by Brett Lee
Oh, God!
I was frozen in terror as I hurtled down the steepest hill in town. The whistling of the wind and the screeching roar of the wheels being torn and shredded by the rough path drowned out all other sounds. There was no rhythm in the cracks in the pavement—there was just one crazy, frightening blur of noise as the wheels tore over the path at a million miles an hour. I held on in desperation, my fingers stiff from the tension of gripping the edges of the board so tightly. I had it balanced, but one slight stumble, one little wobble, and I’d be crashing at 40 kilometres per hour.
I screamed as I picked up even more speed on a short drop that was almost vertical. Somehow I managed to keep all four wheels on the path. There was nothing for it but to hold on—and pray.
Just when I thought the hill was never going to end, the track started to level out, weaving to the right. I leaned into the curve and the board responded, taking the bend at a frightening speed. I leaned back suddenly to the left to avoid a small rock that was sitting in the middle of the path. The board wobbled right, then left. For an awful moment I thought I was finally going over. I closed my eyes, my last thought being a desperate prayer for no major injury that would cause me to miss the grand final.
The board ran straight over an empty bottle which exploded into hundreds of shards. Some of the pieces must have jammed in the wheels, which sent out tiny splinters of glass.
By now I was totally out of sight of the top of the hill, and I was finally slowing down. I swung back onto the middle of the path and rode along for several more metres before steering the board off to the right.
Straight away I heard it—Smale was driving the truck slowly down the hill, no doubt to see what had happened.
I kicked the skateboard off to the other side of the track, and threw myself down into the dirt, lying spread-eagled. I held my breath and waited.
Pressing my face into the dust, I heard the truck idle past, slowly, before disappearing down the street. I stayed where I was for another few moments then carefully staggered up, grabbed my board and started the tough walk back up the hill. It was long and steep but still the shortest way home.
That could have been a whole lot worse, I thought to myself as I turned at the top of the hill and looked back at the slope I’d just ridden.
‘Is that you, Toby?’ Mum called when I finally got home.
‘Yep,’ I answered, heading for the bathroom. I washed away the blood and grime, then gave Georgie a ring. I had to tell someone about my skateboard ride, and better her than Mum.
Taking 100 wickets in a season is a fantastic achievement, and Englishman Wilfred Rhodes did it 23 times! Wisden records that he took 4187 first-class wickets during his 33-year career, with an amazing average of 16.71 runs per wicket.
10 Ben, the Goodlooking Geek
Wednesday—evening
‘BEN, this is Toby,’ Ally said, as we entered Ben’s room. ‘And of course you know Georgie,’ she added.
‘Hi, Toby, Georgie,’ Ben said, smiling and waving us in. ‘Are you guys gonna tell me what this is all about?’
I couldn’t take my eyes off the setup in Ben’s room. He had a massive flat-screen computer with what looked like every possible accessory you could want. There were CDs and DVDs all over the place, as well as speakers, microphones, a scanner, digital camera, printer and even what looked like a three-in-one phone, fax and copier.
‘Neat, huh?’ Ben was watching Georgie eyeing the room.
‘You live up here 24/7?’ she asked him.
Ben laughed. ‘I’ll give you a tour sometime.’
‘That’d be neat.’
Ally broke into the conversation. ‘I think Ben is running about three dodgy businesses from up here,’ she said, grinning at my awed look.
‘Only three?’ Ben joked. ‘You’ve been out of the loop way too long, Ally McCabe. Now shut up and check this out.’
Ben hit a few buttons on the keyboard and suddenly the Scorpions’ website was on the computer screen, larger than ever. Ben cruised around the site, clicking a few links and showing us some of the scores and pictures that were posted there.
‘It’s nothing special, agreed?’ he asked, clicking the ‘Home’ button.
We shook our heads, curious to see what Ben had discovered.
‘But watch this!’ Ben held the pointer over what to me looked like just another section of white background.
‘We’re watching,’ Ally sighed impatiently.
‘Wait on, another…couple of seconds…there!’
Suddenly the pointer changed from an arrow to the hand symbol. I took a sharp breath as Ben clicked his mouse.
‘I had to check the HTML to verify it, but someone’s put in a time-delayed hover link here that takes you away to a secret site. Check out the URL!’
‘How did you find that?’ I asked, amazed at his skill, or luck.
Ben chuckled. ‘I’m not telling you my secrets, Toby Jones.’
I noticed his wink at Georgie.
A moment later and we were staring at a completely white page.
‘There’s nothing there,’ Georgie said. ‘It’s blank.’
‘Great minds think alike,’ Ben whispered. ‘That’s what I thought too, George, but look closer.’
We all leaned in.
‘There, down the bottom!’ I cried, causing Ally to jump.
‘Exactly!’ Ben said. He hit a button and the faint, blurry image got slightly bigger.
‘I can hardly see anything,’ Ally muttered, leaning in even closer.
‘And you a state softballer,’ Ben joked.
‘Can you make the image darker?’ I asked.
‘I already did. I just wanted to see if you guys could make anything of it in its original form. I copied and pasted it into a new doc. then fiddled a bit. Here you go,’ Ben said, opening up a file.
‘What is it?’ Georgie quietly asked, looking at the new image displayed on the screen.
‘That’s what I was hoping you guys would tell me,’ Ben said, turning round. ‘Spit it out, Toby Jones. You’re the one who seems to be in the know about all of this…according to Ally,’ he added, winking at Georgie again.
I was quiet for a moment, staring at the picture. I recognised it straight away. Now that it was clearer I could easily make out an old man bent over a set of cricket stumps. You could even see his walking stick, or whatever it was he was leaning on.
‘It’s Father Time,’ I breathed.
‘It’s what?’ Ben asked, peering up at me.
‘Father Time; it’s maybe the oldest and most famous of all the symbols to do with cricket,’ I said, as I stared at the old man with his long beard.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Ally said. ‘Look, he’s putting a bail back on. Maybe he’s the first-ever cricket umpire?’
‘What else do you know about it?’ Ben asked, ignoring his sister.
‘It’s a weather vane,’ I replied. ‘You know, it tells you which way the wind is blowing. This one sits up on top of a stand at Lord’s.’
‘Lord’s!’ Georgie cried. ‘As in Lord’s, the famous cricket ground where I won the World Cup?’
I nodded. ‘Don’t ask,’ I said, looking at Ally and Ben.
‘Lord’s—even I’ve heard of Lord’s, the home of cricket,’ Ben said. ‘Well, okay. So, we’ve established that this is old Father Time.’ He made his way back to the original website. ‘Now we’ve gotta work out how to get in. Watch this.’
Ben clicked on the original faded Father Time image and a new page appeared, as plain as the one before. Two words stared at us:
Username:
Password:
‘Any ideas?’ Ben asked, leaning back in his chair.
‘That’s why we’re here in your bedroom, stupid,’ Ally said, straightening up.
‘Bummer! And I thought it was for my good company and great looks,’ Ben scoffed, pushing the keyboard away and getting up.
‘Wait!’ I said, hoping Ben wouldn’t disappear. ‘I know a few
things we could try.’ Everyone turned and looked at me. ‘C’mon, let’s think. This is Phillip Smale’s site, right?’
‘Yeah, so?’ Ally said. ‘How does that—’
‘May I?’ I asked Ben. I pulled the keyboard drawer back out and sat in his chair.
‘Hey, make yourself at home, Toby,’ he said, throwing his hands up. He moved away to sift through a stack of CDs.
I started entering some combinations.
Username: Phillip
Password: Smale
The reply wasn’t encouraging: ‘Your username is not recognised.’
‘Does that mean you got the password right?’ Georgie asked, excitedly.
‘Nup. Not at all,’ Ben said, walking back to us.
Username: Time
Password: Travel
The same screen appeared.
Username: Father
Password: Time
‘That was a bit obvious, wasn’t it?’ Georgie said, when that attempt also failed.
‘Are you guys going to tell me what this is all about?’ Ben asked, looking at each of us in turn.
Georgie sighed.
Ben noticed our hesitation. ‘Actually, forget it. Come and look at my CD collection, Georgie. Those two can work it out.’
I shrugged as Georgie followed Ben to the other side of the room.
‘So, this guy, Phillip Smale,’ Ally said, squeezing herself onto the seat next to me. ‘He’s a bit arrogant, isn’t he?’
‘A bit?’ I laughed, turning back to the screen.
‘Wants power? Wants to do things? Wants to impress people?’
‘All of the above,’ I replied, typing.
Username: Wisden
Password: Wisden
No.
‘Just type “Smale”,’ Ally suggested.
‘No password?’
Ally shook her head. I put it in and hit Enter. No go.
‘“Smale’s”?’ Again, no luck.
‘Try it without the apostrophe,’ Ally suggested, though less certain.
‘We might as well try everything,’ I said as I entered ‘Smales’. ‘Should we be writing all these down?’
I felt Ally’s hand land on my wrist. ‘Georgie!’ she yelled.
All four of us crowded around.
Type in your password.
‘Bad security,’ Ben said, hitting the back button. ‘Do it again.’
I typed in ‘Smales’ and pressed the Enter key. The same screen appeared.
‘We’re halfway there,’ Georgie cried.
It took another seven tries with different passwords to get in.
Username: Smales
Password: Travels
‘Oh, my God, Toby. You did it!’ Ally shrieked.
The screen was covered in writing. Ben was obviously reading faster than the rest of us, because he nudged my shoulder.
‘Toby, move—quick!’ he said.
‘What, Ben?’ Ally snapped. ‘He’s the one who—’
‘Hurry!’
I shrugged and nipped out of the chair.
Ben hit the Print icon and his printer sprang into action and started churning out paper. Then he closed the website.
‘Ben?’
‘The guy running that site might be able to trace our computer. Only five people were meant to access it, and the owner has probably been told the five IP addresses of their computers. We weren’t one of them.’
I grabbed the three pages from the printer. ‘Thanks for helping out,’ I said, folding them in half. Ben had already seen enough.
We raced into Ally’s room, leaving Ben behind to clean up the files on his computer and try to remove the evidence of our visit. I spread the printouts on Ally’s bed.
Wednesday
I have now had contact from four of you. I confirm that your interest has been received. I am just waiting for acknowledgment from one of you.
Saturday
I am still waiting for one of you to sign in and confirm your interest. I must repeat: this is the only mode of communication accepted. Do not try to contact me except by the ‘Submit’ link above.
Monday
I am sorry to inform the fifth person—who knows who he is—that noconfirmation of entry has been received and that from 8 a.m. Friday I shall make alternative arrangements to find a suitable candidate for travel.
I should also remind all of you that you are sworn to secrecy—not only now, but for life…
Wednesday
Of course, I am being reasonable beyond all belief in allowing you fine people this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity—you will not be disappointed, I can assure you. And, naturally, your identities are being kept secret.
There was a knock on the door and a moment later Mrs McCabe appeared. I gathered up the papers, trying to look relaxed.
‘Toby, your dad’s here.’ She looked at the three of us sitting on the bed. ‘What’s been happening?’ she asked, with a smile.
‘Team tactics,’ I smiled back, waving the folded pages in the air.
‘Got it all worked out, Mrs M,’ said Georgie, bouncing up to her feet.
‘Well, that’s great,’ Mrs McCabe said and ruffled Georgie’s hair.
In 1978, Chris Old took four wickets in five balls when playing in a Test match for England against Pakistan in Birmingham. Unfortunately he bowled a no ball between his first two and last two wickets. On the scorer’s page, Old’s over read ‘0 w w nb w w 1’.
11 The Surprise
Thursday—afternoon
‘NOTHING flashy or fancy tonight,’ Mr Pasquali said crisply to us at training. ‘Everything we do, we do well. Efficiency, economy, concentration: keep those three words in the front of your mind for the next two hours.’
We warmed up with a drill called ‘Five ’n Alive’. Mr Pasquali had us stand in a tight half-circle and threw fast, hard catches to us. If you dropped a catch or misfielded a ball, you had to go to the end of the line on the right. If you did something special, like taking a tricky one-handed catch, Mr Pasquali might advance you one or two places to the left.
He had an old egg timer set to ring every two minutes. Whoever was the leader of the group when the timer rang—that is, the person at the far left-hand end—got five points. The next in line got four points, then three, two and one for the next three kids. No one else scored.
In the original version of the game only the top five kids stayed in after the timer went—everyone else would just sit and watch till there was a winner. No way was that Mr Pasquali’s policy; he’d changed the rules slightly so that everyone stayed in, even if you never scored any points. He had us all participating as much and as often as possible.
The catches were always harder if you were one of the top five. Ally was a freak at this game, gobbling up everything that came near her—and sometimes balls meant for the person next door.
‘No problems there,’ Mr Pasquali grinned, indicating Ally should swap places with Martian after she’d plucked a one-handed catch from in front of his right knee. ‘I’ve seen Ricky Ponting do exactly the same,’ Mr P said. ‘He wants the ball. He wants the catch. It’s as if he’s willing the ball to come to him. If you don’t like the ball coming at you fast, then don’t ever field in the slips. You’ll be a nervous wreck.’
The bell jangled for the fifth time.
‘Okay, did anyone score over 15 points?’ Mr Pasquali asked. No one said anything. ‘Over 10?’ Ally and Rahul put their hands up. ‘Ally? How many did you score?’
‘Thirteen,’ she said, looking at her hand and rubbing her thumb.
‘Rahul?’ Mr Pasquali asked.
‘Me too, Mr P.’
‘A can of drink for each of you,’ Mr Pasquali said.
‘What about the surprise you mentioned, Mr P?’ Jay asked. We stopped and looked at Mr Pasquali, who looked at his watch.
‘Another half an hour,’ he said, smiling. ‘Don’t look forward to it too much, though,’ he chuckled.
We spent another 20 minutes f
ielding, practising long throws and catching as well as doing short work around the pitch, including trying to knock the stumps down and backing up the wicket. It was as exciting as the first practice months ago when the season was starting and Jimbo and Ally weren’t even a part of the team.
In the nets we focused on playing down the ‘V’—aiming our shots in the space between mid-on and mid-off—and positioning the front foot to the pitch of the ball, head still and over the shot with bat and pad close together.
‘Play the good deliveries with respect. You’ll still get enough loose stuff to put away,’ Mr Pasquali said regularly as he watched each of us concentrating on good defensive technique.
‘Here comes the surprise!’ he called a short time later, as a small white car drove up.
‘Oh, way cool!’ someone yelled. Everyone stopped; balls and bats fell to the ground and a dozen kids charged towards the car. A tall guy with blond hair emerged from the passenger side.
‘Danny Chapman?’ Georgie gasped. She’d got there first.
He removed his sunglasses and smiled.
Danny Chapman was only 19 but he was already a local legend and fast becoming a state one too. This season he’d taken two hat tricks, as well as 10 wickets or more three times in the local premier-grade cricket. He’d played in two one-dayers for the state, taking a ‘three-for’ in the second match. He was always in the local papers, being interviewed or photographed, and he’d even appeared in a TV commercial. On his day, they said, he could bowl as fast as Brett Lee.
‘That’s me,’ he said, grinning. ‘I hear you guys have a pretty important cricket match coming up this weekend.’
We all started babbling at once. Finally Danny held up a hand as Mr Pasquali joined us.
‘Awesome, Mr P,’ Jay cried. ‘This is the best surprise.’
‘This isn’t the surprise,’ Mr Pasquali said. ‘Or, at least, not all of it.’
