by Drew Hunt
“Sor-right, mate. June means well, but she’s a busy-body.”
“Yeah.”
As they continued shopping Paul wondered why he’d touched Trevor like that. He concluded he’d just become so comfortable in the man’s presence. Sneaking a look at his housemate, Paul was surprised Trevor had toned down his clothing. He wore a light blue button up shirt, a black pair of trousers. When had he started dressing more soberly? Paul didn’t know.
They’d just concluded the argument of Weetabix versus Shredded Wheat when Paul’s mobile phone started chirping.
He’d no sooner pressed the answer button than Thommo growled, “Fucking Jim’s gone to look after his fucking mother cause she’s broken her fucking hip.”
“Huh?”
“You deaf? I said Jim’s buggered off to visit his fucking mother.”
Paul didn’t think it wise to point out that Thommo hadn’t repeated himself exactly, He’d omitted at least two fuckings.
“Oh, I see.” Jim was the cricket team’s best seam bowler. Hell, he was the team’s only seam bowler.
“Yeah, she was up a step ladder reaching for something. Jim’s mother, I mean. Stupid cow.”
“Oh dear.”
“Never mind oh dear, if we can’t find a replacement bowler by Sunday, we’ll have to forfeit the match.”
Trevor took over pushing the trolley as Thommo continued to bend Paul’s ear. Paul tried suggesting possible replacements, but either Thommo had already tried to persuade them, or he’d previously fallen out with them and they’d refused to ever play on the team again.
“Look, mate, I’m in the middle of the supermarket, can I give you a ring back later?”
They’d reached the beers, wines and spirits by the time Paul had managed to end the call.
“Bad news?” Trevor asked.
Paul shook his head and provided Trevor with the salient points of the conversation.
“Gary was an opening batsman at our school. As far as I know some of his records still stand.”
“Uh huh. But you say he moved away, and it’s a bowler we’re short of.” Paul was only half listening to Trevor. He was always mildly uncomfortable when Trevor talked about his past lovers, even though he never went into intimate details.
“Gary said he put his success down to all the practice he put in. I used to have to bowl at him for hours.”
“Really?” Paul’s ears pricked up.
“It was a long time ago. I—”
“Would you be willing to, uh, I mean if you’re not busy…” Paul couldn’t understand why he had suddenly become so excited.
Trevor shook his head. “I never played competitively, I mean I never had a place in the school team, I was—well, it would have made things too awkward.”
* * * *
Paul watched amused as Trevor paced the twenty-two yard strip of ground that was the village cricket pitch. He looked for all the world like he knew what he was about.
“Bit green.”
“Well, uh, we don’t exactly have a full-time ground staff. This isn’t Lords, ya know.” Was he sounding defensive? The village of Littleborough was hardly the centre of the cricketing world, and couldn’t run to a massive cricket ground with first class facilities. Heck, they had to bribe someone every week to cut the square and put the roller on the pitch.
“Hmm.”
“What?” Paul was definitely impatient now.
Trevor got up from his knees after poking at the ground with a key. “Not bad.”
“Never knew you were such an expert.” Sarcasm as well. Paul would have to watch himself. Trevor was here on his insistence. Although hesitant at first to join the team, Trevor soon agreed once Paul had said they really needed his help.
Trevor raised an eyebrow. “Just cause I mince, honey, doesn’t mean I don’t know a Yorker from a full toss.”
Paul sighed. Trevor displaying his campy side was a sure sign he felt threatened. “I’m sorry. It’s just I thought you said you never played at school or anything.”
“I didn’t, but Gary was such a perfectionist.” Looking round the small ground, Trevor said, “Shall I bowl an over or two at you? Just to see if I can still do it?”
As Paul went back to the car to put on his pads and grab his bat, he wondered what the hell was happening. Trevor hadn’t seemed the kind of bloke who would know anything about, let alone be able to play, cricket. Yet again the man had surprised him with his hidden depths.
After pushing the three stumps into the ground and laying the bails on top, Paul turned to face Trevor before getting into his stance. He grounded his bat a couple of times, prodding at a few loose spots in the turf.
“I’m not convinced I can still do this.” Trevor tossed the ball from one hand to the other, sounding hesitant for the first time since they’d arrived.
“Sorry, mate.” Paul knew his comments of earlier had dented Trevor’s confidence. “We need you. If you don’t play this Sunday we’ll have to forfeit the match.”
“Bloody hell, nothing like putting on the pressure.”
“Sorry.”
“At least there’s no special services this Sunday. I’m sure the vicar won’t mind me missing evensong.”
“Thanks.” Getting back into his stance, Paul wondered if he should be wearing a box to protect the family jewels.
“I’ll just deliver a few balls, mix them up a bit, see what I can still do, okay?”
Paul nodded and watched Trevor begin his run up. He saw a flash of arms, heard Trevor grunt. The ball came towards him. It pitched wide, Paul extended his bat. The next thing he was aware of was a sharp clatter. “Huh?” He looked behind him at the splayed stumps. The bugger had clean bowled him first ball. But how? Paul couldn’t believe it. “Fuck!”
“Hell, this pitch has some turn in it. Thought I’d bowled a wide for sure.”
“You weren’t the only one,” Paul said, shaking his head.
“Think I should try something a bit less dramatic?”
Trevor seemed less confident at pace bowling. He didn’t possess the necessary strength. The faster balls he managed to deliver often misbehaved, went wide.
“I need more practice, I’m incredibly rusty,” Trevor said, before he bowled an unplayable ball that struck Paul to the side of his pad. Fortunately the ball had little power behind it and did little damage. “I think any umpire worth his salt would say that was leg before wicket, wouldn’t you?” Trevor sounded rather smug.
Rubbing his bruised shin, Paul had to agree.
“Uh, have you had enough?” Although Paul was certainly impressed at Trevor’s bowling, he was getting kind of hungry, and wanted to go home.
“You sure? We’ve only been at it for half an hour. Gary used to want me to—”
Why was Paul so uncomfortable at Trevor constantly mentioning his ex? “Okay, just a bit longer, then.”
“Want me to try a bouncer?”
“No. I don’t have a helmet.” Bloody hell, was there any type of ball Trevor couldn’t bowl?
“Okay, keep your hair on. I’ll try some off-spin.”
Paul shrugged. This bloke was a fucking bowling encyclopaedia. He wasn’t exactly sure what some of the terms meant until Trevor demonstrated them.
Much to his surprise Paul could deal with spin quite well. He sent several deliveries to the boundary, Trevor having to take a long walk to retrieve the ball each time.
“Hey, how come I have to do all the fielding?” Trevor protested after the third four had been scored.
“Someone has to.”
“Bastard,” Trevor said, getting into position again.
Trevor began a short run up, the ball left his hand, pitched, it looked like it would swing outward, Paul prepared to play it, but the ball unexpectedly turned inwards. Paul felt the ball hit the inside of his bat before he heard the familiar sound of the stumps collapsing.
“How’s that!” Trevor raised his hands in triumph.
The cheeky sod had bowled him
again. “How’d you do that?”
“I thought I’d lost the knack.”
“You can bowl googlies?” Paul stood at the crease, totally amazed. He thought only professional cricketers could deliver a wrong’un.
Trevor was all smiles, really proud of himself. With good fucking reason, Paul thought.
“Yeah. You have to sort of deliver it out of the back of your hand.” Trevor got the ball back and tried to demonstrate to Paul how to hold it. “You need to have the top joints of your index and middle fingers across the seam, with the ball resting between a bent third finger and the thumb. See?” Trevor held the ball up for Paul’s inspection.
He nodded.
“At the point of release, the palm of your hand should be open towards the sky, with the back of your hand facing toward the batsman. See?”
Paul had never seen Trevor so enthusiastic about anything. Truth was, Paul wasn’t a bowler, and didn’t really understand, but was loath to show his ignorance.
“Your wrist should be 180 degrees to the ground, whilst the seam of the ball should point towards fine leg.” Trevor used his other hand to point behind Paul to the fielding position.
“You gotta use your third finger to do most of the work, turning the ball anti-clockwise on release.
“Took me hours to master it, but Gary kept on at me till I got it right. But then once I did the bugger never knew when I’d slip it in. Didn’t exactly get him out every time, but it did enough times to shut him up.” Then Trevor’s face fell. “But all the bowling skills in the world weren’t enough to keep him.”
Trevor’s ebullient mood of a few minutes earlier had totally evaporated. Before he knew it, Paul had an arm round Trevor’s shoulder, giving him a squeeze. Trevor stiffened.
“He’s the one who’s lost out, mate.” Paul squeezed again before letting go.
Trevor seemed to shake himself out of whatever had seized him. “I suppose. Though I could never give him the one thing he really wanted.”
“Oh?”
“Children.”
Paul felt awkward. He didn’t know what to say, how to comfort Trevor. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” Trevor still looked down.
“Want to practice bowling some googlies at me? You’ll fucking destroy Eastly on Sunday with ‘em. “
“You think?”
Paul nodded enthusiastically. He couldn’t remember the last time Littleborough had beaten those smug bastards.
“Okay.” The smile was back, albeit tentatively.
* * * *
“No way! No fucking way!”
“Fine.” Trevor turned on his heel and made for the door.
“No, Trev, wait. Oh fuck.” Paul pulled at his hair in frustration before whirling on Thommo. “He’s a damn good bowler, best this team’ll ever see.”
“He’s a poofter, that’s what he is. And I ain’t sharing a dressing room with him. Fuck, it isn’t safe. One look at my privates and he’d…he’d…”
“I’ve got news for you, honey,” Trevor said, sibilance at full force. He had one hand on the door knob, the other against his hip. “I wouldn’t even let you fuck me with someone else’s dick.” He flounced out, slamming the door behind him.
The others in the room who had previously been standing around saying nothing, burst into laughter.
“That was funny.”
“I’ll have to remember that one,” a second player said.
Paul couldn’t get the crestfallen look on Trevor’s face out of his mind. It’d taken him hours of persuasion to get him to agree to join the team. Even after his amazing performance on Thursday night, Paul still had to convince Trevor that his services were needed. He had to pull out the Please do it for me as a personal favour card. And in a matter of seconds fucking Thommo had ruined it. Paul felt like cleaning the bloke’s clock.
“And who the hell else is gonna play? You got someone lined up? Someone who can actually bowl?”
“I’m not changing in the same room as a bloody fruit.” Thommo crossed his arms over his chest.
“Okay, fine. Go and tell the captain of Eastly that we can’t raise a team.”
Paul followed Trevor out of the changing room, the door closing with a satisfying bang behind him. “Who the fuck does he think he is? The best bloody bowler this team has ever had—” Paul didn’t know which was the stronger emotion, sadness, anger or his sense of failure. He’d failed Trevor. No wonder the guy never put himself out to help people if that was the sort of reaction he got.
Paul found Trevor sitting on the pavilion steps. He tamped down on his anger and sat next to him.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Trevor sighed. “I knew it was a bad idea.”
The bloke looked more glum than Paul could ever remember. His anger started to build again. It wasn’t as if Thommo was some shit-hot batsman, the bloke’s average was laughable. Any delivery that didn’t sit up and beg to be hit usually beat him. Paul was willing to bet Trevor could bowl the guy in less than an over. Shit, he’d done that to him and Paul considered himself a better batsman than Thommo.
“Uh, could I have a word?” Pete asked, coming out of the pavilion.
Paul and Trevor turned to look at him. “Thommo was bang out of order in there,” Pete said, pointing his thumb at the door. “We’ve had a team meeting.”
“Oh?” Paul said. He noticed Trevor had lost interest in the conversation and was just looking at the outfield.
“Yeah. Half the team threatened to walk out if Trevor wasn’t allowed to play.”
“And what did Thommo have to say about that?”
Pete blushed. Paul could imagine what he’d said.
“Uh, well he realised he didn’t have much of a choice.”
“So?” Paul said, becoming more interested.
“Trevor, if you’d agree to bowl for us, you’d be very welcome. Only—”
“Yes?” Trevor said.
“Well, uh, at first Thommo wanted you to change in the toilet over at the White Horse.” Pete pointed to the pub on the other side of the cricket ground.
“No way,” Paul put in.
Pete held up his hands. “That’s what the others said. So Thommo had to climb down. He’s the one who’s changing over there. So…” Pete put a hand on Trevor’s shoulder. “Will you bowl for us?”
“Only if Thommo offers Trev an apology,” Paul said before Trevor could open his mouth.
“That’s—I’m not sure he’ll agree to that.” Pete shuffled from one foot to the other.
“It’s okay. He’d only be saying it under duress, so it wouldn’t mean anything anyway,” Trevor said, looking down at his shoes.
Paul was ready to interrupt, to insist that Trevor get his apology, but Trevor looked at him and silently pleaded not to make a fuss.
“Oh, all right,” Paul mumbled.
“So you’ll play?”
Trevor nodded.
“Thanks, mate.” Pete slapped Trevor on the back before helping him to his feet and leading him back into the pavilion.
Paul was left alone on the pavilion steps, marvelling at the rapid change of events.
* * * *
Eastly won the toss, and elected to put Littleborough in to bat. As openers, Paul and Pete made their way out to the middle to a smattering of applause from the tiny crowd dotted around the ground.
“He’s not a bad bloke, that Trevor.” Chuckling, Pete added, “Really put Thommo in his place.”
“Yeah.” Paul wondered if—Nah, Pete had a girlfriend, he wasn’t interested in Trevor in that way. “He’s brilliant at bowling. Off-breaks, Yorkers, even the odd googly.”
“You’re kidding!”
Paul smiled, proud as punch of his house-mate.
* * * *
Eastly’s bowling attack wasn’t exactly the best in the village championship, but Pete still managed to edge a fast paced ball. It went straight into the waiting hands of the fielder at second slip. They were twelve for o
ne.
Thommo came to the crease, his bulky frame barely contained by his cricket whites.
“Thommo,” Paul said, nodding in his captain’s direction.
Thommo ignored him.
Paul tried to put aside his personal animosity; he’d been friends with the bloke for years. “You need to watch that guy’s top spin. It’s deceptive,” Paul said, pointing at the current bowler.
Thommo shrugged, giving Paul the impression he wasn’t going to take any notice. As they were in the middle of the over and the batsmen hadn’t crossed, Thommo was on strike.
The Eastly bowler ran up, bowled, Thommo swung at it and missed. The wicket keeper caught the ball and tossed it back to the bowler.
“Told you he was fast,” Paul called out from the non-striker’s end.
Thommo made no comment.
The next delivery came. It was a top spinner. Thommo swung at it, but didn’t hit it cleanly. Disaster struck. The fielder was in a perfect position to pluck the ball out of the air.
“Fuck!” Thommo said, banging the toe of his bat into the pitch.
“Told you.”
Thommo glared at Paul before storming off the field.
Littleborough scored seventy six runs before their allotment of overs was used up. Paul had been caught and bowled in the tenth over by an innocuous looking ball that he sent directly back at the bowler, who caught it.
Fortunately the overs ran out before Trevor was forced to come to the crease. “I might be able to throw ‘em, but I’m crap at hittin’ ‘em,” Trevor had told Paul the night before.
The two teams assembled at the White Swan for tea. The pub usually put on a good spread, and Paul was looking forward to eating his meal washed down by a pint of best bitter.
“Think we’ll be able to defend our total?” Pete said, queuing up behind Paul at the bar.
“It’ll be tight. Their number three is quite handy. Didn’t he score a half century when we played them last year?”
Pete nodded. “Where’s Trevor?”
“Uh, gone to the bog, I think.” Paul wondered why Pete was asking. “Here he comes now.”
“Don’t tell me, it’s my round.” Trevor sounded chipper. Was that a smile he sent Pete’s way? “What’ll you have?”
“No, it’s mine,” Paul growled before Pete could open his mouth.
