘Which means we’ll all be able to watch, honey,’ Mum said.
Nat had tennis on Saturday mornings, which kept her and Mum away. Then again, as Mum often pointed out, my cricket kept Dad and me away from Nat’s tennis too.
‘So, we can all go to tennis this morning,’ Mum said.
‘Sure,’ I replied. I was glad to tag along. It might take my mind off the creepy man Jimbo and I had met the previous night. Nat was a great tennis player, too. She played against girls way older than her—and usually won.
After tennis I asked Mum if I could go and visit Ivo at the hospital.
But when I got there, a nurse told me that he wasn’t allowed to have any visitors. I took the lift up one floor, but this time skulked around a bit, making sure I wasn’t seen by any of the nurses.
The door to Jim’s room was slightly open. I pushed it and walked in. Jim looked pale and weary, lying there alone on the far side of the room.
‘Jim, it’s me. Toby.’
He smiled but didn’t open his eyes.
‘Ah, dear boy. So good of you to come. Tell me of your adventures.’
And I did. I told him everything. I told him about India and Dad’s Wisdens in the garage. I told him how I had taken Jimbo back to see his dad. Jim winced on hearing that, but he didn’t look angry. He didn’t look strong enough to be angry. And I told him about the man I’d seen.
Suddenly Jim’s eyes were open, his body tense.
‘Describe him, Toby.’
‘He was tall—and looked really weird. He had on a long hooded cape, so I couldn’t see his face. I sure could smell him, though!’
Jim sighed, but he looked worried.
‘He said something about helping him.’
Jim closed his eyes, and settled back on his pillows.
‘You must not carry, Toby. You must not take others with you. You are exposed and vulnerable when others are with you. I’m sure that’s how he found you. Do you understand me, Toby?’
‘Yes,’ I croaked, for a moment almost forgetting to breathe.
‘Which means that my one selfish hope of getting back to 1930 may never come to pass.’
‘But why don’t you just go?’ I asked.
‘No, Toby. I have respected that warning all this time. And now, I’m too old to travel. Especially those distances. No, I would need someone young, like yourself, to get me there.’
‘I’ll carry you,’ I said.
For a moment, as I looked down at his sad face and tired body, I felt as though there was nothing I wanted more than to get Jim back to see that 1930 game when Don Bradman made his big score.
‘Are you okay, Jim?’
He opened his eyes again, and this time turned his head slightly to look at me directly.
‘No, Toby. I’m very tired.’ He kept on staring at me. He smiled. ‘If everyone’s life has a limited number of innings, then perhaps I have seen my Don Bradman innings anyway.’
The door of the ward opened. A nurse bustled in. She carried a clipboard.
‘Come along,’ she said to me.
‘I must think more about this man, Toby.’ Jim had grabbed my hand and was holding it tightly.
‘Off you go now, mister. That’s enough chatting. You’ll wear poor Jim out,’ the nurse said. She pointed to the door.
‘Please!’ The nurse and I stopped, surprised by the rifle-crack of Jim’s voice.
‘Please,’ he repeated, less sharply. The nurse looked puzzled. She looked at her watch and busied herself with Jim’s chart.
‘What does he want?’ I asked. I still couldn’t believe the world I was entering and talking about with Jim.
‘That, I don’t know, Toby. But I can tell you that—’
‘Well, I know what I want,’ the nurse interrupted, writing something on a chart. ‘Some peace and quiet in here.’
‘We will talk again, Toby and I shall tell you more of what I know.’ He turned his weary body slightly to face me. ‘It’s time to go, Toby.’
‘It most certainly is,’ said the nurse.
I stared at Jim’s worn face. His bottom lip was twitching.
‘Have you learned the poem off by heart?’ he whispered.
Ignoring the nurse, I remained by the bed and recited the poem for him. I got to the end without missing a line. By then it looked as though Jim had fallen asleep. I turned to go.
But Jim wasn’t asleep.
‘It’s one thing to say the words of the poem. It’s another thing altogether to understand and honour them, Toby.’
‘I’m doing my best. I could just walk away from it all,’ I said.
‘You most certainly could.’
I left Jim’s room wondering for a moment whether I should just stay in my normal world. My year. My time. Forever.
In 1915, J.C. Sharp, a schoolboy batting for Melbourne Grammar, scored an amazing 506 not out against Geelong College. A team-mate, R.W. Herring, scored 238. The total score was 961 and the game was won by an innings and 647 runs.
18 The Return
Sunday—afternoon
DAD dropped me off at Rahul’s at five o’clock on Sunday afternoon. Rahul greeted me at his gate, looking very excited.
‘Look! I’ve got some rupees, notepaper, a camera—’
‘No camera, Rahul. No way,’ I told him.
‘Oh, well. It was a long shot.’ He grinned.
I was so keyed up I didn’t eat much at dinner time. Rahul’s family were always very polite and pleasant. Rahul had a sister and another brother, both younger than him. They asked me heaps of questions, and made me very much the centre of attention.
When we went to bed Rahul and I chatted quietly for about half an hour after his mum had come up and said goodnight. The rest of the house was quiet.
‘Are you sure there’s nothing else you’re going to do, Rahul?’ I asked for the hundredth time.
‘No, Toby. I just want to get a quick look at the game, then see Dean Jones in the hospital.’
‘Okay. A quick look and then we’re back. You hear me?’
‘I hear you,’ he grinned at me.
‘And if we’re nowhere near the hospital, then—’
‘Then we maybe get a quick look at the game, and come home,’ Rahul finished.
‘And have you thought about the fact that we might not be anywhere near the hospital, or have no way of getting there?’ I asked him.
‘Of course. I have worked hard on this.’
I was less confident.
/> ‘It’s my call, Rahul.’
‘It’s your call, Toby.’
‘Right. Let’s do it.’
We walked over to the lamp and I opened the Wisden up to the correct page. The words swirled and spun, round and round.
‘Rahul,’ I whispered. ‘Point at the bit about Dean Jones’ big innings.’
‘Here,’ Rahul said, pointing to a spot halfway down. I grabbed his hand, trying to bring to focus the swarming letters.
Rahul was reading the words. All I saw was a swirly mess.
‘“On the second day, Jones…”’ Rahul spoke the words that I was trying to decipher. He read on, and the swirl became letters, and the letters became words…
‘Come on, Toby!’
I looked about. The smell and the noise were like last time. Again, we seemed to have arrived in a quieter spot, behind one of the stands. This time we walked towards the noise—the ground itself.
The crowd was chanting and the noise was huge. It was a constant roar, occasionally rising to a crescendo when something happened out on the field.
The first thing we both did was turn our heads to the scoreboard. Australia was batting. Dean Jones was on 209.
‘It’s okay, they’ll get him soon,’ Rahul called out. He was excited with the knowledge he had and that the other 25,000 people at the ground didn’t.
‘Rahul!’ I exploded. ‘No!’
‘No one is listening,’ he said.
I looked back out across the brown oval. The stench in the air was making me cough and gag. Dean Jones looked exhausted. The other batter—that must have been the captain, Allan Border—was talking to him. Dean was looking at the pitch. A moment later he moved away. His body shook as he tried to vomit.
He hit a ball way out into the deep and walked the single. Walked the whole way. But that was the last run he made.
Rahul had moved a few metres away and was talking to someone—another kid. I moved across to him, worrying about what he might be saying.
Just as I got to him there was a tremendous roar from the crowd.
I looked up. Dean Jones had just been bowled. Everyone was jumping up and down, screaming their lungs out.
