by Brett Lee
Two run-outs—one really embarrassing—and two catches in the deep kept TCC right in the game. And poor Martian went for a duck, clean bowled. Only Jimbo held up an end until Georgie ran him out, calling for a risky third run. (See Tip 20.)
When I walked out to bat, we were 8 for 122 with still almost an hour of batting time left.
The very next over Jay was out, bowled for eight. Our only hope was that Scott would come back in. Minh or I would have to try and bat with him until the innings closed or two and a half hours were up.
I batted carefully, trying to hit the loose ones. But TCC had brought their opening bowlers back on, so it was harder to score. I noticed Scott standing on the boundary line, gloves and helmet ready, waiting to come back.
‘Toby, I’m going for it,’ said Minh. ‘If I score a few, good. If I go out, Scott comes back.’
It was probably a good call, though I wondered if Mr Pasquali would agree. Minh was clean-bowled next ball. Scott marched to the wicket. I went out to meet him but he breezed past me.
‘Leg stump,’ he called to Mr Pasquali, who was standing at the other end. Mr Pasquali looked a bit surprised but gave him leg stump. Scott scratched his mark and settled over his bat. (See Tip 14.)
For the next 40 minutes we were treated to some of the most powerful and clinical hitting I’d ever seen. It was phenomenal. I scratched around at one end, feeding Scott the strike while he blasted the attack all over the ground. Even the TCC coach was getting involved, shouting instructions at his bowlers and fielders.
At one stage someone yelled out 94, and then there were a whole lot of shushes from everyone, but Scott hadn’t heard. He was in another zone. At the end of each over, though, we’d meet mid pitch and I got the same message each time. ‘Keep it going, Toby.’ And I did.
When the innings was over, the kids and parents made an impromptu guard of honour as Scott walked off the ground, not out 134. I had made 31. Scott had made half our runs from his own bat. I eyed the massive willow lying on the grass while Scott celebrated with a drink. The rest of the team packed up after congratulating him. Mr Pasquali was talking with a couple of the dads. Scott stood alone, staring out at the pitch. It didn’t look like any of his family was here.
I crept closer to his bat. I’d just had an idea. I picked it up and, before anyone saw what I was doing, shoved it into the back seat of our car. Guiltily I glanced about, but no one seemed to have noticed. But I realised a moment later how stupid that would be. Scott would go berserk and there’d be a huge search for it. I placed the bat carefully back on the grass. I’d talk with Mr Pasquali about it. Maybe he could organise something.
‘Hey, you know what?’ Dad said to me in the car.
‘What?’
‘Mr P was saying that if you’d reached your 40, he would have had to retire you and Scott mightn’t have got his 100.’
I hadn’t thought of it that way. Now we were back on equal terms after the run-out a few rounds before. Scott had only said a few words to me after our innings. ‘Smart batting, Jones. See you in the final.’
Yeah, you will, I thought. I couldn’t wait to bowl to him. But we had to come back next week and get TCC out first. Hopefully for less than the 256.
13 Jim Returns
Monday—afternoon
MR Pasquali had set us a new project to work on. I had managed to link cricket in to mine even though it had been set during English. We had to write about an inspired event that influenced and changed the outcome of succeeding events. I made my choice at once. It was Andrew Symonds’ 146 not out in South Africa. Dad said that it set the course for Australia. They went on to win every match they played in the 2003 World Cup.
‘Did you try and ring Jim?’ Georgie whispered to me during class. I nodded. ‘And?’
‘He’s okay. I didn’t really have much time to talk.’ We both bent our heads low as Mr Pasquali walked past.
‘Did he travel?’
‘Nup.’
‘What about that other guy?’ she hissed. ‘Smale.’
‘I didn’t ask about him.’
‘Don’t blame you.’
‘Hey, I spoke to Mr Pasquali and he’s going to get Scott’s bat so we can all sign it.’
‘What do we want to do that for? Do you think he’d bother signing a bat if you made a hundred?’ Jay asked, overhearing our conversation.
‘Probably not, but Mr Pasquali reckons it’s a good idea. He’s asked him to bring it to school tomorrow. Made up some excuse.’
‘Fair enough,’ Rahul said, joining in. Mr Pasquali was now talking with someone at the front of the room. ‘It was a brilliant innings.’
We settled down to work on our assignments. I’d found a website with a ball-by-ball description of Andrew Symonds’ innings. I was going to present a summary of his innings and then put together some questions to ask him in an interview. All I had to do was find him. Rahul had managed to find Ray Bright and Dean Jones for his last assignment, and they’d played that tied Test match about 20 years ago. So it shouldn’t be too hard to track down Andrew Symonds.
Maybe I could arrange to meet him when the Aussies played in Melbourne. Maybe I’d get a free pass into the dressing room during a one-dayer. Maybe I’d get to chat to all of them.
‘Hi, Andrew!’
‘Hey, Toby. How’s things?’
‘Yeah, not bad. How’s the bowling arm?’
‘Good, thanks. It’s a seamer today. Would you mind if I just bowled a few at you? Can you watch my form?’
‘Toby, throw a few my way too, would you? Not too fast, though.’
‘Sure, no probs.’ Matthew Hayden was always after my flippers. ‘And I’ll toss a few at you afterwards, okay, Ricky?’
‘Yep, great, Toby.’
‘Toby? TOBY!’ Mr Pasquali was staring at me. I shook my head and smiled.
‘Yes, Mr Pasquali?’
‘Would you like to start writing now?’
‘Okay, Mr Pasquali. Yep, no worries.’
He shook his head and moved off.
Monday—evening
When I got home, a taxi was parked outside the house and a guy with the most humungous gut was leaning against the bonnet, smoking. He nodded at me but didn’t say anything.
I went into the house, dreading another visit from Mr Smale. But the first person I saw when I walked into the kitchen was Jim, smiling contentedly in the big chair by the bookcase and sipping a glass of cold water. ‘Jim!’ I called, dropping my bag and rushing towards him. He got up awkwardly and shook my hand. His old face broke into a broad smile.
‘Hello, Toby,’ he said. ‘Peter has just been telling me about your heroics on Saturday. Well done. We might have another Jones in Wisden not long into the future.’
I was bursting with questions and tried to read every expression on his face as he chatted away happily about cricket, the MCC library and a few other things. He seemed healthy and in good spirits.
‘Can Jim stay for dinner, Dad?’ I asked, finally seizing on a break in the conversation. Dad had given Jim a full-blown version—his version—of the garage fire and how I’d gone back in to save a Wisden.
‘Well, that’s up to Jim, Toby.’
‘Jim?’ I asked.
‘That’s very kind of you, Toby, but no, thank you. I have my meals cooked for me and dear Andrea would be most upset if I missed one of her culinary pleasures. Perhaps you could walk me out to my chariot.’
I closed the front door and started explaining, the words tumbling over each other. Jim held up a hand.
‘Jim,’ I started again. ‘The man who’s often at the library. The guy with the glasses. His name is Mr Smale and—’
‘Phillip, yes. He helps us out in the library. With the archives.’
‘The what, Jim?’
‘Archives,’ he repeated. ‘He helps with the old records and documents. Files them. He does a marvellous job. Actually, his father made a very generous gift to the library: some quite rare cricket scorebooks. Phillip has mentioned tha
t he is in possession of many more old cricket documents. We’re rather hoping that Phillip might bring them across to the library.’
‘Jim, I’m not sure about him.’
Jim stopped and looked at me. ‘Pardon?’
‘When Georgie and I were at the library getting my award…Jim, did you invite me to receive an award for saving the Wisden? Did you know about it?’
‘I did hear something about it,’ he said slowly, shaking his head.
‘But did you organise it?’ I asked, searching his face.
‘Well, no. But you certainly deserved your reward, Toby.’ It sounded like Jim was embarrassed that he hadn’t organised it.
‘Jim, I don’t mind about the award. It’s just that Mr Smale was very interested in the diary.’
‘Well, that doesn’t sound odd. Phillip would be interested in the diary, but I hid it carefully away—’
‘Behind the 1931 Wisden,’ I interrupted.
‘Take your time,’ the driver called, lighting up another cigarette.
‘Which leads to another thing, Jim. He’s got it.’
‘Phillip Smale?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s got the diary?’
‘Yes. He came here to get it.’
I told him about my and Georgie’s adventure on the night of the ‘award ceremony’ and how Georgie and I had found the diary behind the 1931 Wisden. I was hoping Jim would explain it away as some silly sequence of errors that amounted to nothing. But when I’d finished, he was clearly worried.
‘Phillip suggested I take a break while he sorted some things out at the library,’ Jim said quietly. ‘I wonder…Toby, I fear it’s time for action. Perhaps our Mr Smale is a little too taken with the diary and where it might lead.’
‘But what about the scorecard?’
‘Well, we must just hope that Phillip doesn’t find it,’ Jim said, slowly, still looking concerned. ‘Or perhaps that no one finds it,’ he added. We were silent for a moment. Then I remembered another important thing I had to tell him.
‘Jim, I went back to 1930. I saw Don Bradman. Me and—’
‘1930? Leeds?’
‘Yep. First day. It was amazing, Jim. We’ve got to go—you and me. I can get you there easily. They talked funny, but they were—’
‘You talked to people?’
‘Well, we couldn’t help it. Georgie was wearing this—’
‘Toby. Take care. Especially when you take those long journeys back in time. Come along to the library on Wednesday if you can manage it.’ Jim took a few steps towards the taxi. ‘And I would like to hear more about Leeds too,’ he said with a smile.
I waved and watched the taxi until it had disappeared around the corner.
14 A Chase in the Car Park
Tuesday—afternoon
MR PASQUALI had told each of us during the day to get to training early.
‘I’ve also arranged for Scott to be delayed at the office,’ he told me. ‘I’m going to ring Mrs Grimes there when we’re ready.’
‘The bat?’ I asked.
Mr Pasquali nodded. ‘It’s been engraved and there’s a place for our signatures up near the splice.’
We all gathered together before training and Mr Pasquali made the presentation. Scott had no idea it had been planned. He seemed a little stunned.
The engraver had carved a short inscription: Scott Craven scored 134 not out with this bat. U–13 Southwestern Division,’ and below was the date. We had signed our names neatly down each side of the splice, up near the top of the bat. Mr Pasquali had too.
I think Scott was genuinely happy with what we’d done. He didn’t even bowl pace during centrewicket practice and everyone was rapt with that. Although Jimbo said later that he probably did that deliberately so we wouldn’t gain confidence from playing him before the finals.
Wednesday—afternoon
Jay insisted on coming along on Wednesday to meet with Jim. There was something Jay had discovered about the diary that he’d been holding back, ever since we’d left him with it when we walked up the street to get the paper. Maybe he would tell Jim.
We’d just reached the outside glass doors when I saw a familiar face. Mr Smale and two guys, dressed like security, were standing on the other side of the doors, talking. Mr Smale looked straight at me then turned to the guards.
‘Oh no, not again,’ I yelled, turning to run. Jay just stood there, mouth hanging loose, a stupid grin on his face.
‘I wonder who they’re after?’ he said.
I grabbed him by the arm. ‘We’re not hanging around to find out. C’mon!’
We dashed off around the outside with me a couple of metres ahead of Jay.
‘Come on, over this way!’ I yelled.
‘But, Toby—’
‘Jay! Come on!’
I started running across the car park. Jay followed. We dashed between a few cars, Jay almost getting smashed by a door that suddenly opened in front of him.
‘Watch it!’ a lady shouted at him.
‘The station!’ I yelled, pointing away to the left. A silver train was snaking towards us. ‘It’s over there! Come on, Jay!’
We scrambled forward, weaving between the cars. I heard Jay yell out behind me. He’d fallen next to a van. Maybe it had started moving and knocked him.
‘Jay? You okay?’ I raced back.
Jay had tripped over a basket someone was unpacking.
‘C’mon!’ I cried. I grabbed Jay by the arm again and together we stumbled down a path that headed towards the station. A train thundered in as we raced past the small ticket office.
‘T-tickets?’ Jay gasped.
‘Forget it,’ I said, dragging him towards the train. The automatic doors closed as we fell inside. Jay tumbled into the lap of an old lady. He excused himself and jumped up.
‘Wow, that was close,’ I sighed, holding the metal bar.
‘But, Toby. There was no one chasing us!’ Jay had finally got his breath back.
The train started up, then immediately slowed. We raced to the window as it came to a stop.
‘What’s happening?’ Jay asked.
‘Maybe the security guys have radioed ahead and stopped the train.’
I opened the door and leaned forwards carefully to look out. To my amazement, a policeman was climbing aboard.
‘Jay, we’re gonna jump, okay?’ The doors started to close. ‘Quick—now!’
I jumped and Jay squeezed through and followed. We stumbled onto the platform, then turned to watch the train pull out of the station.
‘Won’t he follow us?’ Jay asked.
‘He won’t be able to open the doors.’ A moment later I saw the policeman and defiantly stared at him through the window as the train passed by. But he hardly appeared to notice me. He seemed more interested in the passengers inside the train.
‘Let’s go,’ I said.
‘Home?’
‘No, the last place they’d expect to find us. Back to the MCG.’
There was no sign of Mr Smale but the two security guards were still standing in the same spot they’d been in 15 minutes ago.
‘See,’ Jay hissed at me as the doors closed behind us.
‘Hey, boys?’ one of them called out as we tried to slink past. We both froze.
‘Your class headed that way—you’d better hurry.’ He was pointing up a ramp to the left.
‘Th-thanks,’ I mumbled. There must be a school group visiting the museum.
We hared up the ramp and into an awesome display of sporting history. We kept a low profile for another 10 minutes, mingling with the school group and checking out the displays before heading towards the library.
‘Smale’s probably up there now, knowing our luck,’ I said to Jay as we got closer. ‘We’ll take the secret door.’
I looked down the corridor, checking that no one was around, then pulled the door open. There was no sign of Mr Smale as we entered, but Jim looked up from his desk and waved us over.
&n
bsp; ‘Well, now, come along and sit yourselves down and tell me everything again,’ said Jim.
I repeated what I knew, going into detail about everything Mr Smale had done. I sensed Jay was agitated and wanting to butt in, but I finished without interruption.
‘Well, this does change things, I’m afraid,’ said Jim. ‘I must admit, it has surprised me that Phillip has persisted for so long here. It would appear he is after something. Perhaps he knows a little more about the Wisdens, time travel and scorecards than he would like everyone to believe.’
‘There’s something else,’ Jay said quietly.
We both looked at him. The tone of his voice suggested something important.
‘I’ve got the scorecard.’
Jim looked completely stunned. I jumped up from my seat. But at that moment the door opened and the group of school kids we had snuck in with surged into the room. In no time they had filled up all available space in the small library. Luckily David, the main librarian, was with them and soon organised them into a group in front of the Wisdens bookcase.
Jay and I pushed our chairs in to make more space. David introduced Jim, talked about the Wisdens, and then the group moved on. One of the kids hung back.
‘Would you like to look at one?’ Jim asked the boy. He nodded. I had the weirdest feeling as I watched Jim and the kid look at an old Wisden. That had been me just a short time ago. I studied the kid’s face closely: there was obviously no strange stuff happening. A minute later he joined the rest of the group.
‘There’s always one or two who want a look,’ Jim said, smiling, as Jay and I sat down again. ‘Now, Jay. You were saying?’ Jim licked his lips and leaned forwards eagerly.
Jay reached into his pocket and pulled out a small faded yellow card. It had words near the top and numbers down the side.
Jim held out his hand. ‘Please?’
But Jay was leaning back, smiling. ‘Now, just let me—’
‘Jay!’ I hissed. ‘It’s not yours. Give it to Jim.’
Reluctantly Jay passed the card across to Jim. Jim held it in his hands, almost tentatively, then slowly turned it over and read aloud what was written on the back:
