by Jock Serong
I would like to thank the three former players who gave me insights into the game through interviews: Mick Lewis, Michael Holding and Dean Jones, the last of whom explained to me the exquisite horrors of the Rolando’s fracture. My gratitude also to the friends and family who read the manuscript and provided much-needed feedback: Tim Baker, Nick Batzias, Dom Serong, Chris McDonald and my wife Lilly. Thanks also to my Great Ocean Quarterly comrades Mick Sowry and Mark Willett for their understanding when I went missing at times to work on this tale.
I’m especially grateful to have worked once again with the talented team at Text, and particularly to be edited by Mandy Brett. If this book has pace and bounce—and that’s a judgment for others to make—it was Mandy’s doing.
The characters in this book are not meant to be real people in disguise. They are all products of impressions and half-forgotten memories, with a couple of exceptions: Hope Sweeney, who was a much-revered figure in Victorian cricket, and Amy Harris, who it turns out shares a name with a real journalist based in Sydney. It goes without saying that the real Ms Harris has never investigated Pitbull Freer, nor interviewed the Keefes.
I only ever had one mentor in cricket and that was my father Julian: patient, ever-available and a deadly exponent of swing bowling. Lastly, because someone’s bound to ask, yes I played backyard cricket against my brothers. Thousands of hours of it. We did microwave the ball and most of the rules herein are rules we used. It got pretty willing at times and the dog was struck once or twice, but no-one was ever seriously injured and we all remain the best of friends.
