by Brett Lee
‘Good Lord,’ he whispered.
‘What is it, Jim?’ Georgie asked.
‘Good Lord,’ he said again, not hearing her question.
‘Jim, what is it?’ I repeated.
Jim was licking his lips, looking excited but tense. He took off his glasses and looked at each of us in turn. Even Jay was leaning forwards expectantly. Jim’s eyes stopped on me. I held his gaze.
‘Toby, forgive me. You deserved to know this sooner perhaps than now.’
I smiled, not knowing what to say. We waited a few moments then Jim spoke again.
‘This book is a diary, written by my grandfather, James Oldfield. James was born in England in 1851. He grew up with a tremendous love for the game of cricket and was indeed a very good cricketer himself. Alas, he was not chosen to play for England in the First Test match in 1877.’
The secret door opened again and someone put down a box to keep it ajar. I don’t think Jim even noticed.
‘On James’s 30th birthday he was given a Wisden. One of the very earliest editions. An extraordinary thing happened. When he first opened the Wisden, a small scorecard dropped out and fell into his lap. On that scorecard was written a strange message.’
Jim closed his eyes and recited:
‘This one scorecard of thousands
Will in any Wisden book
Reveal the players’ names
And take you there to look.’
‘Well, of course James was a little surprised, and greatly sceptical, but when he placed the scorecard on the page of the Wisden showing the scores of that first Test match played between Australia and England in Melbourne, sure enough, the names mysteriously appeared on the scorecard that was completely blank a moment before.’
Jim shut the book and closed his eyes again.
‘Without a hint of warning, James was transported 10,500 miles across the world to Australia and that first Test here at the Melbourne Cricket Ground.’
Jim chuckled. ‘You can imagine the stares this overdressed Englishman got, stranded as he was in an Australian summer. He managed to see some of the cricket—cricket, I might say, that you would hardly recognise now. But of course he was horribly shaken and quite desperate to get home. The story goes that it took some convincing for him to finally understand and acknowledge just what had happened. Perhaps he thought he’d been drugged, or lapsed into some unconscious state, yet had somehow been taken to a game of cricket somewhere in England. Of course, he still held the scorecard in his hand and people around him were able to confirm the players actually out on the ground.
‘Eventually, he must have turned the scorecard over and read aloud the two lines written on the back.’
Jim smiled and looked at me.
‘Two hours is all the time
So before it’s up, read these lines.’
‘So did he get back safely?’ Rahul asked.
‘Oh yes, and he returned. Many times,’ Jim replied, smiling again. ‘James was so excited. He wanted to share his secret. And he did. Suddenly James was very popular. But he quickly realised his mistake. He suffered for his greed and loose tongue. Eventually he disappeared with his Wisdens and his precious scorecard to some remote part of England and the matter died down. But it took many years.’
‘What about the scorecard?’ Georgie asked. ‘Is it in the diary?’
Jim sighed. ‘Now, that’s an interesting possibility. But no, I doubt it very much. James discovered that he didn’t actually need the scorecard to time travel with the Wisdens. Just like you and I, Toby.’
‘But maybe he’s left some sort of clue about where it is?’ Jimbo said.
‘Yeah, like in the diary,’ Jay added.
‘Perhaps,’ Jim said. ‘But it is something best left alone. No good would—’
Jim was interrupted by a noise near the secret door. We all turned. Phillip was there, bending down to pick up a book he’d dropped. No one had noticed him come in. He grunted, nodded briefly and walked straight past the table without even looking at the diary in front of Jim.
For a moment no one spoke. How long had he been standing there, listening to Jim’s story?
I stared at the old brown diary. It looked like the cover was made of leather or some kind of material. Jim picked it up gently and passed it to me. It was soft and about the size and thickness of an average paperback. Rahul and the others gathered round me. I opened the book a few pages in. The writing was tall and sloped in black ink and hard to read even though it was very neat.
‘It even smells old,’ Georgie breathed, holding her hand out to touch it.
‘Now there’s a relic, Jim. Just come in?’ It was the young guy in the MCG shirt.
‘Yes, just this afternoon,’ Jim replied. I handed the diary back to him. ‘I’ll have a look at it tonight and see if it’s of any interest or value,’ he added, carefully wrapping it in the brown paper again.
‘But Jim, you just—’ Georgie was frowning.
‘I think perhaps it’s time you young people were off home, don’t you?’ he suggested, the smile never leaving his face.
‘C’mon, guys,’ I said, getting up. ‘We’ll call back again some time, Jim.’
The others followed me out.
4 Mini Cricket
Thursday—afternoon
AFTER the drama of the last few days it was good to be back doing what I liked best: playing cricket. Mr Pasquali, our teacher and cricket coach, seemed pretty pumped about the game coming up—a one-dayer against Benchley Park.
He spoke to us after cutting short our nets session.
‘A win on Saturday probably means we’ll stitch up a top-two position on the ladder. That means we avoid a semi-final against the Scorpions.’
‘We’re gonna have to beat them some time.’
‘True, Scott, but I’d rather knock them off in the final, wouldn’t you?’
‘I guess,’ said Scott, shrugging.
‘Now, a one-dayer means we need control, concentration and tightness in the field. We’re going to spend the last 20 minutes fine-tuning that. Ally, put on the gloves. Jono, set a field for a tight finish. Let’s say 20 runs needed off the last three overs.’ Mr Pasquali clapped his hands. ‘Let’s do it.’
Most of the kids raced over to Jono (our captain) to get their favourite fielding position. I caught Jimbo’s eye.
‘You rapt to be playing on Saturday?’ I asked him.
‘Can’t wait.’ He grinned. It would be his first game with us, even though he trained each week.
Finally Jono had set his field and we waited for Mr Pasquali to belt the ball to wherever he chose. He had organised Rahul to pad up and act as the runner. Mr Pasquali stood at the batter’s end and smashed the ball out into the off side.
‘Yes!’ he shouted, and Rahul came haring down the wicket. But Scott had snapped up the ball and hurled it flat and hard to Ally behind the stumps. She swiped off the bails.
‘Howzat?’ she yelled as Rahul lunged forwards, stretching with his bat towards the line.
Mr Pasquali stood for a moment, straightened, then raised his finger. We roared our approval. Scott was doing some silly dance, shaking his hands and waving his two first fingers in the air. Rahul jogged back to the other end of the pitch.
‘They’re seven down now. Seventeen balls, 20 runs. On your toes, everyone.’
We were all expecting another crashing shot, but Mr Pasquali just dropped the ball in front of him.
‘Yes!’ he yelled again.
Ally scampered from behind the stumps, dived at the ball and flicked it underarm behind her while still in midair. It was a spectacular effort. Rahul wouldn’t have made half the pitch if she’d hit the stumps. But she didn’t.
‘Again!’ Mr Pasquali roared. Rahul spun around and raced back up the pitch.
‘Wrong option, Ally. And why weren’t you running in to cover the stumps?’ he bellowed at Jay, who was fielding in slips.
‘Yeah, idiot,’ Scott called.
‘And you!’ Mr Pasquali
said, pointing to the stumps at the bowler’s end. ‘C’mon, everyone. We need to back up and cover the stumps every time there’s a run on.’
It was a tense last few minutes. Mr Pasquali and Rahul missed out on winning, but only just.
‘That was almost as good as a real game,’ Georgie said, as we packed up our gear.
‘If you don’t get yelled at,’ Jay mumbled.
Friday—morning
Mr Pasquali had put up the team list for this weekend’s game. I didn’t spend too much time looking at it. The local paper, delivered on Friday afternoons, would be there when I got home after school. It had the teams as well as the previous week’s results and ladder.
It was a boiling hot day and after lunch Mr Pasquali let us play games.
‘Educational games,’ he added wryly, giving us a wink.
‘Jimbo and I—we’ve been working on a new game, Mr Pasquali,’ I said.
A few other kids raised their heads. Jimbo was smiling.
‘Oh?’ said Mr Pasquali.
We’d played plenty of dice cricket, ‘Test Match’ and computer games, but I wanted to do something different. Something with a bit of action. Jimbo and I had been working on ‘Mini Cricket’. You played it with a table-tennis ball, a mini cricket bat and runscoring areas similar to the nets in indoor cricket.
‘Would you like a demo?’ I asked.
Five minutes later we had moved the tables and cleared a space in the middle of the room. Only Scott Craven and his mate, Gavin Bourke, hung back, pretending to be more interested in something they were doing on the computer.
We divided into two teams, with Mr Pasquali as captain of one and me of the other. You had to stay on your knees at all times. Catching a table-tennis ball smashed at you proved way harder than most people thought it would be. Hitting any cricket poster or book in the room meant you got a free life.
Rahul was the only one to do that. When he was finally out, he insisted that Mr Pasquali should get two lives himself on account of his old age, failing eyesight and slower reaction time.
‘Shouldn’t that be three lives?’ Mr Pasquali joked before knocking up a cool 47 runs.
I noticed Gavin looking around often, but Scott remained glued to his computer, not turning around once. He’d missed out on a fun game.
Friday—evening
‘So, you want to hear the grand plan, everyone?’ Dad asked us at the dinner table that night. Mum was rolling her eyes. ‘Thought so. We’re going to build a studio.’
‘We are?’ Nat asked.
‘Yep. Best thing that could have happened, that fire. That garage was full of junk anyway.’
‘What about all your books and stuff?’ I asked.
‘Well, the Wisdens were saved,’ Dad said, reaching across for the sauce. He seemed very excited about his new project. He’d already drawn up some plans and they were spread across the entire far end of the table. We were obviously going to get a full briefing after dinner.
Later, I took the newspaper up to my room and checked out the teams. Jimbo was in, Ahmazru out. He’d made a duck last week and only three in the game before. It looked like Mr Pasquali had put us in batting order. Scott was due for some runs and was opening the batting with Cameron.
I checked out Benchley Park’s form. They’d beaten TCC by 13 runs, so they’d be feeling confident. But the ladder showed us 16 points clear. Jono was right, though, when he’d said that the bottom four sides were all close together. Only three points separated third place from sixth. Benchley Park would be really keen to do well tomorrow.
(NB 5 points for a win—1 point per 30 runs—1 point every 2 wickets)
I stared at the ladder, the teams and the draw for Round 5 for a few more minutes, then pulled down a few cricket books from my bookshelf and settled into bed for some reading.
A monster innings was completed by a batsman in Tasmania in 1902. Charles Eady smashed a huge 566 runs for his club team, Break o’Day. He made the score over three afternoons, and hit 13 fives (that’s what six used to be worth) and a cool 68 fours. On the first day of the game, Eady took 7/87. I wonder if he was man of the match!
5 Benchley Park
Saturday—morning
IT was the usual madness of a Saturday morning, with Mum and Nat racing around the kitchen looking for tennis gear, me hunting for my lucky socks and batting gloves, and Dad absolutely nowhere to be seen.
I found him eventually out by the fence, pacing out distances for his studio.
‘Mum and Nat gone?’ he asked.
‘Yep. C’mon, Dad. If you’re doing your usual stop at the—’
‘No stops today. Look!’ Dad held up an enormous book. ‘The Complete Guide to Do-It-Yourself Makeovers. There’s a whole section on turning an unwanted room into a room of your dreams that you won’t ever want to leave. It even—’
‘Dad!’
‘Yep. Right. Let’s go, Toby.’
He marched purposefully towards the street, where the car was parked.
‘Keys? Lock the house?’
‘Good idea.’ He spun around and headed back.
‘Meet you at the car,’ I called.
It was another perfect summer morning. We were playing at Benchley Park’s home ground. For some reason they had switched venues. The draw said we should be playing at home, but Mr Pasquali had told us all to meet at Benchley Park.
It was a tiny oval in a quiet neighbourhood. It was surrounded on three sides by streets, though in the two times I’d played there before I couldn’t remember seeing a car travelling on any of them. We often joked about hitting a car. I’d seen plenty of hits land on the road—on the full!
I watched Jono shake hands with the opposing captain. Hopefully one day I’d get to captain a team.
We gathered round as he walked back to us. ‘Remind me not to call tails again. We’re batting.’
Not a bad move by their captain. It would be hotter fielding later in the morning and a few early wickets could put us under pressure. At least batting second you knew what your target was and could adjust accordingly. Then again, we would have the runs on the board and they couldn’t be taken away from us.
‘What you puttin’ the pads on for?’ Scott asked Georgie. He asked her every week and got the same reply.
‘Same reason I told you last time.’
Georgie was batting seventh but liked to be prepared.
‘Hey, Martian. You playing?’ Jay asked.
Martian shrugged. ‘One more week and they reckon I’m back. That is, if I can get back in the team,’ he added, looking at Ally.
Ally held up her hands. ‘Hey, no worries there, Martian. I’m no permanent fixture.’
‘No one is,’ Mr Pasquali said, rubbing sunscreen onto the back of his neck. ‘Now, you know the rules. Good, strong, sensible batting. Rahul, Jimbo, Scott—look to take advantage of the short boundaries. We should be aiming for a good score to put pressure on their batters later in the morning. Good toss to lose, Jono.’
‘Mr Pasquali, do you know those guys over there?’ Rahul asked. We all looked. Two men were leaning against a car, one with a clipboard in his hand.
‘Well, I can tell you that the man with the sunglasses is Trevor Barnes.’
‘As in Trevor Barnes who coaches the rep side?’ I asked, looking again. He had the cream of all the players under 18 in the area. They trained for three hours on Sunday morning and played in a big carnival at the end of each season against the best teams from the State.
‘The very one.’
‘I’d say they’re here to check out the talent, wouldn’t you, Mr Pasquali?’ Georgie asked.
‘Well, they won’t be looking at you then,’ Scott chuckled.
‘No, they’re here to check out Jimbo,’ she replied, completely ignoring Scott’s pathetic joke.
‘Bull. They wouldn’t even know he was playing,’ said Scott.
‘Maybe someone told them,’ Rahul suggested.
‘They’ll look at all of you, and
the opposition too,’ Mr Pasquali said, and walked over to talk to the other umpire.
‘You want a hit, Scott?’ I asked, picking up an old cricket ball. Although I didn’t like him, we were on the same team and at the end of the day I’d do anything to help the team. (See Tip 2.)
‘I’ll tell you what I want. I don’t want to be run out, you hear?’
‘Hey, Toby,’ Martian called. ‘Do you know how to score?’
‘Sounds like much more fun,’ I said, dropping the ball at Scott’s feet. I was getting sick of his arrogance. Anyway, scoring was still helping the team. I went over and sat with Martian and the 12th man from Benchley Park.
Scott did what he’d threatened to do all season: he smashed the bowlers all over the park. After only five overs he was striding back off the field, cursing the rule that said batters in one-day games had to retire at 30. He was on 35, the highest possible score.
‘Why don’t you leave your pads on, just in case?’ Jay asked him. ‘You can go back in if—’
‘Mate, if I have to go back in, that would mean we’d have lost nine wickets in half a morning of batting. I’d walk out on this team if that happened.’
He hurled his bat at his kit and tore at the velcro to undo his pads.
‘I’d be that angry too if I’d just knocked up 35 runs with three sixes and four fours,’ I whispered to Martian, looking at the scorecard in front of me.
‘Well, he won’t be dropped for the last game before the finals.’
‘You never know,’ I said.
Actually, we did lose a few wickets, six in all. I’m not sure that Mr Pasquali was totally pleased with some of our shot selections. I was one of the offenders, slashing at a wide ball and being caught in the gully. It was an awesome catch, maybe even a fluke, but it was still a bad shot.
Georgie said that it was Scott’s fault for making it look too easy, though she didn’t say that to his face. Jimbo walked out after a mini middle-order batting collapse when we’d lost three wickets for 17 runs. He blocked his first two deliveries, then smashed the next one back over the bowler’s head and onto the road. It bounced on a driveway and clattered against a garage door. It was a spectacular way to score his first runs for Riverwall Cricket Club.
