Championship Dash

by Michael Panckridge

  ‘Stop the bus,’ Farmer McKenzie boomed. Rhonda, the bus driver, hit the brakes and the bus came to a halt. ‘Out,’ he ordered, pointing to the door.

  ‘No!’ shrieked Joy. ‘You can’t just leave him in the middle of the desert.’

  ‘He’ll die out there!’ Emmi gasped.

  ‘Most likely of thirst; maybe starvation,’ Pickles said, in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘Or, he could get eaten by a dingo.’

  ‘Pickles, shut up,’ Emmi snapped.

  ‘Farmer McKenzie, if you leave Fatty Bumbar out there to die then I’m going to stay with him,’ Joy cried, packing up her bag.

  ‘Joy, Fatty B is going to lift his leg, have a few sniffs then get back on the bus.’

  Joy paused. ‘He is?’

  ‘Of course he is,’ Farmer McKenzie said. ‘Do you really think an old softy like me would leave Fatty Bumbar out there alone?’

  Joy squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears.

  ‘Don’t know what all the fuss was about,’ Pickles sighed, sitting back down again.

  Thursday morning

  After a long nine hours, the Galahs finally arrived in Perth. Exhausted, they all went straight to bed for some well-deserved sleep, ready for the busy days ahead of them.

  There were two days of training before the Galahs first T20 match. Thursday morning had been a frenzy of activity with registration, tours, meeting the other teams and even interviews with newspaper and media representatives. By lunchtime, all the teams had arrived.

  Each of the competing teams were Zone Champions in their particular area of Western Australia and were ready to vie for the title of this year’s T20 State Championship. Rumours were spreading like wildfire about the team from Kangaroo Flat, who’d broken the Galahs 30-year losing streak with an amazing win – and with only ten players. And about Allunga, the mysterious girl who’d arrived as if from thin air.

  Later in the afternoon, the draw for the quarter-final matches took place and again Kangaroo Flat was getting the attention.

  The eighth and final team, Inverloch, had been disqualified because of something that had happened in their zone final. One of their openers, having been given out, had disguised himself as another player and returned to the crease to bat again later in the innings. An opposition player had recognised him and spilled the beans.

  Because of this, the Galahs had been the lucky team to have their name drawn out of a hat and given a free ticket through to the semi-finals.

  Everyone had been issued with a schedule of the day’s program and all eyes stared at it with excitement.

  ‘Nets,’ Barnsey gasped, clutching a fistful of net and kissing it. The girls from the Grifton Grammar School stared at him.

  ‘We’ve never trained in proper nets before,’ Farmer McKenzie explained.

  ‘Seriously?’ a tall girl with long dark hair asked. ‘We’ve got our own outdoor and indoor nets at school.’

  At first, the Kangaroo Flat players found it hard to concentrate. They were so used to the hot, dry and dusty Kangaroo Flat Reserve with all its bumps and cracks. They were also a little mesmerised by the Grifton girls and their organised training. They had four coaches, all wore matching uniforms and were efficient and sharp in everything they did.

  But when Allunga took her turn to bat, it was suddenly the Grifton girls and their coaches who were staring.

  ‘Isn’t she going to put on pads?’ One of the girls asked.

  Allunga effortlessly stroked every delivery into the netting on either side of her.

  ‘That is poetry,’ one of the Grifton coaches said, shaking his head.

  ‘Yeah, well, anyone can look good without pads,’ the girl with long dark hair muttered, turning away.

  ‘Hey, Farmer McKenzie,’ a voice called. Everyone turned. It was Justin Langer, the coach of the Perth Scorchers, leading a group of players towards the nets.

  ‘There’s Shaun Marsh!’ Joy cried, dropping her gloves and running over to them.

  The Grifton girls glared enviously as the Kangaroo Flat players gathered around their heroes.

  ‘Hello everyone,’ Shaun Marsh said. ‘Congratulations on your fantastic win. We’re really happy to be backing you guys in this comp. Of course, you’re all getting some nice gear as part of the sponsorship, but what’s really important is for you to listen and learn from the advice we give you. Does that sound okay?’

  The Kangaroo Flat players nodded as one.

  For the next hour, the Perth Scorchers worked closely with the Kangaroo Flat team, dishing out batting and bowling tips to every player.

  ‘How much did you pay for that?’ one of the Grifton coaches asked Farmer McKenzie as the session came to a close.

  ‘Not a penny,’ he said. Farmer McKenzie watched Allunga nodding to Charlotte Edwards, who, with a hand on her shoulder, was offering some advice. ‘We were just the lucky team to be chosen for the sponsorship. Simple as that.’

  Close to 60,000 people were rocking the new Perth Stadium. A sea of orange banners and flags fluttered as Aaron Finch settled over his bat to face the first delivery from Jason Behrendorff.

  ‘C’mon, Aaron,’ muttered Krisso, one of the few in the crowd, along with Allunga, wearing a red Melbourne Renegades shirt.

  ‘Just as long as you’re not wearing that on Saturday.’ Emmi grinned, elbowing him in the ribs.

  ‘Under my Perth Scorchers top,’ Krisso replied. ‘Yes!’ he cried a moment later, as Finch whacked the first ball over mid-on for four.

  The Melbourne Renegades had come to play. Their innings of 179 had quietened the crowd a little, but as the Perth Scorchers openers strode to the wicket, a thunderous roar erupted as fire streamed and spewed out of special pipes around the perimeter of the playing field.

  From the outset, the Perth Scorchers played with daring and flair, and although they lost wickets, they were also managing the run rate.

  With two overs to go, the Perth Scorchers needed 33 runs, with three wickets in hand. It was then that Farmer McKenzie’s phone buzzed.

  Sitting next to him, Joy watched his lips tighten and his eyes narrow.

  ‘Is it Fatty B?’ she asked, forgetting the game for a moment.

  Farmer McKenzie looked distracted, then a tremendous boom of noise erupted from the crowd as Ashton Agar clubbed a six over third man.

  ‘Nothing to worry about, Joy,’ Farmer McKenzie said, covering the mouthpiece, his wrinkled face breaking into a smile.

  Krisso had his head in his hands as Ashton Agar smacked another 16 runs from the over, reducing the target to a much more manageable 11 runs off the final over.

  ‘James Pattinson,’ Krisso murmured, his fists clenched. ‘C’mon, Patto.’

  ‘C’mon, Mitchell Johnson, don’t you mean?’ Emmi said, on the edge of her seat. Mitchell swung crazily at the first ball, completely missing it. Peter Nevill collected the ball and hurled it at the stumps, as Mitchell scampered part way up the pitch. The ball just missed, rolling harmlessly back to the bowler.

  ‘Dot ball,’ Krisso called, wishing that Johnson had been run out.

  He swung again at the next ball, this time managing an edge down to third man. One run. Was the game changing again?

  ‘What do you reckon, Coach?’ Phoebe shouted above the clamour of the crowd. But Farmer McKenzie didn’t answer. He had one finger pressed into his left ear, his phone jammed against the other. And his face was getting redder and redder by the second.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Emmi asked, nodding in his direction.

  ‘No idea.’ Phoebe shrugged. ‘Must be important, though.’

  They turned their attention back to the game only to see Ashton Agar get his off stump ripped out of the ground by a fast yorker from James Pattinson.

  ‘Woo!’ Krisso screamed, jumping out of his seat.

  Camden noticed that Allunga appeared to be the only person not groaning in horror or screaming in excitement; the grin of delight hadn’t left her face for the entire game, though she di
dn’t appear to be worried about the result.

  ‘You are barracking for the Melbourne Renegades, aren’t you?’ he asked.

  Allunga shrugged. ‘Of course.’ She smiled. ‘I guess I’m just a bit quieter with the men playing. But if it was Grace Harris and the WBBL, then I’d totally be going crazy.’

  The new batter, Ashton Tye, managed to crunch the next delivery wide of cover and the batters scrambled three precious runs.

  ‘What’s the go?’ Farmer McKenzie asked, slipping the phone into his pocket and looking up at the enormous electronic scoreboard.

  ‘Seven needed off two balls,’ Charlie said, from the row behind. ‘Or six to tie.’

  ‘We don’t want another one of those now, do we?’ Farmer McKenzie replied.

  Mitchell Johnson smashed the next ball over point for four and the crowd was pumping once more.

  Aaron Finch spent at least three minutes setting his field for the last delivery, but he needn’t have bothered. Mitchell Marsh plastered the final delivery nine rows back for a humungous six.

  Everyone in the crowd went wild; nearly everyone. Krisso once again had his head in his hands while Farmer McKenzie, with the phone conversation he’d just had still fresh in his mind, wore a glazed look, as if his mind was somewhere a long way from the Perth Stadium.

  Friday morning

  At breakfast the following morning, Farmer McKenzie gathered the team together.

  ‘Listen up,’ he said, his voice hushed. At the table nearby, the girls from Grifton Grammar, decked out in their school sports uniform and looking a million dollars, had suddenly gone quiet. The Kangaroo Flat players leaned in closer. ‘People are saying this outback town called Kangaroo Flat, which no one’s ever heard of before, has been given favourable treatment – first with having the Scorchers sponsorship and then getting the free ticket through to the semi-finals.’

  ‘We’ll take it, though. Yeah, Macka?’ Phoebe asked. ‘The free ticket?’

  Farmer McKenzie nodded. ‘Yeah, we’ll take it.’

  Farmer McKenzie looked at his players, the only team not wearing some sort of uniform: Barnsey in torn shorts, a singlet and wearing nothing on his feet; Camden in a brown shirt buttoned up to his neck; Joy wearing a bright pink dress with sparkly stars all over it; Emmi decked out in black track pants and a dark T-shirt with some rock group’s name sprawled across the front. He smiled as he watched Charlie offer Fatty Bumbar a half slice of toast and jam. Even though he wasn’t a qualified coach, Farmer McKenzie had grown extremely fond of these quirky kids and would do his utmost to stand up for them.

  Having eavesdropped on Farmer McKenzie and his team, the girls on the Grifton table began to whisper and snigger.

  ‘Farmer McKenzie,’ Allunga said as she stood up abruptly, ‘there’s a reason for everything. There’s a reason why we got that bye in the draw.’ A girl from the Grifton table snorted. Allunga turned her head slowly, raising her voice slightly. ‘Just like there’s a reason other schools here didn’t get the bye,’ she continued.

  ‘Reckon we need all the breaks we can get,’ Barnsey said, his mouth full of cereal.

  ‘Let’s just put in a big day’s practise and see what tomorrow brings,’ Farmer McKenzie said firmly.

  Not having to play in the quarter-finals meant the Kangaroo Flat team had most of the training facilities to themselves. They spent the day working on their bowling and batting, watching the quarter-finals games and snacking on the delicious food the hostel alongside the oval had provided for them.

  At six o’clock the Kangaroo Flat Galahs, along with the three remaining teams, met in the common room at the hostel to hear the draw for the semi-finals.

  ‘Sheridan Hill will be playing Kangaroo Flat in the first game at ten o’clock, which means that Clover Gully will be playing the Grifton Grammar School in the afternoon match at one o’clock,’ the organiser said. He took a couple of minutes to run over a few more rules and regulations. ‘Does anyone have any questions?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ a woman wearing the grey and blue Grifton uniform said.

  Farmer McKenzie sucked in his breath sharply. ‘So that’s the woman who phoned me,’ he muttered darkly, under his breath.

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Marjorie Flop, Head Coach at Grifton Girls Grammar. I was just wondering about the Kangaroo Flat team. I’ve only noticed ten players. I always thought a cricket team was made up of 11 players. Unless, of course, their coach is intending to play.’

  Farmer McKenzie felt his face burn as the woman smiled at him. But it wasn’t a smile, just her mouth making the shape of a smile. It disappeared from her face as quickly as it had appeared.

  ‘Or the dog?’ another of the Grifton coaches inquired, his eyebrows raised.

  The two officials standing at the front of the room exchanged glances.

  ‘I don’t see a problem –’ the second official began.

  ‘It does state here in the rules you provided,’ the woman continued, clutching a small booklet. She flipped the brochure open and read from a highlighted section. ‘Teams shall be comprised of 11 players, with a twelfth player who may field but not bat or bowl in the case of injury. I repeat, 11 players.’

  ‘Does it say in the rule book that you can’t have ten players?’ Allunga asked. Camden felt the hairs on his neck bristle. Had they come this far to be kicked out of the competition before they’d even bowled a ball?

  ‘Are you a little hard of hearing?’ she said, glaring at Allunga. ‘I will repeat it for you. Teams shall be comprised of 11 players. Make no bones about it. The Grifton girls are here to win this tournament, just like we did last year, and the year before that. But we win by playing by the rules. Clearly, there is a team here today from some outback spot in the desert of this great state of ours that is not.’ She slapped the booklet closed and stared at the officials, demanding an answer.

  ‘Well, that does seem quite clear,’ the second official said, glancing over at Farmer McKenzie. ‘Okay, 11 players it must be. Kangaroo Flat, you’ll have to find another player by 9.30 am when the team sheets are handed in.’

  ‘From Kangaroo Flat,’ the Grifton coach drawled, smiling thinly. ‘That will take some doing,’ she added.

  Silence filled the room. Not even Allunga could think of anything to say. The Kangaroo Flat players all turned to their coach, who was looking shocked and bewildered. He’d never heard anyone speak in such a cold and harsh manner.

  ‘Fatty Bumbar is our eleventh player,’ a small voice piped up from the back of the room. Everyone turned to look at the scruffy boy with the thick-lensed glasses.

  Marjorie Flop scowled. ‘Fatty who?’

  ‘That’s Fatty Bumbar. He’s Farmer McKenzie’s dog,’ Joy explained.

  ‘He’s like a guide dog,’ Camden said, watching Pickles slowly get to his feet.

  ‘Yeah, he helps us out,’ Barnsey added. Pickles stumbled forwards, then fell over Fatty Bumbar who promptly got to his feet and started licking Pickles’ face.

  ‘Ohh, how cute,’ one of the girls uttered.

  ‘Be quiet, Bethany,’ Marjorie Flop snapped. ‘A dog? You have a dog playing in your team?’ she gasped, little bits of spittle forming at her mouth.

  ‘A seeing eye dog for Pickles, who is vision impaired,’ Emmi said.

  ‘You okay there, Pickles?’ Camden asked.

  ‘All good,’ Pickles replied, waving a hand.

  Marjorie Flop’s mouth was opening and closing but nothing was coming out.

  ‘Right then. Well, that all seems settled.’ The first organiser beamed. ‘Any other questions?’

  ‘A dog,’ Marjorie Flop muttered, under her breath. ‘What next? A performing seal in a pink leotard?’

  ‘I think the pressure might be getting to her,’ Barnsey whispered to his coach.

  Farmer McKenzie nodded. ‘Think you might be right,’ he agreed. ‘I’d hate to see her in a bad mood. Rather be locked in a dunny with a swarm of bees.’

  Saturday morning />
  ‘We’ve got a telegram from Mrs Bentley,’ Farmer McKenzie said, calling his players together.

  ‘What’s a telegram?’ Bojing asked, puzzled.

  ‘I think he means a text,’ Camden said, taking the tiny phone from Farmer McKenzie’s old hands. ‘From all of us at Kangaroo Flat. Good luck to the mighty Galahs,’ Camden read.

  ‘Woo, go us,’ Emmi said, her voice hollow. ‘We have zero supporters here,’ she said, casting a quick glance around the ground. The small crowd was slowly building.

  ‘Yes, but we have supporters here,’ Allunga said, her clenched fist touching her chest. ‘And we have each other.’

  ‘No, Allunga, we have you,’ Camden said. ‘Without you, we’d be nothing.’

  ‘Camden’s right,’ Barnsey agreed. ‘We’re just a bunch of hacks. We shouldn’t –’

  ‘Barnsey, wrong time,’ Emmi warned, seeing the opposition captain approaching.

  ‘You guys got a captain?’ he asked.

  Allunga stepped forwards, and players from both teams crowded in around the two captains.

  ‘Heads,’ Allunga called.

  ‘We’ll bat,’ said the Sheridan Hill captain, seeing the coin showing tails.

  ‘Good luck, everyone,’ Farmer McKenzie said, offering his hand to the opposition coach. They shook hands and, suddenly, all the players were shaking hands.

  ‘Do we shake the dog’s hand too?’ a small boy asked.

  Barnsey turned on him in a flash but the boy looked like he was serious. ‘Sure,’ Barnsey said, eying the boy warily.

  Smiling, the boy knelt by Fatty Bumbar and held out his hand.

  ‘Shake hands, Fatty,’ Pickles said, encouragingly to the bull-mastiff.

  ‘That’s so cool,’ the boy said, eyes wide, as Fatty Bumbar lifted his front right paw.

  ‘Well, stone the crows,’ Farmer McKenzie muttered, shaking his head.

  If the crowd who’d gathered for the first T20 semi-final weren’t totally focused on the game by the time it started, they were completely hooked after the first over.