Howzat!

by Brett Lee

  I felt someone shove me from behind.

  ‘You two gonna stand here all day gasbagging?’ Scott Craven sneered. When Jimbo and I moved on, he called after us, ‘See you fluked it for the Twenty/20, Jones.’

  ‘That was the good news,’ Jimbo said, placing his tray down on a table in front of one of the lit-up photos of the MCG. I stared past his shoulder at the picture. A bunch of kids were perched all over a scoreboard, like flies on a piece of meat.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ I said. ‘The bad news is I’m on the same team as him?’

  ‘Worse. You and I are on different teams. Barramundi versus Barracuda. I’m a Barracuda.’

  ‘Hey, at least we’re on a team. You do realise that half of the kids here didn’t make it? Is there a batting order or anything? Where are the team lists?’

  It was good to be talking cricket again, and I knew it was what Jim would want. I just had to trust him.

  ‘Nup. Only squads,’ Jimbo said. ‘Each team’s got a coach for the game. We’re meeting upstairs at nine.’

  ‘Unreal,’ I said, scooping up a spoonful of peaches. ‘Are we actually playing on the MCG?’

  ‘Yeah, and we get to use the dressing rooms and viewing rooms. Everything!’

  ‘What are all the other kids doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Actually, it’s pretty good for them too. They’re rotating around a whole heap of different jobs—third umpire, scoring, ground announcer, commentating. They even get to drive the drinks cart out.’

  ‘Yeah? Geez, Jimbo, pity we got picked.’

  Jimbo looked up quickly from his food.

  ‘Joking,’ I said, and grinned.

  After breakfast we scanned the team sheets that had been posted on the wall of the John Evans Room, then raced back upstairs to organise our cricket kits and get ready for the game.

  When we got back, Marto, our coach for the morning, was calling his team over to the far side of the room. I waved to Jimbo and joined my group. The only player I recognised there was Greg Mackie.

  We settled down in front of Marto and waited. No one spoke. Everyone seemed pretty keyed up—playing on the MCG didn’t happen every day of the week.

  ‘Right, Barramundi, here’s the plan,’ Marto said, looking up from his notes and leaning forwards. ‘We’re going to talk tactics for twenty minutes, get out onto the ground and do a general warm-up for twenty minutes, then work into a more specific warm-up depending on whether we’re batting or bowling.’

  ‘Who’s captain, Marto, and when’s the toss?’ a boy behind me asked.

  ‘We had the toss last night,’ he said. ‘We’re batting. And you boys will be appointing your captain by secret ballot after the first warm-up session. That means I want to see confidence, skills, leadership and, above all, a willingness to involve yourself in today’s warm-ups and game.’

  We followed Marto out onto the ground. The Barracudas were already on the far side of the ground in front of the Southern Stand.

  After a jog around the oval and some stretching, we played a neat game called Mat Ball. We divided into two teams, with one player from each team standing on a small blue mat. If you could throw the ball to the kid on the blue mat you scored a goal. It was a cross between netball and basketball. If a player dropped a catch, he had to run and tag his own goalie before getting back into the game.

  I noticed some spectators settling into seats and wondered whether they were tourists or perhaps coming to watching the Twenty/20. A couple of MCG tour guides, with their distinctive blue, red and white blazers, were chatting to groups of people over in the Members area. The clouds were disappearing. It was going to be a brilliant day.

  I tried to talk as much as I could during the game, encouraging my team-mates and getting involved without dominating. I also made a few tactical suggestions. There was a guy on the other team, with blond hair and zinc all over his face, who was also talking a lot. Already I sensed that the captaincy might come down to the two of us. Marto was watching the game keenly. Finally he clapped his hands together and shouted for us to stop. ‘Righto, good work, boys. Let’s take a few catches and work through some fielding drills.’

  I was first in line for a high catch, and as soon as the ball went into the air off Marto’s bat I knew I’d be struggling to get to it on the full, let alone catch it. I raced off to my left, sprinting at full pace to try and get to the ball. At the last moment I lunged forwards, just managing to get my left hand to it. I bunted it further on.

  ‘Recover!’ Marto shouted. ‘They’re going for three!’

  I picked myself up and got to the ball, then spun around and threw, all in one motion. But I should have settled myself more. The throw was weak, getting to Marto on the third or fourth bounce. Silence. I looked up at Marto.

  ‘Good effort, Toby,’ he barked. ‘But that was a catch put down. Stay calm and relaxed on your returns too.’

  I jogged back towards Marto and the group. Calm and relaxed? How could I be when he was shouting at me like that and with everyone else standing and watching? Maybe he saw the doubt in my face.

  ‘Listen, mate. All of you,’ he shouted, turning to the group. ‘You play out here one day and there’ll be 30,000 people yelling and screaming at you—60,000 maybe if you’re playing for Australia. Near enough to 90,000 for the first day of a Boxing Day Test match against England. You’ve got to stay calm and in control at all times. Next!’

  A couple of the other coaches came out and joined us and soon the oval was alive with balls flying, kids diving and stumps being smashed when one of us managed a direct hit. It was hard and intense, but heaps of fun too.

  Grabbing a water bottle each from an Esky by the boundary, we followed Marto back upstairs into the visitors’ viewing room, right in the middle of the Members seating area.

  ‘Grab a card and write down the number of the player that you’d like to see as captain for today,’ he said. ‘I’m assuming that you’d all like to be captain?’

  ‘I’m okay,’ said a little kid who’d sat down next to me. He’d hardly spoken a word all morning but had done brilliantly in the fielding.

  ‘That’s okay, Cam. Ok everyone?’

  ‘Can you vote for yourself?’ the kid with the blond hair and zinc asked. Was he joking?

  ‘We probably won’t get far if everyone does that, so no,’ Marto smiled, jotting something down in his notebook.

  I missed out on being captain by one vote, but Marto said it was so close I might as well be vicecaptain.

  I shook hands with Sean, our captain—the kid with the zinc cream and blond hair. ‘Might borrow a bit of that zinc from you too,’ I said, grinning.

  ‘You bet,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d get it easily,’ he added.

  I laughed. ‘And I thought you’d get it. Especially after I dropped that first catch.’

  ‘Can I tell you something about that first catch?’ Marto said. He was standing just behind us. ‘You should never have even got a hand to that,’ he grinned. ‘I was just about to call you back for another one.’

  We spent fifteen minutes working out our batting and bowling order and setting up a general plan of attack. We discussed fielding positions, line of attack, getting messages out to batters and other tactics. It was the best meeting I’d ever been in. Marto told us he was impressed with our enthusiasm and knowledge. We were about to bat, yet we’d still talked about all facets of the game. This was particularly useful, Marto explained, as there wasn’t much time between innings.

  ‘Now, what do we know about the opposition?’ he asked.

  A few hands shot up straightaway.

  ‘Toby?’

  ‘Jimbo, the big kid with the curly brown hair, is an awesome batter. He creams loose balls and usually finds the boundary.’

  ‘What does that mean for the bowlers here?’ Marto said.

  ‘Well, you’ve just got to bowl line and length with Jimbo. He usually shows respect for good deliveries.’

  ‘No one shows respect in a Tw
enty/20,’ Greg said, laughing.

  ‘That’s true, but it’s a good tip, Toby,’ Marto said. ‘We watch out for Jimbo. Nothing loose.’

  ‘And definitely nothing short,’ I added.

  ‘Anyone else?’ Marto asked. I let Greg give the rundown about Scott.

  Finally it was time for our openers and first drop to head out onto the ground for their final warm-up.

  ‘Toby, grab a couple of balls and a few guys here and get their eye in,’ Marto said.

  We started off blazing. The first four overs went for 35 runs—almost nine an over. Then Scott came on to bowl and the whole innings changed. He took two wickets in his first over and slowed us right down.

  Marto was restless. ‘Yes, it’s Twenty/20, but don’t get carried away in the moment. You still have to build an innings. Especially if you’re going in during the first ten overs.’ He snatched a bottle of water and took a swig.

  I went to put my pads on, and glanced around the stands at the sprinkling of people sitting in the sun and enjoying the action. We’d been warned not to go looking for our families, so we would remain as focused as possible on the game, but I was curious to see if they’d turned up—and especially if Jim was with them. Although perhaps Jim wouldn’t approve of Twenty/20 cricket. I thought I saw Ally, Georgie, Rahul and maybe Jay. One of them waved, but I didn’t wave back.

  I sighed, wondering whether Marcus and Jim were okay—wherever they were. One thing I could do was go and check out that mystery door, I thought.

  There was a shout from the ground—our number 5 batter had just been run out. I heard Marto groan behind me. Our 0 for 35 had turned into 3 for 41 in the space of only three overs.

  ‘We’ve still got thirteen overs left,’ Sean called out to Cam, the little guy who was heading out. Cam nodded briefly. He seemed to be struggling a bit with his pads and helmet.

  ‘You got that gear sorted out?’ I asked him. He nodded, looking shy. I tightened one of his velcro straps and watched him walk out.

  ‘He doesn’t have any of his own stuff,’ I heard one of the players mutter.

  Cam was now jogging towards the wicket.

  ‘Geez, he’s keen,’ one of our openers laughed.

  One more wicket and I’ll be walking out onto the MCG, I thought. I finished padding up, then grabbed a bat and a ball and tried to get my eye in by tapping the ball up and down on the edge of the bat. I knew that was what Michael Clarke did before he went out. But I only got a couple of taps in before there were more shouts from the middle.

  ‘I thought you said this guy was a power hitter,’ Marto said, exasperated.

  ‘Scott Craven’s an all-rounder,’ I said, pulling my gloves on.

  ‘And a bloody good one,’ Jezza, our keeper, added.

  ‘But not as good as Toby Jones,’ Marto said, slapping me on the shoulder.

  I looked into his eyes. ‘Almost, but not quite,’ I said, grinning.

  I headed out onto the MCG. There wasn’t quite the roar I’d dreamed of, but I could hear clapping and a couple of kids screaming and shouting over in the outer of the Great Southern Stand. I kept my head down and strode out to the wicket.

  ‘Watch that Scott kid,’ the returning batter muttered as he passed me.

  ‘Right arm over, two balls to come,’ the umpire called, his right arm outstretched, waiting for me to take guard. I settled over my bat and waited for Scott.

  ‘Been here, done this,’ I said to myself, remembering how I’d handled Scott last time I’d faced him.

  I played the first ball away off my chest towards square leg and set off for the single.

  ‘No!’ Cam yelled from the other end.

  I scurried back into my crease as the fielder—Jimbo—charged in towards me, ball in hand. Cam would have been run out by half a pitch. I looked up at Jimbo, who was smiling and tossing the ball from hand to hand.

  ‘Bit scared, Jones?’ Scott said. He’d come almost all the way down the pitch. I scraped my guard again, not looking up.

  ‘C’mon, guys. He doesn’t want to be here,’ the first slip called. ‘Just like the others.’

  Scott charged in for the last ball of the over. It was slower, pitched up near my feet. I’d been expecting something short and fast. I jammed my bat down on it at the last moment, catching a faint little edge before the ball smacked into my pads.

  ‘Howzat?!’ Scott roared, not even turning around, but charging down the wicket towards me. I held my ground.

  ‘How is he?’ yelled Scott again, this time turning, disbelieving, to the umpire behind him.

  ‘Yes!’ I heard Cam yell as he came scampering down the pitch. I set off for the other end. I had no idea where the ball was, but there was something in Cam’s quiet manner that made me trust him. We made the single easily. I looked at the umpire, but there was no signal from him. He’d realised I’d hit it. I didn’t think Scott was convinced though.

  ‘Bloody weak arse,’ he scowled. ‘That was plumb, fair and square. Umpy just wants to make a game out of it.’

  ‘Umpy realised I hit it, Scott,’ I said, then walked away to talk to Cam. ‘We’ve got plenty of overs,’ I told him. ‘Let’s keep the pace going but nothing stupid, okay?’

  ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘We need to be here at fifteen overs, then we go for it.’

  We touched gloves, both smiling at the fact that we’d held them up at the same time.

  Scott bowled one more over and Cam calmly played him out—even hitting the last two balls out through covers for a couple of easy twos.

  We built the tempo slowly, scoring seven, eight and seven before I got lucky with two slashes over point that flew to the shortened boundary, then a massive pull shot that cleared the boundary.

  ‘Geez, Toby, I reckon that would have been a six in a real game on the MCG,’ Cam grinned, high-fiving me with his glove. His white teeth gleamed against his dark skin.

  ‘You think?’ I looked out at the spot where I thought the ball had first landed. It was still well short of the fence. ‘C’mon, it’s going well. Let’s keep building.’

  In the next over, after slogging a full ball back over the umpire’s head, I started getting a feeling of invincibility. Any ball was game. I was in the zone—capable of hitting anything anywhere. That’s the thing about cricket: every ball is a new ball. A new situation. I completely missed the next ball and my off-stump went cartwheeling out of the ground.

  ‘Great knock,’ Jimbo whispered as he jogged past me to join his team’s celebration. I caught his eye and smiled.

  ‘Keep it going, Cam,’ I called, then began the long walk back to the pavilion. I was getting a good round of applause from the crowd so I held my bat up. I wasn’t sure whether 37 warranted it, but it was the highest score so far.

  We were all out for 146. Cam never looked like getting out, and we stood and applauded him all the way back in—which wasn’t that long given that he jogged again. He didn’t raise his bat, but he came straight over to me and gloved my hand.

  ‘That was the best, Toby,’ he grinned, peeling off his helmet.

  ‘Cam, you were brilliant. Where are you from?’ I asked.

  Marto and the rest of the team gathered round. Cam hadn’t actually flayed the bowling, but he’d looked as solid as a rock and played the perfect role for the other batters. His strokes were effortless and his timing was amazing.

  ‘The Mallee,’ he muttered, unsure about the attention.

  ‘Who’s your team, Cam? Who do you play for?’ someone asked.

  For a moment Cam looked confused. ‘My brothers,’ he said. ‘Sometimes all the kids in the town.’

  ‘But what team?’ I persisted, then suddenly felt myself going red. Maybe Cam was from some tiny country town. Maybe there wasn’t a cricket team within a hundred kilometres. Someone had said he didn’t have any equipment.

  ‘No team. I never played for any team. That was my first proper game ever,’ he said, his face breaking into a smile like a huge piece of melon. Someone s
lapped him on the back and someone else jammed a bottle of drink into his hand.

  ‘Except once a man came to town with some other kids and we played a practice match. And then he goes and talks with my dad. Then he left and nothing happened.’

  ‘Until you got a letter?’ I asked.

  Cam looked at me and grinned.

  ‘Yeah. I got a letter.’

  ‘Well, we’re sure glad you’re on our team,’ Greg said.

  Sean threw me the ball—a brand new, bright red Kookaburra. Its white stitches were hard and sharp; a fast, sharp catch into the slips could cut your hand. Jimbo was taking strike. He nodded briefly, took a look around the field, then settled over his bat.

  Line and length, I said to myself as the umpire dropped his arm and called play.

  Thinking that I might surprise Jimbo with a quick ball first up, I ran in hard. But it was way too short. Jimbo got inside the line of the ball easily and hoicked it over mid-wicket and out to the ropes for four. A smattering of applause echoed in the nearempty stands.

  I looked up into the Great Southern Stand briefly as I headed back to the top of my run-up. Georgie and Ally both waved. I grinned, not knowing whether they’d see my face, then took a peek at the giant scoreboard as I turned. The screen hadn’t been working during our innings, but now my face filled the entire space. Embarrassed, I dropped my eyes quickly and charged in to bowl again. Better; this time Jimbo played it carefully back down the pitch. The rest of the over was uneventful. By the end of it, I’d stopped worrying about appearing on the big screen.

  Jimbo and his opening partner started steadily. In the first five overs we missed two chances: a catch behind and a run-out at the bowler’s end. I could imagine what Marto would be saying back in the dressing rooms: good teams take their chances.

  The game swung our way in my third over. Jimbo slogged the first ball over wide mid-on for four, then smashed my second ball straight back at me. I got a hand to it before the ball cannoned into the stumps behind me. By pure fluke, I’d just run out Jimbo’s partner.

  ‘That’s the break we needed, guys,’ Sean said, slapping me on the back. We all turned to look at the screen for the replay.