11

PLAYING AGAINST MY OLD CLUB

Returning to play after Christmas can be deflating when you’re not that good at cricket. The slow wickets, the hot sun, the terrible outfields and constant confrontation with one’s own mediocrity reduces cricket to a dispiriting grind. Your pre-season dreams of a breakthrough year — a year in which you achieve transcendence to reveal the star cricketer that lies within — are now a bitter memory. Every net session, every listless Saturday performance just confirms the reality that you are average. Then, Christmas rolls around and cricket takes a break. A welcome break. You see your family and friends; maybe spend some time near the ocean. You eat and you drink and it’s wonderful. You return to the club refreshed in spirit but sloppy in rig, and you stagger to the end of the season, eyes deadening with every week that passes. Yes, it happens every season; only the good players score runs after Christmas.

This year, round 11 was different. I was playing against my old club. There was a spring in my step at training that week. I changed into my spikes with urgency. I did a lap and stretched before joining the nets. Excited isn’t quite the word; it was more than that. Something stirred deep within me that week. It was the first time I’d ever played against my old club. I am the centrepiece of this. I had always striven for relevance and this fixture would catapult me there, albeit briefly. This was my testimonial, of sorts. Proactively, I decided to offer some ‘inside info’ to our captain regarding my old club. Still dressed in his suit, he’d placed himself at the top of the bowlers’ mark in order to view our net session, where he’d no doubt get a good optic. It’s a position typically reserved for state players, old first graders, club officials, and late-arriving captains in suits. I was some way from being any of those things, but I took my chances and slinked towards him.

I’d read somewhere that, in order to build understanding in relationships, one should employ mirroring body language. So that’s what I did. The captain stood there, feet wide apart in a mock power-stance, arms folded, chewing his gum with vigour. He avoided any eye contact with me. But while his gaze was fixed on the net, he appeared to be looking beyond it, through it; as if was looking at nothing at all. This was what I had to work with, so I copied him to the best of my ability. We remained in this position, looking straight ahead, talking out of the sides of our mouths for the entire conversation.

‘I know a bit about these blokes,’ I started, trying desperately to mask my excitement.

‘Yeah?’ was his response, eyes still fixed straight ahead, arms crossed.

A ball screamed past us in the air, interrupting us briefly. Someone yelled out a belated ‘Heads!’ followed swiftly by the club coach wailing ‘Keep it in the net!’ Meanwhile, the skip was unmoved. His suit had wafts of Joop cologne.

‘Yep. They’re weak. They’re really weak,’ I responded. I was standing still, but inside I was rabid. I could barely contain myself.

‘So, how do we go about it?’ he replied, unflappable, still speaking from the side of his mouth. ‘What’s the strategy?’

‘Mate, we have to bump them. We have to lid them …’

He must have sensed my intensity as I trailed off, because he swivelled his head 45 degrees to hold one eye on me for three long seconds. This was the most demonstrative I’d ever seen him.

‘Let me get this straight,’ he said matter of fact. ‘Your advice is simply to bounce them.’ It wasn’t delivered as a question.

‘Just … bounce them.’

I nodded. Immediately, I realised how stupid this sounded, but I was all in now. I couldn’t back away and risk losing face.

‘Cricket’s a simple game,’ I announced smugly.

‘Can’t argue with that.’

A few moments passed, allowing him to contemplate the tactics I had offered.

‘Okay, I like it,’ he said. ‘Good thinking. Let’s bump ‘em.’

I was pumped. Waves of testosterone surged through me. We will annihilate them with aggression. I will achieve redemption. But rather than celebrate openly, I remained standing there, arms folded, chewing gum, staring blankly ahead, relishing my mini-victory.

‘Cheers,’ the skip said finally, which I took as my cue to exit the conversation.

As I walked away, I heard my name called out. It was the old bloke who ran training, telling me to pad up for a hit in the second net. It occurred to me that I still didn’t know his name. Didn’t care either.

It was the night before the match and I was restless. I took the opportunity to organise myself. I washed my whites for the first time in years, which gave me a sense of preparedness. I laid them out on my bed and stared at them for a moment. It brought back fond childhood memories of dominating the U12 club competition in clean, crisply ironed whites. Nowadays, I couldn’t even pay my Mum to wash my whites for me. I put aside 30 minutes to play shots in front of the mirror. I’d defend a few balls first, before pushing a couple of balls into hypothetical gaps and whispering ‘two!’ I bought a bottle of Lucozade from the corner store because its branding looked athletic, and that’s how I wanted to look. I’d never been better prepared for
a match.

I arrived at the ground early enough to catch the elderly club volunteer dutifully removing dog droppings from the ground. He moved slowly across the grass, a metronomic air about him; he had done this before. The sun was already beating down on him as he traversed my old club’s home ground with nothing but a brush, a pan, a bucket hat and dignity. No other player had arrived yet. I briefly wondered whether I should have helped him. I stayed in my car. There was no way I was going to be first to arrive.

I got out of the car once I heard the distinctive roar of cricket kit wheels rolling over rocky asphalt. Bretty, Bruiser and Chappers had car pooled, which meant at least two had deemed themselves unfit to drive. As we approached the pavilion, I realised a potentially awkward side-by-side walk was on the cards, so I held back, offered a respectful nod, and allowed them to walk past. Bretty managed a limp ‘G’day, mate’, while Chappers and Bruiser kept their heads down, eyes fixed to the ground. My heart was pounding. I felt odd wearing the colours of my new team, and yearned for the familiarity of my first club.

How has it come to this? Oh that’s right, I stole money from Bruiser and had been shamed from ever returning.

Players returning to face their old clubs often talk about mistakenly entering the ‘home’ dressing room. I wondered if that would happen to me. It didn’t — it just left me wondering how dumb and inattentive those other players must be. After a few minutes most of our team had arrived, except for Mitch, who was always five minutes late. Gus would normally insist Mitch buy the team a case of beer for his infraction. Mitch, of course, never did that. I always wondered why you would punish someone’s disorganisation by forcing him to organise something.

I was noisier than usual in the change rooms. This was my ground after all. Or at least it used to be. Whatever the case, I was buzzing. I took care to ensure my warm-up lap appeared athletic, focusing on balance and driving through the hips, because I knew my old teammates were looking at me. As we passed them, my peripherals worked overtime to view their stretching circle. Bretty was holding court with what I assumed was another captivating sex story. But I sensed a hush as I bounded past; I could have sworn I heard the faint echo of that familiar word, ‘yuck’, just as I did at my very first grade cricket session. My stomach turned, I felt sick; I just ran faster and further away from my group.

We lost the toss and were fielding. I couldn’t have been happier. In truth, I was scared about batting in this fixture. Scared of failure. Scared of being exposed as the cricketing fraud I’d always suspected myself to be. I was listed to bat at 8 but still took care to have five minutes of throwdowns, rifling every shot straight back at the thrower. I took pleasure from watching the thrower discover unfound elasticity in their legs and hips as they scrambled to avoid being struck by the ball.

Once that was done I was glad to return to the sheds. The word ‘yuck’ was playing over and over in my head. Were they winding me up? If they were, they’d succeeded. My fury was palpable.

‘Macca bats 4,’ I blared to no one in particular. ‘Hates it short. Hates it at his head. Come around the wicket and bowl short at him.’

The others were minding their own business, doing the standard things like trying to finding their whites and asking for spare sunscreen. I kept going.

‘Bruiser the same. Hates getting lidded. Around the wicket’s the best option.’

It didn’t occur to me they’d have no idea who this ‘Bruiser’ character was. Maybe three or four would have recognised his actual name ‘M. Underwood’ from MyCricket, but they didn’t know Bruiser the way I knew Bruiser. I continued in this vein for another five minutes, naming every player from my old club and explaining in clipped, aggressive sentences that we needed to bounce every one of them from around the wicket.

I was in a dark place. My inner dialogue was running rampant again. Who are these deadshits to call me ‘yuck’?

Eventually, the umpire waddled in and declared, ‘On our way, boys!’ in as alpha a voice as possible. I guess you never stop trying to be alpha, even at 85, I thought. The door of the change room opened. We filed out.

‘Fuck these blokes!’ I bellowed. ‘Fuck these blokes!’

I had startled everyone: opposition and teammates, spectators, even the family walking around the perimeter of the oval with their dog. Birds scattered from their trees. I could hear Bretty and Bruiser giggling. Even John, my bookish former teammate, peered around the broadsheet paper he was already devouring. I kept walking, purposefully.

Yeah, fuck these blokes.

The umpires dropped the ball on the field. I sprinted out and scooped it up one-handed before turning back at my teammates, who were now a good 20 metres behind me.

‘Get a lid!’ I yelled. ‘Get me under the lid!’

I barely knew these blokes, but I didn’t care. I was going to give it to my old club. This was my time.

Our opening bowlers came over the wicket and kept a full length on off-stump, despite my pre-match outburst. I was miffed. Why aren’t they bowling bouncers from around the wicket? There were no fireworks or incidents in these opening exchanges. The bowling was tight and the batsmen were watchful; players encouraged each other and worked hard.

It’s strange to know the people playing against you, but it’s also depressingly just like any other Saturday. Take their opening batsman, Jimmy, for example. I hadn’t seen Jimmy since my second last game at the club, where we’d managed an unlikely victory against the top team. We roared the club song together as we stared into each other’s eyes from across the dressing room. I remember the moment clearly because Jimmy was stark naked, as he often was when reciting the club song, smashing a pad against the wall to keep a percussive beat, staring directly at me. But here he was now, just another faceless grade cricket automaton trying earnestly to score runs in the early morning, and like most other opening batsmen likely to fail.

Jimmy got out just before drinks for 11. An hour or so had passed and my old club was cruising at 1-90. The sun was out, the pitch had dried out, and our bowlers were, frankly, quite shit. I’d insisted on remaining under the lid, imploring our mediocre quicks to bump the opposition, but I found their efforts insipid. So instead of yelling my instructions from bat-pad, I decided I’d run to the bowlers before the start of each over and whisper, with husky giddiness, words to the effect of: ‘This bloke. Around the wicket. Chest or throat region.’ Then, I’d pluck the bowler’s cap off his head and jog over to the umpire, pleased to play the role of the selfless teammate.

But by now, the score had edged past 100, and I was bored. My testimonial wasn’t going to plan. I decided something had to change. Our leg-spinner had just come into the attack, so I inched closer to Robbo to apply pressure under the lid.

‘Come on boys, one mistake from this bloke and it’s all over …’ I yelled, letting the sentence breathe for a moment before following it up with a snide remark, designed for Robbo’s ears only.

‘… much like you and your missus after the Thailand incident.’

I’d made the comment as our spinner was mid run-up, but to my surprise, Robbo stepped away and directed a fierce glance right at me. The game stopped, momentarily. Robbo was going through a painful divorce that I understood had many more layers to it than his indiscretions in South East Asia, but I had rattled him. Good. I was no longer bored.

The very next ball Robbo danced down the pitch and belted our spinner over mid-on, the ball careering into the fence for a one-bounce four. I laughed and clapped sarcastically. ‘We’ve got him on the dance floor now, boys! We like seeing that!’

I had heard first graders say this stuff before. I searched vehemently for eye contact from every one of my teammates. I needed a partner, a muse; someone to validate my verbal tirade. Not one eye would meet me.

I responded with aggression. ‘You’re fucking ordinary Robbo. And you know it.’ It was nasty.

To his credit, Robbo appeared to ignore me. The spinner then dropped his next ball short; Robbo rocked back and wound up for a leg-side swipe. Standing at short-leg, I did that duck-swivel thing and prayed he’d miss me. I heard the ball fizz past my ears as it screamed to the boundary. As I lay on the ground, I turned and looked up at Robbo, who stood there staring directly at me.

‘Missed,’ was all he said.

He kept strict eye contact with me as he (half) raised his bat in acknowledgement of his 50. There was no discernible emotion on his face; he was blank. Robbo could be a dark bloke. Last year our captain had mentioned Robbo’s ex-wife in the dressing room. A week later two of his tyres were missing after training. Not deflated. Missing. No one was able to prove anything, but there was a strong suspicion that Robbo was involved.

I was starting to worry about the consequences of my actions. Obviously, I double-downed and lashed out at him. ‘Don’t blame me for your fuck ups, Robbo,’ I blurted.

The silence was eerie. Robbo cut an imposing figure as he glared back at me. It was starting to feel like that was all he was doing in between balls. His open-necked shirt clung to his sweaty torso, dark tufts of chest hair crawling their way up the neck to glisten proudly in the sunlight. His zinc, once carefully applied, had since smeared across his face like a Jackson Pollock painting, no rhyme or reason to the pattern. Finally, he was ready to reply, and he did so with punch and poise.

‘You were shit at our club. You’re shit at this club. Now I’m going to hit this ball at you.’

I was stunned. At this stage I wasn’t sure if I’d distracted him or fortified him. One part of me was elated that he’d risk his wicket. The other part was frightened.

The spinner dropped short, again. As I took cover, I briefly wondered whether he was doing this deliberately. Finally, I heard the crack of leather on willow.

It’s actually the sound of cork isn’t it? I can’t hear ‘leather’.

I was on the half turn when the ball cannoned into my knee, making a larger crack than the one that had sent the ball my way. I was down, writhing in pain. No one came over. I was told later the ball had still gone for four, astonishingly. I was promptly removed from short leg to the relative outpost of backward square leg. There’s no status in backward square leg at all. I had been banished, exiled, vanquished. Yet another defeat in a long line of mini-defeats throughout my grade cricket life. It was all too familiar.

Lunch came and went without incident; I ate my Baker’s Delight and Lucozade quietly. Towards the end of the break, I caught eyes with Bruiser and felt another wave of guilt. I wondered if he knew. He still carried around that same dead-eyed expression, so it was hard to tell.

Should I admit my thievery to him? Probably not, I concluded.

We headed back out after lunch, and it was a procession of runs. Robbo muscled the ball to all parts of the ground on his way to a very good hundred. Again, he pointed his bat directly at me in celebration. God, he had endless aggression. Unrelenting hostility. I wondered whether this was what it took to score a hundred in grade cricket. Did I require similarly deep wells of aggression in order to ton up? I wasn’t sure I had it in me.

They were 1-176 now and I was disconsolate. I had tried everything to stay interested in the field. I spent a good 15 overs trying to perfect an upright seam position and shape the ball away as I mock-bowled the ball to mid-on. I went about this with more diligence than my actual fielding. The only time I switched back on was when I found myself in a footrace with our mid-on fieldsman. The one-on-one footrace is really a one-on-one battle for manhood. While I’d remained relatively quick into my late 20s, I was no chance against Frosty, a 19-year-old private school product. Frosty and I both charged after the ball after Robbo punched one through mid-wicket, but it quickly became evident he would get there first, so I used my experience to subtly file in behind him and call for the flick. ‘Flick! Flick!’ I cried, loud enough for the ground and its surrounds to know that this was my plan all along. The flick never came — it never really does, does it? — and even on the rare occasion it does, it seems to have no discernible bearing on the speed of the return. Frosty slid down, collected the ball, stood up and rifled it to the keeper, nearly taking my head off in the process. He didn’t cast so much as a cursory glance in my direction throughout the mini-episode.

We came back out after tea to more runs. It was now about 34 degrees, with our opposition on 3-256 and ready to launch. Our legs were heavy and we were hapless; just providing the batsmen with a bowling machine experience. We had reached the stage where it felt as though a new milestone was reached every few overs. A fifty to someone here, a hundred partnership there, a club record here, a massive six there. As always, the boys were making their presence felt. An endless orchestra of ‘Yiews!’ echoed from the pavilion. They reserved their loudest roars for the times I misfielded, which
was often.

Head bowed, I entered into yet another existential cricket crisis.

We are fucking shit. Why did I change clubs? How come this never happened when I was playing there? Why did I have to steal from Bruiser? I’m 28: why am I still playing at all? How good would the beach be? Why am I here? What am I doing with my life?

They passed 300 with ease. Aside from my association with the opposition, I was completely irrelevant. A well-prepared, confident cricketer would probably look at the situation optimistically. This wicket will present me with a great opportunity to make a big score next week. Instead, my thoughts were much darker. They’re definitely going to leave the covers off the deck, and we’ll be stuck on a green top next Saturday, chasing 6-460 (dec).

As usual we were behind our over rate and there was still 25 long overs to go. In the context of 96 overs of cricket, the last 25 should feel like the home stretch, but it’s not at all. The last 25 overs take an eternity when you’re getting pumped. Your whole team is scattered throughout the field, batsmen are milking ones and twos in between boundaries or sixes, and in my case, you’re being sent from long on to long on. Another over rolled by and I was well and truly detached from this game. Detached from cricket really. My thoughts drifted to book club, to Hemingway.

What would Hemingway have made of cricket? He liked bullfighting and boxing, but English cricket was probably too posh, too considered for him. Maybe he would have liked Australian grade cricket, though? He would have lipped blokes with crisp, elegant aggression …

Our off-spinner had been brought into the attack. A 23-year-old post-graduate student, he had already been converted into a cautious, low-trajectory darter of a cricket ball — the most depressing of all crafts. I guess he was doing what he needed to do to stay in the side. We were all surviving in our own way. He instructed me to move from a long-on to a cow corner position — he must’ve suspected something coming — before darting another one in. Robbo, now 156 not out, got down on one knee and hauled it from well outside off stump. The ball careered in my direction, momentarily shaking me from my Hemingway thoughts. My heart was in my mouth. Steady. Balance. Steady. My underage representative conditioning was holding firm...

Fuck, that’s well over me. Fuck, that’s massive.

I sighed. Another six. I looked around just in time to see the ball disappear out of the ground. As the closest fielding player, it was my responsibility to go fetch it. But the ball hadn’t lodged on a hill or open territory. This was suburbia. It had crashed on to the bitumen of the adjacent road and rolled down the driveway of a house, a nice little terrace number with a small-but-well-kept lawn.

‘I think it went down that driveway, mate!’ the nearby club volunteer offered. He delivered the line good naturedly, but he didn’t need to be nice to me; during my time at the club I’d attempted to convey him as a shady white collar criminal from interstate who’d taken refuge in the disguise of our club’s kit, which he wore disturbingly often.

‘Cheers, champ,’ I managed.

I was in no hurry to fetch the ball. I didn’t jog with any sense of purpose. Being outside the confines of the ground was comforting, even if I was now essentially a man walking through leafy suburbia in dirty white clothes and Oakley sunglasses purchased in 1994, which made me look like a speed dealer.

I wandered away from the ground towards the house, searching for a cricket ball that symbolised my cricketing life: battered and lost. I made my way down the paved driveway and was drawn to the house alongside it. It was painted baby blue; its lurching shadow offered brief respite from the 34 degrees of sun that had been annihilating me all day. I realised I was alone. Save for the rough sound of my spikes scratching against the concrete, I was now experiencing a sense of calmness and serenity. Specks of light danced between the leaves of a jacaranda tree that towered proudly over the house. A light breeze blew gently across my face and I permitted myself to close my eyes and enjoy it for just a moment.

As I was reflecting on the length of this driveway, I spotted a gate swing open about 20 metres in the distance. Two people stood there — a guy and a girl, both roughly my age — waving in my direction. I looked at them for a moment before continuing on. I resumed my search for the shredded cricket ball, no doubt lodged harshly within some non-descript bush, all chewed up, leather hanging off it like skin after a bike fall, before stopping in my tracks. I looked back at the two people, who were now calling out to me. I made my way over to suss the situation out.

‘G’day mate,’ the guy said.

It was friendly. I was on guard.

‘We’re in here.’

I walked in, initially unsure of why I had been beckoned. Those thoughts drifted away as I set my senses on the picture before me. A lush, green, spacious backyard. An infinity pool. Thirty young adults and a fifty-fifty gender split. Unthreatening melodic indie music hummed softly from bespoke speakers. There were people scattered throughout the yard; some in groups, others locked in personal conversations. People were laughing. I saw dozens of women dressed in gorgeous summer dresses. A couple of guys were over in the corner jamming on acoustic guitars, but not in a pretentious manner.

Where am I?

‘G’day buddy,’ one of the guys said. He seemed to be the host, but there was no alpha about him.

‘H … Hey,’ I stammered.

I didn’t know what to do. I was unaccustomed to such raw friendliness. My eyes darted back and forth as I tried quickly to compute this tranquil scene. Bright colours danced around me. I saw manicured beards, craft beers, and — again — sundresses. Yellows, reds, blues. I felt the noise of the party soften and eyes narrow upon me. The rest of the party had twigged that a sunburnt man dressed head-to-toe in cricket whites was now amongst them. The sounds of Vance Joy faded in the background.

They’re all looking at me now.

I gathered myself. My chest tightened. I went for it. ‘I guess I didn’t get the memo for the dress code,’ I tried.

There were laughs. Actual laughs, even from the girls. Where there weren’t laughs there were smiles. Was this an ad? I didn’t care, I felt great.

The crowd returned to their conversations. This had been a momentary amusement to them. They picked up where they left off; back to their lively discussions about books, movies, gigs, comedy. Something to do with art, probably.

The host approached me. ‘Mate, are you looking for this?’ he asked, brandishing the battered cricket ball in one hand.

I cocked an eyebrow. What was he doing with the ball?

He picked up the social cue and assuaged me. ‘We saw you hunting around outside so we presumed you’d lost the ball. A couple of us dug around and found it under the table here. It’s hot out there and it looked like you could use a break, so we invited you in to chill for a bit.’

I could use a break. But was it that obvious? It probably was. I didn’t have time to overthink his comment, though, because the next thing he said floored me.

‘So … which one do you want?’ he quipped, presenting a full, kind, and earnest smile.

He faced me with both arms outstretched. In one hand was the cricket ball. It was so withered it was no longer ‘red’; more a fading grey colour. It had aged terribly. It had lost life, each over like another year — another year closer to death. It had lived 81 overs, most of it in despair. In his other hand, though, was a freshly opened beer. For me. Premium. Ice particles gracefully sliding off the bottle. Clean, modern branding. I couldn’t think clearly. The host knew my dilemma, but was relishing it. He eyed me mischievously. I was struggling to rationalise his offer.

‘It’s a beautiful day, mate. Enjoy a quick beer,’ he said.

It was a beautiful day. How long had I been gone, though? Three minutes? 20 minutes? This had felt like forever. I couldn’t have a beer, surely not? This was grade cricket. Grade cricket was the ‘best amateur competition in the world’, so they said. I’d happily have 14 schooners before and after the match, but during the match was unheard of. Then again, this was such an idyllic scene. Was this what life on Saturdays was like? An endless stream of daytime barbecues with nice people and strong gender ratios? How bloody compelling. But I surely couldn’t just drink beer while everyone at the ground was waiting for me. Others would surely be looking for the ball by now. They would find me here soon enough.

My mind went into overdrive. I wondered if they’d recommenced the game without me. Can they even do that? Would they even notice I’d gone? Would I really reject the most perfectly presented beer in my life? What life is this? And even if they did notice me, what difference would a beer make? If I have to bat tonight, would a blood alcohol concentration of 0.007 make any difference to my 8 off 32 deliveries?

‘Hand me the beer,’ I said finally.

I grabbed the beer and drank it heartily. I talked with the host and his girlfriend Erin — who wore a yellow sundress — for four minutes. We discussed whether Triple J had become too commercial in recent years, all of us settling on the affirmative. I nodded at everything that was said. I felt good, at peace. Then it was time to go. I quickly said my goodbyes and made my way to the gate.

‘Don’t forget the ball, mate,’ the host shouted, to several cheers.

I turned around sheepishly and flashed a smile. Shit, I’d nearly forgotten the ball! Of course I had; I’d chosen the beer. The host underarmed it awkwardly to me. Normally, I’d have made a wise crack, but I was so buoyed by this experience that I bypassed those tired thoughts. He didn’t need to be coordinated. His underarm found me nonetheless. I caught the ball nonchalantly, closed the gate and strolled down the driveway toward the ground, ball in hand. At the top of the driveway I swivelled, sighed and took one last look
the house.

One day I’ll host a barbecue like that.

Almost immediately, I became enveloped with terror. The ground was now in full view, and I’d been gone for what seemed like 15 minutes. Maybe 30. Had the game recommenced? I couldn’t remember anyone spending so long looking for a lost ball. Fuck, I’ve gone AWOL here, I thought, immediately returning to the crass inner dialogue that plagued me when consumed with cricket matters. As the other players emerged in my eye line I broke into a jog, feigning urgency. My anxiety was alleviated when I saw that play had not recommenced. Still, I knew a rebuke was coming — likely something along the lines of ‘Where the fuck have you been?’ I had tasked myself with finding a stray cricket ball and ended up partying, so it was a
fair question.

As I jogged purposefully to the boundary, I stopped dead in my tracks, since it was clear there was no need for urgency. Players were scattered about the ground, most of them lying down. Those that weren’t horizontal were sitting down, heads gently bowed. A few had registered that I’d returned with the ball, but it didn’t trigger any serious response. It looked like the fucking apocalypse had arrived. Out on the centre wicket, I noticed two players standing there with Steery, taking it in turns to hold his bat, no doubt enquiring as to its imperial units of measurement. ‘This 2’10 or 2’11? Feels like 2’10.’ Yes, they’d be saying something like that.

‘Oh, you’re back,’ Lenny said. ‘Wish you’d taken a bit longer. It’s nicer lying down.’

There was no irony in his voice. It became apparent that nothing at the ground had changed. Another ball had disappeared, and then reappeared. I, on the other hand, had gone somewhere else — a place that would leave an indelible mark on me. A place of warmth and happiness. A place that provided a looking glass into my future. And just as quickly, I had been violently shaken back into this desolate reality. I wasn’t even sure what was worse: the depressing scene itself, or that I’d voluntarily walked back into it.

My old club ended up hitting 374. We trudged off the field, broken. We had four overs to negotiate before stumps.

We finished the day 2-6.

I was a nervous wreck in the days leading up to week two of the match, with texts flying in from my old club mates. There wasn’t much variety to the messages; in fact they all said the same thing: ‘Quack.’ I had to hand it to them, they had batted as a team last Saturday, and now, even in abuse they were unified and on-message. It occurred to me that I’d developed a grudging admiration for the unity and ruthlessness of my old side. How could I not see this when I played there? Maybe I was the problem? I counted 31 text messages with the singular word ‘Quack’ in it that week. It was legitimate harassment, but at least they weren’t saying ‘Yuck’.

I was listed to bat at number 8, but with two wickets lost overnight I was essentially a middle order player, which buoyed me. I arrived at the ground sharp and purposeful; I felt fresh as I wheeled my bag into the away dressing room. I warmed up solidly, relishing my early invitation to hit balls during the extended throwdowns session, pumping at least 40 balls off the middle for others to field. I was in the zone, so I declined all requests to deliver throwdowns myself or to field balls for others. They talk about taking ownership in cricket: I was taking ownership today. This was my day. I had a job to do, and I wasn’t here to deliver throwdowns.

We started promisingly enough, reaching 2-35 after about 10 overs. I started to feel confident we could match it with my old team. Maybe not win the match, but not be completely embarrassed either. Sure, 2-35 isn’t a wonderful score, but it contains within it a modicum of respect. It says, ‘Yes, we’ve made some mistakes, but we do have the capability to score runs consecutively.’ I was allowing the relief to slowly wash over me when Choppy nicked a good one, taken smartly by Bruiser diving behind the keeper at first slip. At 3-35, we were in trouble again.

Fuck, that was a good dismissal. This cricket is good. I don’t know if I’m this good.

I went to pad up, which I always did when there were three wickets to get before batting. This action would always prompt the same unimaginative utterance from every grade cricket robot. ‘Why are you getting padded up so early, mate? Don’t you trust us?’ I’d normally respond with something like ‘just hate rushing’, but the truth was that I experienced weekly nightmares about getting timed out. I couldn’t risk that happening in real life.

Four down soon became five down, and I was in next. The opposition were bowling really well. ‘Oohs’ and ‘Aahs’ rippled across the ground every over. Our middle order was struggling to combat this sustained pressure. The ball was moving around indiscriminately: flying past the outside edge; jagging back in and rapping batsmen on the inner thigh; rearing off a length through to the ‘keeper at head-height. The cries of anguish were soon replaced with laughter, which was even worse. Teams start laughing when they know they’re going to win. We were 5-60 chasing 374. Our number 7 stick, Mitch, was utterly hapless, and before long he spooned one to short cover — I mean, actually spooned it, as if to say ‘I don’t want to be here. This humiliation is too much. Here, have this.’ Bruiser took the catch with such nonchalance that it intensified the electrical current of fear and nerves zapping through my body. Mitch was out. I was in.

I’ve got a pretty good routine for walking into bat. I copied it off a bloke called Sam, who was in my U12 rep cricket team. He scored a couple of 50s here and there so I considered him elite. My gloves would be resting in my helmet as I sat there waiting to bat. Following the dismissal, I’d remain seated, count silently to ten, calmly remove my strapped gloves from my helmet, fix my helmet first, then my gloves, and emerge zen-like on to the field. At the gate (if there was one) I would increase my walk to a gallop, whereupon I’d play three decisive shadow strokes: all straight drives. I’d follow it with a few twists of the torso, and walk purposefully in the remaining 15 or so metres to the wicket.

However, this time I fumbled my gloves and helmet, causing the helmet to make a shattering noise as it crashed on the hard, yellowing concrete of the pavilion. Since the opposition was beyond even needing to celebrate, the ground was already in near silence. I flung out a hand in a desperate attempt to catch the falling helmet on the second attempt, but this only made it worse. The vigour of my grasping attempt was such that I managed to strike the helmet and impart more force than it already had, sending it bouncing along the concreted pavilion surface. It left me flustered and shaking, with everyone else looking at me, including the players on the field. I walked briskly over to the helmet and flung it on as quickly as I could, narrowly avoiding tripping over a sewerage vent as I galloped onto the field.  

‘Here he is, boys!’

Now all 11 pairs of eyes were on me as I approached the striker’s end. My batting partner, Devvo, had made the unfathomable decision to meet me at the edge of the square. I couldn’t quite hear what he was saying, but I think it was something along the lines of, ‘They’ve been waiting for you mate. They won’t stop talking about you. Just work hard.’ Even though I’d walked straight past him in clear rejection of his protection, I was ridiculed anyway.

‘This is fucking village. Is this under 11’s?’ Robbo said.

‘Are you going to retire on 30? Fuck me,’ Bruiser scoffed.

I desperately wanted to tell them that the meeting wasn’t my idea; that I wasn’t village; that I agreed with them, maybe even that I wanted to be on their team. I didn’t, though. I just asked the umpire for two legs.

‘Yes, that’s two legs,’ he replied swiftly.

Thank God, at least I’ve done something right.

Coming into bat can be strange, especially when you’re a lower-order batsman. You’ve been watching the show from a distance, about 80 metres away, where everything feels benign. There’s a bowler, a batsman, fieldsmen, umpires, and the game. It’s all very straight-laced and pure from the pavilion. Fieldsmen are the quiet little pawns on the game’s chessboard. But when you finally arrive on the stage, you realise there’s much more to it. The previously anonymous opposition suddenly reveals its personality. They’re now alive — chatting about things, chipping away at your psyche. Every delivery has more meaning, every movement you make is scrutinised. It can be overwhelming.

By now, some darker clouds had started to circle. The wind whipped through my grill as some new kid glided in, swinging ball after ball past my bat. I sternly admonished myself in a bid to elevate my game. Concentrate! Watch the ball! Stop looking at his face at the moment of delivery! My feet barely moved as I swished again. Finally, I jammed my bat down on a yorker, squeezing the ball down to fine leg off the inside edge, and I was off the mark. Relief.

‘Great shot, Trippy,’ Robbo said, making reference to an obscure fourth grader we’d once played with.

Trippy had been a top order batsman with an impeccable technique. The problem was that he never scored runs. Trippy’s impeccable technique was a source of derision at the club. He looked brilliant against ball machines, but just could not middle a ball for the life of him. I felt sorry for Trippy, because he was a great bloke who tried hard. Sadly for him though, the result of his approach was a litany of balls that rolled gently to mid off and cover. The opposition feigned hand and finger injuries upon fielding his shots, mocking his lack of power. At the end of the day, grade cricketers want to be physically powerful, nonchalant and alpha. I later learned that Trippy had left the club to become a bodybuilder, and quite a successful one at that.

I battled on. At first it was weird facing blokes I’d trained, played, circuited and gambled with. I had left the club in secret shame and had never resolved it. I wondered whether Deeks had told anyone. I looked out to point and there he was: arms folded, leaning slightly back, feet in a wide power stance like a Crows Town nightclub bouncer — a picture of anger, repression, intimidation. He wore dark sunglasses so I couldn’t establish true eye contact, but the fact he shook his head every time I looked his way gave the impression he hadn’t forgotten the incident.

I had now survived ten overs, and had even struck a boundary, albeit behind square. The opposition was unperturbed. Despite my growing partnership with Devvo, they retained three slips and a gully. If I can manage ten overs here I can manage anything, I told myself. Already I had conquered my greatest fear: that I would be humiliatingly dismissed within a few balls and exposed as the fraudulent cricketer I am, devoid of talent, skill and character. I was mixing it with these guys today. Maybe I can actually play? These thoughts cycled through my mind as I clipped one to the left of mid-wicket and came back for two. I’m in here. I thought. Work hard.

Then, I was promptly hit on the pad and given out.

My old mates told me to ‘fuck off’ as I walked from the field. And just like that, it was over. After 50 minutes of intense concentration, wrestling with myself mentally, I was out. Just another batsman dismissed for not much in a staggering collapse. My meagre total just another contribution to the status quo. Cricket is too often like that.

Having removed my gear, I sidled up to the scorer to check what we were on. I did this to appear interested in our team’s progress; really, I was just scanning for my name and personal tally. I had made 8 off 32 balls. ‘Felt high,’ I volunteered to my nearby teammates, who were staring blankly out onto the field. No one made eye contact with me, but I wanted some acknowledgement. I wanted to cast some doubt on the validity of my dismissal. There was nothing, just silence.

Finally, Butch met my gaze. He stood, turned to me and sighed. ‘Hitting all three mate’, he said, before bowing his head and walking straight past me to go on a solitary lap of the ground.

Another wicket then fell; more ironic ‘yiews’ ensued. Half an hour later, we were all out for 124, with 25 overs still left in the day.

‘Put ‘em on mate, you’re batting 4,’ the skipper said, in between sips of his Red Bull energy drink.

It was a grim situation. We were trying to stave off an outright loss and the top order batsmen — including our skipper — didn’t want to bat. I was nervous, but of course padded up as instructed. Within ten overs, I was making my way to the crease. Thankfully, I didn’t drop my helmet this time.

The atmosphere was completely different to what it was in the first innings. There was no sting to the opposition’s comments; they were just mucking around. Despite the cordial atmosphere, I still played and missed at my first ball, much to everyone’s enjoyment. I saw out the over nervously, fully cognisant that one more single-figure score would drag my season average down to below 12.

The game was petering out when I cracked a few incongruous cover drives to the boundary, taking me to 20. All of a sudden I was ‘in’. That the boundaries came from the bowling of the wicketkeeper was inconsequential, for I was making runs now. Robbo had bowled about five overs in his decade-long career. He laughed when I swiped him over mid-on for four. The next ball, I took him the distance, pumping his full toss over mid-wicket. Deeks called a halt to play before the ball had even bounced, as if to say ‘this was funny, but it’s starting to depress me now’. I was 33 not out.

We had been comprehensively defeated, but I was privately elated, riding the high of my unbeaten 33. Of course, all grade cricketers are well practiced in disguising their elation, and I was no different. I put on my best disconsolate face and offered the limpest of limp handshakes to the opposition. They in turn complied with the protocol, each player looking over my shoulder while whispering something resembling the words ‘good game’. Everyone except for Deano, of course, who made good eye contact and offered an insincere sentiment like ‘good luck for the season,’ or something. He always did this, and it made him appear like a strong bloke in the opposition’s eyes. He was a terrible bloke in real life, but this was his thing.

I made the familiar beeline for the change room, mindful to amble slowly and without purpose. This was the walk of the defeated; they must appear as though they’re in some sort of daze, wandering aimlessly, inconsolable for at least 50 seconds. I maintained my hangdog expression as my thoughts oscillated between my exemplary 33 not out and where I would drink that night. It was then that the coarse sounds of 11 bellowing men boomed through to our dressing room, as our opposition commenced their team song. My old team song. It was always incumbent on some coat to say ‘never forget this feeling boys’, and on this instance, Butch duly obliged. It was even more common for someone to make a disparaging remark on the tune itself, as though poor melodic and lyrical composition somehow provided comfort to a losing side. Anyway, the song brought old memories flooding back. Nuggsy talking to me at training and taking me for a beer. My first win for the club. My first tub at the club. The night I stole $50 from Bruiser’s wallet. I’d started daydreaming, because the next thing I knew someone was talking to me, trying to grab my attention.

‘What are you doing, mate?’ Gobbler said.

‘What are you talking about?’ I shot back. I had scored 33 not out, so I had status.

‘You’re humming the song next door.’

‘Oh … didn’t realise.’

Jesus. Had no idea I was doing that. It’s a good beat, to be fair.

Most of the team had scattered pretty quickly afterwards, which tends to happen after a major loss. Some of the younger kids skipped away without having a shower, which I promptly chastised them for. As our dressing room thinned out, I could hear my old club next door, laughing it up, yelling, yiewing. I couldn’t shake the need to speak with Bruiser, and whether it was the 33 not out, or something deeper, I felt emboldened. I sprang up and headed into the opposition change room, nervous, but with purpose. I took a six-pack as collateral, held my breath, and entered.

‘Here he is, boys!’

I stood in the doorway, incongruous in team colours only, and was welcomed immediately. The boys were laughing and happy to see me. They were rapturous.

‘You blokes are a terrible unit!’ roared Timbo, who had consumed two post-cricket beers, thus rendering him intoxicated.

‘It’s great to see you mate!’ offered Robbo, the bloke who only 45 minutes earlier had intimated that I didn’t belong anywhere near the same field as him; and one week prior, had been deliberately hitting balls at my head, with the intention to cause grievous bodily harm.

Everyone was warm and cordial, and keen to see how I was doing, on and off the field. I felt welcome and at home. I made my way to Bruiser after a few beers. He’d just emerged from the shower, so with only a beer in hand and a towel around his considerable waist, we stood in the corner of the dressing room together. He’d made 56 batting at 5 and taken a great grab at first slip: the perfect performance for a wealthy 34-year-old in third grade. We engaged in a little bit of small talk: I told him about my girlfriend and, after another beer or two, how I’d joined a book club. I eventually worked up the courage to make my confession.

‘Bruiser I have to tell you something,’ I started. ‘Last year, on our end of season circuit, at the strippers …’

Bruiser sensed something was coming; I didn’t normally sound so serious when talking about the strippers.

‘… I made a really stupid, drunken decision, and … I stole fifty dollars from your wallet,’ I blurted.

Bruiser nodded. He looked calm, so I continued on.

‘It was just sitting there, and I convinced myself — ridiculously — that you didn’t really need it. So I took one. Anyway, Deeks saw me and absolutely gave it to me. I was so ashamed. That’s why I left the club. I’m so sorry.’

I decided to wait for Bruiser to react now. I had just emptied it out; I had been talking too much. I wondered if I was about to ruin not just his mood, but that of the entire dressing room.

After what seemed like an age, Bruiser spoke.

‘What’d you spend it on?’ His eyes were lively and a broad smirk broke over his face.

‘Um … to be honest mate, probably just the cab home, maybe a coffee the next day and a sandwich? I don’t really know,’ I replied. I hadn’t expected that question.

‘It’s a hell of a confession, mate,’ Bruiser chuckled. ‘Takes some balls to come in here and tell me that.’

I remained silent.

‘Listen, don’t worry about it. You’re right, I do have plenty of $50 notes. The only mistake you made was stealing one, because I’d probably have just given it to you anyway …’

Relief surged through me.

‘… But I really respect that you’ve fronted up and told me, and I’m sorry you felt the need to leave the club over it.’

‘I thought it was my only option,’ I responded.

‘Look, what’s done is done. We always enjoyed having you around. The boys were also saying how much they’ve enjoyed playing against you too. They were having a great time watching you sledge Robbo — he hated it. We loved it, because as you know Robbo is a cunt.’ He’d said the last part of that sentence loud enough for the whole dressing room to hear. Everybody laughed, including Robbo.

‘I’m really happy to hear things are going well with you. You’ve got a girlfriend, you’re reading widely, and you’re playing second grade. It’s tough to balance your personal life and creative pursuits with a career as an amateur cricketer. And to come and apologise to me shows a ton of character. Well done.’

Bruiser paused briefly before asking the inevitable. ‘Now, are you going to come out on the circuit with us tonight?’

‘Of course he is!’ chimed Robbo.

Of course I was.