12

THE FINAL CHAPTER

For professional athletes, the decision to retire is never taken lightly. Perhaps arthritis of the knee has set in, or chronic back issues have become too much to bear. Some quit before they suffer the ignominy of being dropped; a proud decision commonly known as retiring on your ‘own terms’. This tactic enables them to bow out to great fanfare while maintaining their legacy. And many simply wish to spend more time with their family. The life of a professional cricketer involves a lot of travel; many lonely nights separated from your loved ones. It’s a bittersweet experience listening to little Madeline’s first words via Skype when you’re on a meaningless two-test tour of Pakistan in the UAE. Understandably, you’d rather be there in person to share these precious moments.

Sadly, the amateur cricketer has no such excuses. For him or her, it is a stark, confronting realisation that this simply cannot go on any longer. The constant failures have become mentally fatiguing. The risk/reward of spending your valuable weekends on a cricket field just isn’t paying off. Unfortunately, there’s nothing idealistic or romantic about retiring from your club team. Rarely will tears be shed. In many ways, it’s a relief — for all concerned. Thank fuck, it’s finally over.

For amateur athletes — particularly middling grade cricketers such as myself — retirement can be an even tougher, more agonising prospect than it is for our professional counterparts. There’s no job in the Channel Nine commentary box to look forward to; no seamless transition into paid coaching. There’s no testimonial match at the SCG featuring a host of former players and current radio/TV personalities. No publishers clamouring for the rights to your tell-all autobiography. None of that stuff.

Cricket wasn’t keeping me from my family, or cutting into my work hours. I was a childless man with a terrible job — still am — and in many ways, cricket was what defined me. I wasn’t suffering from any injuries either; I wasn’t athletic enough to get ‘injured’. But in recent years, as this book attests, the game had worn me down. Every single Saturday morning during cricket season, since perhaps the age of 25, I’d woken from my bed with a sinking feeling in my gut. I was sick of the politics. I was sick of the failures. I was sick of having to act alpha, when I was naturally a beta male.

I can still vividly recall my first century. I was 12, batting in a representative fixture, edging closer and closer to an unlikely and unprecedented milestone. Finally, the moment arrived; I nudged one behind square and set off for the single that would mark my coming of age. I waited for the team to start clapping, to roar my name from the stands, but nothing came. It seemed I was the only person who had even realised I was on 100, having diligently counted my runs throughout the entire innings. But as is often the case at amateur level, a belated applause burst from the pavilion at the end of the over. I raised my bat triumphantly, turning to salute each corner of the ground — even though the 20 or so spectators were all congregated in one specific area — savouring my childhood heroics. And there, in the distance, I saw Dad, standing and clapping slowly, a faint smile offsetting his typically emotionless face. God, the pure pride I felt at that moment — I’ve never felt anything like that since. But would I ever get to feel like that again?  Would Dad ever be proud of me again? At this point, it all seemed very unlikely.

In recent months, I’d made peace with the idea of never scoring a grade cricket century. I’d talked it over with my mates — with Nuggsy, with Finn, even with Lara — and they’d assured me that it didn’t reflect who I was as a person. My inability to conquer the grade cricket scene had grated on me for all these years, but I was learning to let go. In truth, the backyard cricket match I had with Dad over Christmas lunch — that infamous streetball clash — some years ago now, had a real effect on me. Since then, I had begun to engage in new extra-curricular activities, which were giving me great joy. Not just the book club — which had reinvigorated my latent interest in literature — but other simple pleasures, like camping down the coast with Finn and some of my other non-cricket mates, like going to music and comedy festivals with Lara and her friends. Discovering the joys of a Saturday brunch. I’d even enrolled in a couple of ‘charity fun runs’ — a bold new step for me, but one that had enabled me to feel like I was helping the community. Basically, I was becoming a more rounded individual — and I wasn’t sure whether I even had time for cricket anymore.

It was late March, the last game of the season. I’d been dropped to fourth grade to give some young kid a go in thirds. He was a ‘player of promise’ — there’s that fucking phrase again — and I was the dispensable older player, the ageing Hollywood actress to his young, emerging starlet with undeniable box office appeal. The selectors diplomatically claimed that they were just ‘playing around with the teams’, but I knew this was a mortal body blow. Next year, I would certainly start in fourth grade. Perhaps even in fives. I shuddered at the thought of batting in the third net, or sharing a weathered pill with a fifth-grade leg-spinner. I hadn’t been in the third net since the early 2000s. It’d be like flying economy after years of first class travel.

The game was being played about 30 minutes from home. Our opposition, the Dragons, sat handsomely in second place on the ladder, assured of semi-finals cricket. These were the worst kind of games. I turned up at the ground to meet my new teammates, most of whom I’d never spoken to before. I was slightly late, having never played at this grizzly venue before — a No. 2 ground in the middle of nowhere — and the lads were already warming up. I slung my kit down in the corner, having shoved someone else’s kit aside to get the prime position, and took a second to reflect on the year gone by.

Hmm, another great season. Got sledged every weekend of the summer, dropped nine catches, and my car broke down twice. I did score one 30-odd, though, so I guess it hasn’t been a complete write-off.

During this solitary moment of contemplation, I sniffed the dressing room air. The grades may change, but the smells remain the same. Most adult cricketers fail to wash their whites during the week. As such, the stench of crusty, unwashed cricket whites dominates all dressing rooms, from first grade down to the lowest level of park cricket. These filthy, grass-stained clothes have been stewing in their cricket kits all week, resting against sweat-laden cricket pads, leaky sunscreens and perhaps even a long-forgotten banana peel — itself having languished there for months, all mouldy and brown. As the day goes on, assorted chemical fumes — cigarette smoke, Dencorub and Aerosol —will add to this powerful mix. This here is the true scent of grade cricket. An offensive aroma, yet one strangely comforting in its familiarity. Having breathed in the air of male failure, I slowly ambled out to join the others on the field.

Getting dropped is a big blow to the ego. One day you turn up to training and she tells you its over. Even though you saw it coming, it’s still always a surprise. I guess the one good thing about it is that you’re ‘back in the game’ a week later, getting to know 10 new blokes. I joined the group and stood there, arms crossed. I silently cursed myself for forgetting to bring a sweater. The March air had a crisp autumnal chill to it; cold dew sheathed the grass. If not for the constant sound of massive airplanes whooshing overhead — we were stationed right next to an airport for this fixture — I could have sworn I was in England again.

Fourth grade wasn’t a chance for the finals this year. From experience, these last few games before the end of the regular season were the grimmest of all. The warm-ups become increasingly half-hearted: there are fewer hits in the T-drill, the throwdowns have less venom, and well, no one gives a shit. I was keen to get this game over and done with and crack on with the post-match beers. The final season’s circuit was historically one of the most notorious.

‘Just eight hours until we can get out of here and can on,’ I announced crudely, expecting some murmurs of approval.

I got nothing in return. To my surprise, I noticed a difference with this team. There was a strange, positive energy, a real focus, a sense of purpose. It wasn’t what I expected from a fourth grade outfit with nothing to play for. The body language was good, confident. Everyone was wearing their correct training uniform — right down to the club-issued socks.

‘Still a game to win here, mate. We can finish the season in 11th if we get up, which will do a lot for club championship points,’ said a bloke whom I knew to be ‘Bubba’.

Bubba’s retort earned some positive cheers from the rest of the team; my comment in comparison seemed flippant and ridiculous. My only encounter with Bubba to date had been in a pre-season trial match, where he sternly instructed me to ‘work hard’ from his position at first slip. Bubba was 40 kilograms overweight, unemployed, and still lived with his 82-year-old mother, which made me wonder whether he was qualified to extoll the virtues of ‘working hard’. Nonetheless, given his superior age and body mass, Bubba appeared to be the alpha male in this pack of young broncos. I had no business turning up and subverting the team culture with such a frat boy remark, anyway.

I looked around at my new fourth grade teammates. Limbering up against the fence was Jordie, our 16-year-old opening bowler and designated player of promise. He had one of those awful asymmetrical haircuts that are becoming increasingly ubiquitous among the younger players. He also boasted a labret ring, listened to the local alternative radio station and attended all-ages indie gigs in his spare time. I wondered whether I should tell him to conceal this alternative side in order to progress up the grades, but thought better of it.

To the left of Jordie, gingerly stretching out a hamstring, was a bloke called ‘Lloydy’. I didn’t know much about his cricket, but I did know that he was the official fourth grade Chop King. I’d seen him out drinking beers with some of the first grade lads after training. I’d even chinked glasses with him once or twice and stood in on some of his stories, laughing at his punchlines. As I would soon find out, Lloydy wasn’t a good cricketer at all — in fact, he wasn’t even a fifth grader, to be honest. He was diabolically shit. Normally, a player of that standard would be running around in Shires cricket, B Grade ‘seniors’, or some other competition where the men wear baker’s whites and keep their shirts deliberately untucked in order to hide their unsightly abdomens. But Lloydy himself was far from a sore sight. His thick, wavy chestnut brown hair sat marvellously underneath his baggy cricket cap. His eyes were like glistening blue infinity pools; you just wanted to grab a cocktail and lay in them for hours, watching the sun settle over the horizon. His storytelling was rich, both in content and delivery, giving light to otherwise dull grade cricket fixtures and training sessions. I looked forward to feasting off these tales in the cordon, assuming I would be fielding there alongside him. I’d pat him on the back after yet another dropped catch; he’d look back at me, dimpled ho-hum grin — ‘aw, shucks’ — all would be forgiven in an instant.

Of course, there was Nuggsy, too. Good old Nuggsy, who had stuck with me all these years. We’d been dropped for this match together, as if we were a package deal: he, the grizzled, charismatic club veteran; me, the former child prodigy who never amounted to anything, the Macaulay Culkin of grade cricket. He’d been there during my lowest points — the stealing incident with Deeks; the embarrassing night out at Lounge Bar with Finn — and the good times, too. We’d circuited together on the night I finally lost my virginity. He brought a second pair of gloves out to me that day I hit 37 not out in a trial game. All the great moments. And I hoped that perhaps he’d be by my side for my next moment of glory, whenever that might be.

Then there was our captain, Chooka. Patrick ‘Chooka’ Cook was a lovely bespectacled 36-year-old man. He had a gentle, fatherly demeanour and wise, knowing eyes. His torso was soft and pillowy — as far from a hardened ‘rig’ as it comes — yet he seemed to have no body image hang-ups whatsoever. He treated his potbelly as a badge of honour; the result of a life well lived. He’d spent a lot of time in the south of France, where he had developed a special affinity for soft cheeses and crisp aromatic white wine. I’d heard that he’d often bring such delectable treats for afternoon tea during home games. This humble man was the perfect choice as fourth grade captain.

Sadly, I’d overheard many of the young, top grade players heap shit on Chooka behind his back during the season. They mocked him for being slightly pudgy and past his prime. They took him on simple face value, as was the grade cricket custom.  Some of them even went a step further, implying sinister motives for his continuation at the club. Because after all, why would anyone bother putting his hand up to captain fourth grade? It means you’ll never get promoted up the grades. You’re essentially signing your own grade cricket death certificate.

A few months earlier, I was at the pub with a couple of second grade teammates after training. About six of us were there, standing erect with beers in hand and chests out, trading vastly exaggerated sex stories like Bitcoin. Generally speaking, it was unusual for the lower graders to join in on these exclusive post-training gatherings, with the exception of Lloydy, who was welcome anywhere on the basis that his mere presence might attract a few women. But on this occasion, Chooka had wandered in with a couple of the young lads in fourth grade, including a 19-year-old Indian bloke named Vikram dressed in full whites. We strived unsuccessfully to avoid eye contact with them.

‘Hi, boys,’ Chooka offered upon approach. ‘How’s second grade looking this weekend?’

‘Yeah good, champ,’ someone responded, curtly.

‘Oh that’s good. I hear you boys are an outside chance for finals this season. Plenty of runs to be scored at Hislop Oval this weekend!’

One particularly noxious bloke named Marty Henson saw this as his cue. ‘Sorry, champ, but what grade are you in?’

Chooka, a former second grade captain, had skippered fourth grade for the past six years running, steering them to two premierships in that time. He was an institution at the club and adored by all the junior players. His ability to broker positive relations with the umpires had single-handedly ensured we didn’t finish last in the Spirit of Cricket awards. Put simply, he’d done more for the club than anyone at this little gathering had ever done for any institution. But, to his detriment, Chooka was a balding 36-year-old man with a mediocre rig and an unspectacular sexual history, so no one at this little gathering really cared too much about Chooka.

‘Just fourth grade, mate. Love the game though!’

Henson smirked. A villainous smile crept upon his shit-eating face. ‘Seriously, champ. You should just fucking give up,’ he sniped, with alarming hostility.

The group went silent, save for a couple of apprehensive whistles from the lads. God, Henson was a horrible fuckwit. But would Chooka rise to the challenge?

Instead, Chooka just laughed. ‘You’re probably right, Marty! I could never match it with you young blokes in second grade.’

And with that, Chooka cheerily made his way over to the bar with the young fourth grade lads to shout a round of well-earned drinks.

‘Old Chooka just loves hanging around the young boys, doesn’t he?’ Marty called out. ‘Fucking paedo.’

To my eternal discredit, I never said anything.

I’ve sat through hundreds of pre-game speeches from all sorts of captains. Usually, the message revolved around ‘working hard’. Whatever you do, make sure you do it hard. Deeks and Gus — the two captains under whom I’d played most of my adult cricket — were both strong adherents to this generic maxim. But in this pre-game briefing, I was shocked to find a completely different tone. In his address, Chooka covered several different themes. It was a rich, engaging talk about passion, discipline, honour, integrity and pride. Pride in the club. Pride in your teammates. But most importantly, pride in yourselves. It was more of a TEDtalk than a fire-up speech. It was also a refreshing change to see a captain wearing pants while delivering the pre-game speech.

Having called for quiet, Chooka kicked his speech off by introducing an interactive element. ‘Look around the room, lads. Have a look at the blokes around you. I know that a lot of you don’t know each other. Fourth grade can be a bit like that. You’ve got young kids coming up from fifth grade, and good players who’ve hit a rough trot and have found themselves in fours. So just take a second to look at the bloke next to you, shake his hand, and introduce yourself
to him.’

A few seconds passed before anyone moved.

‘Go on, introduce yourselves!’ Chooka urged.

I looked at the bloke next to me — a young kid, couldn’t have been more than 18. I put my hand out and introduced myself. I kept it brief, offering just my name, age and batting position.

‘Oh, nice to meet you, mate,’ he replied. ‘My name is Aaron Tompkins. I’m 18 and just moved here from the country. I bowl seamers and bat a bit.’

Aaron seemed like a lovely kid. He had disarmingly large hands for an 18-year-old, and his accent was broad and friendly, like all good country lads. He was young, naïve. I wondered whether this naiveté would change after tonight’s post-match circuit, where he would likely be exposed to the twin horrors of grade cricket — adultery and alcoholism. But at this moment, I saw nothing but hope in his eyes, so I humoured him.

‘Oh you’ve just moved here from the country? You’ll love it here, mate. Grade cricket is the highest level of amateur cricket in
the world.’

I had unwittingly echoed the very same words that Nuggsy said to me at the bar all those years ago. Grade cricket: the highest level of amateur cricket in the world! It was the first time I’d rolled out this phrase to a fellow player. I’d been hearing such statements for years, so they must be true, surely? We were the best amateur cricketers in the world, weren’t we? Weren’t we? Perhaps one day I would expand on this chat. I’d explain the feudal system in grade cricket. I’d drive home the need to work on his rig (it was sloppy), memorise Will Ferrell quotes and establish a mystique around the number of women he had slept with. But I’d save that for another time.

A minute of polite chat passed, before Chooka continued
his address.

‘As you can see, lads, the wicket is a little bit green, but I’ve chosen to bat first because I believe in our top order. I believe that we can get through the new ball and prosper. But, of course, it’s going to take some character to do that. The former US president, Abraham Lincoln, once said that character is like a tree, and reputation merely its shadow. Character, lads. It doesn’t matter whether you’ve averaged less than 12 with the bat this year. What matters to the success of this team, today, is whether you are all willing to display character.’

Fuck me. This is rare.

‘Finally, the most important thing we need to remember today is to enjoy ourselves. That’s the reason we all play cricket, isn’t it? To do what we love? We wouldn’t spend half our weekend doing something that we hated, would we? So to the top order batsmen — make sure you get through the early swinging ball and cash in on those loose ones. There are plenty of runs to be scored on this deck, but dig in early. Character, lads. I want to see character.’

And with that, Chooka calmly read out the batting order and returned to his seat. His speech had roused a fire deep inside me, inside all of us. I felt inspired, but not in a basic, animalistic way. The usual basic response to ‘work hard’ was to go out and try and blow the opposition off the park with a torrent of bouncers, sledging and white noise. But Chooka’s approach was more considered; more cerebral: the perfect blend of pop psychology and blokey real-talk. It was all about character.

As our openers made their way out onto the field, I grabbed Chooka for a quick moment. ‘Mate, that was a great speech. I’d never heard that quote by Lincoln on character,’ I whispered.

‘Thanks, bud. I try to weave in these references in order to achieve cut-through with the guys. I know what it’s like listening to the same pre-game speech every time.’ 

‘Oh, you mean like the classic: “let’s just work hard and get these cunts out”?’ I posited.

‘Actually, I prefer the Latin translation: Labor omnia vincit. Anyway, good luck out there today, mate. I’m sure you’ll get a big one today. But don’t take this team for granted. They’re better than your average fourth grade side.’

I took a deep breath and chucked my pads on. I was batting three today. First drop, just like Bradman.

Labor omnia vincit. Labor omnia vincit. Work fucking hard.

I secured a plastic Ikea chair next to Jordie, placed my gloves inside my helmet, and turned my attention to the game. The ball was moving around a bit, it seemed, but our openers were holding firm. I looked around at my new teammates, seated all together, eyes glued to the match. There was a sense of togetherness that I hadn’t experienced in years. Everyone was genuinely hoping for a good start. No one was secretly praying for a teammate to get out in order to boost his own chances of not getting dropped.

Once the first few overs had been safely negotiated, things relaxed a bit, and everyone settled into their usual practices. I was seated next to Jordie, who was telling everyone about the rare vinyl copy of My Bloody Valentine’s seminal 1991 album, Loveless, he’d bought for $5 at Vinnies, earning some light-hearted banter from Bubba — ‘How fucking emo are you, mate?’ — and the rest of the lads. A few seats over, Lloydy whipped out his smartphone and, to the delight of Nuggsy and several other blokes, began furiously swiping away on Tinder, a public show of virility. It was only 10.30am, but Lloydy already had 16 matches. Bubba flicked through the newspaper, legs crossed and reading glasses on, a study of deep concentration. Bubba was brushing up on that afternoon’s race schedule at Rosehill Gardens. Meanwhile, our skipper, Chooka, had taken on scoring duties for the first 10 overs, and was making pleasant conversation with the opposition scorer (a young player’s mother) about falling property prices in the district, which had apparently been brought on by a recent proposal to expand the nearby airport.

Suddenly, a wicket fell. I composed myself, picked up my lid and bat, and strode purposefully to the crease to the encouragement
of my teammates. ‘Come on, mate. A big one from you today!’ someone yelled.

Yeah, a big one from me today. That sounds good.

A few overs passed and I was feeling good at the crease, striking up a good rapport with my batting partner, Jacko. Just as I’d warmed into my innings, a new bowler came on. His name was M. Peterson. I knew that because their skipper yelled it out to our scorer when he came on to bowl, as is the custom. However, it soon became apparent that M. Peterson’s nickname was ‘Tickets’. As he limbered up to bowl, I heard 10 blokes urge ‘Tickets’ to have the spell of his life.

‘Come on Tickets!

‘Your man, Tickets!’

‘This is your day, Tickets!’

It wasn’t the first time I’d come across someone named Tickets. It’s actually quite a common nickname among amateur Australian sportsmen. There’s something beautifully simple and predictable about grade cricket nicknames. Those stockily built players are given the moniker ‘Nugget’. My ‘Nugget’ was the sole exception to this law, on the basis that his actual name was ‘Alan Nugget’. Someone with a strong sense of self-belief will usually have the name ‘Tickets’ bestowed upon them, as this bloke did, to indicate that he has purchased ‘tickets’ on himself, such is his confidence. On a similar tangent, one bloke I played with had the nickname ‘Bridgestone’ — a reference to the old Bridgestone Tires slogan: ‘Bridgestone: That’s Confidence’. This was narrowed to either ‘Bridgey’ or ‘Stoney’ whenever he was bowling. He was an absolute nightmare of a bloke — arrogant as fuck — but the ‘Bridgestone’ nickname was our affectionate way of telling him so. Naturally, all ‘Daves’ are nicknamed ‘Danger’ — an abbreviated version of ‘Dangerous Dave’ — just as all Rods are automatically known as ‘Rocket’. Those new to the club are generally just referred to by their initials (i.e. ‘great fielding, JP’) until further notice. At one club I played at, there were three blokes called Nugget and four blokes called Tickets. Needless to say it got a bit confusing at times.

Anyway, Tickets was about 34 and tall, with long scraggly hair, scrawny arms and a sparse, wispy beard. He had an eyebrow ring that probably looked good on him in 1996, but now gave the impression he was battling a meth addiction. Whatever Tickets had to be cocky about, it certainly wasn’t his rig — he bore a frightening resemblance to Christian Bale in The Machinist. In short, Tickets was your quintessential first-change grade bowler: reasonably sharp, but nonetheless a loose unit and not accurate enough to be trusted with the new ball.

Once the encouragement had subsided, Tickets came in for his first ball. It was sharp and beat me for pace. Clearly, Tickets had played a bit of first or second grade at some stage, probably before the ice addiction. I looked at the pitch to give others the impression that the ball had done something off the deck, even through it had held its line entirely.

‘Too sharp for him, Tickets!’

‘That’s some serious heat from you, Tickets!’

‘Doesn’t want to be here, Tickets!’

Tickets surged in again, all arms and legs. Again, the ball was full — but this time it moved off the deck, violently so. I had absolutely ‘no fucking idea’ — and the fielders knew it, too.

‘Great wheels, Tickets!’

‘Playing with the big boys now, Tickets!’

‘He doesn’t want to be here, Tickets!’

I needed to show Tickets who was boss, lest he purchase even more tickets on himself. I couldn’t let some upstart fourth grade meth head embarrass me. I was a third grader, after all. Shit, I’d even played a couple of seasons of second grade.

They’re just playing around with the teams, I reminded myself, just like the club selectors said. You’ll be back in third grade next season, where you belong.

In Tickets came for his third ball — and again, he did me all ends up. I lunged unsuccessfully at a ball wide outside off-stump, drawing groans from the expectant cordon.

‘All ends up, Tickets!’

‘Backing you, Tickets!’

‘Doesn’t want to be here, Tickets!’

That last comment — ‘he doesn’t want to be here’ — frustrated me the most. It was the third time they’d used it in that over. I fucking hated that phrase (probably because it was true). So, against my better judgment, I quickly turned around and blurted to the cordon:

‘Guys, I do want to be here! I really do want to be here today!’

It was the worst thing I could have done. The cordon collapsed into a collective fit of giggles. It took them two minutes to recover. I shot a quick glance at the square leg umpire. Even he was having a wry chuckle. An 82-year-old umpire, giggling at me. It was a new low.

Tickets wanted blood now, and so did his 10-strong cohort. Normally, three consecutive misses in grade cricket leads to a wicket. It’s practically a fait accompli. Lower grade cricketers, in particular, lack the character required to dig in at these tense moments. But character was something that Chooka had urged us to demonstrate at all costs. Therefore, I would dig my heels in and see this prick out.

Tickets launched into his stride — an ugly looking mixed action — and planted his back foot on the crease. Unfortunately, for Tickets, his legs got tangled up at the point of impact, and he hit the pitch with a loud thud that belied his 60-kilogram frame, crumpling to the ground in a scraggly, unkempt heap. He let out a tremendous groan similar to that made by a distressed cow standing in line at the abattoir. It was a truly haunting sound.

Jacko and I hurried over to see how the bloke was, to discover a rather grizzly sight. It was immediately evident that Tickets had suffered a compound fracture. A bone — his fibula, I believe — was protruding so far out of his leg that its outline was visible through his whites. He would probably never play cricket again. Lucky bastard. I’d like to say that I had some sympathetic thoughts for Tickets. After all, he was probably going to relapse back into drug dependency upon his first hit of morphine at the hospital, undoing years of hard work. But deep inside, I was absolutely elated.

Thank fuck Tickets is out of the attack.

With Tickets gone, some middling part-time off-spinner was called upon to complete the over. I peeled six runs off those three balls. I was starting to feel good, starting to feel that this could be
my day.

How quickly the game can change.

I’d batted with Nuggsy many times during my career. Once, just a few years back, we’d shared a match-winning 100-run partnership in third grade. Another time, in my debut season as a 19-year-old, I ran him out after calling ‘yes’ on a late cut that went straight to gully. He chucked my bat and pads in the urinal later that day out of spite, but we were stronger mates for the experience. But this time, we were both undeniably in the twilight of our respective careers. Both in fourth grade, together, for the first time.

Nuggsy came in when we were about 4-120. I was batting well, on about 30 or so, and therefore the ‘senior’ partner. However, Nuggsy was a natural aggressor — regardless of the situation. After three plays and misses in his first three balls against their opening bowler, who had come back on for his second spell, I wandered down the wicket to have a quiet word.

‘Mate, maybe you should just see this bowler out. I reckon he’s only got one or two overs in him before he fades out of the attack. Once he’s gone, we can really punish the part-timers,’ I reasoned.

‘Mate, I’m not here to fuck spiders,’ Nuggsy shot back, angrily. His nostrils flared alarmingly as he uttered the uncouth phrase, like a rabid wildebeest.

Nuggsy was not one for temperance. In all facets of life, short-term satisfaction took precedence over long-term outcomes. He didn’t have home Wi-Fi because he could never stay on hold long enough to speak to a customer service representative. He’d never held down a job for more than two years. All his relationships — with the exception of his failed marriage — had fizzled out before the six-week mark. Asking Nuggsy to simply ‘see out’ the bowling was like advising Jordan Belfort to invest in safe, long-term, low-yield stocks. After all, Nuggsy was not here to fuck spiders — and he never would be.

Nuggsy was bowled next ball attempting a slog sweep to a yorker on off-stump. At the point of impact, his head was literally facing the sky above, like a toddler gazing up at the birthday balloon that had escaped his grasp. Without even turning around to inspect his shattered stumps, he bellowed the word ‘FUCK’ (which sounded more like ‘fark’) at the top of his voice, the ‘FAAAA’ sound reverberating around the park like a bushman’s cooee.

‘Pack em, champ!’ the bowler ordered, pointing in the direction of the pavilion.

Nuggsy eyeballed him for a fleeting moment, as if quickly computing the repercussions of belting the guy — ‘I’d be suspended, the police would be involved, it’d be a whole thing … yeah, I better not’ — before reluctantly complying with the directive. I watched with a mixture of apprehension and delight as Nuggsy marched towards the sheds with never-before-seen intensity, a fearsome look upon his face. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied four teammates quickly slip into the sheds, presumably keen on getting good seats for Nuggsy’s meltdown. To be fair, his post-dismissal tantrums were legendary. Once, he broke seven dressing room windows after getting a first-baller in a second grade semi. Our club manager, who’d fought in Korea, later described the aftermath as ‘a fucking war zone’. Shards of glass all over the floor, in people’s kits, and in the middle of it all was Nuggsy, head down, hands bloodied from the violent outburst, like a man who’d committed a terrible crime of passion, just waiting for the cops to arrive and take him away. Oh my God. What have I done? He never paid the club back for the damage, mind you.

Out came the new bloke. Darryl, a doughy 28-year-old, had recently been promoted from fifth grade. He was wearing a floppy brimmed hat and mismatched baker’s whites. I somehow swallowed the urge to tell him it was ‘fucking village’ to come to the crease looking like a 60-year-old Greek gardener. As was often the case, I settled for a simple ‘Yuck’ under my breath.

Some 30 minutes passed, and Darryl and I were striking up a nice little partnership. He was incredibly talkative between overs; a thoroughly engaging conversationalist. During our time in the middle, we discussed a wide range of issues, ranging from the immediate onshore threat of Islamic State militants to the possible whereabouts of the original girl from the old AAMI TV ads. Darryl had an opinion on everything and, frankly, it was a joy to converse with him.

At the end of one particularly lively mid-wicket conversation, I said to Darryl, ‘Gee you can talk, mate. Are you in sales, or something?’

Darryl laughed. ‘Actually, I am mate. I’ve been working at this listed IT company for a while now. They treat us really well and I’m actually in line for a senior role. A bunch of us are off to Hawaii in a couple of weeks to mark the end of the UK financial year. It’s basically just a huge piss-up for 10 days. Can’t wait!’

‘That sounds awesome, mate. I’ve been working in insurance tele-sales for a while, but it’s pretty dry,’ I lamented.

‘Mate, we might actually have a job if you’re interested?’ he replied, with alacrity.

My ears immediately pricked up. Yes, I was interested. Very interested.

‘What kind of role is it, Darryl? I’d really like the opportunity to handle “real” clients.’

‘This is pretty much a regional sales manager gig — you’d be covering the Victoria and Tasmania territories, selling software solutions B2B. There’s a strong business development aspect to it as well, so there’d be a fair bit of opportunity to travel. We’re listed on the NASDAQ, so there’s the chance to move to the US down the track if that’s something you might consider. Could be a really good move for you, actually. I’ll chat to my boss about it on Monday and we’ll see if we can line you up an interview or something. We need to fill the position pretty quickly, though.’

‘Shit, thanks mate! So what kind of on-target earnings can
I expect?’

‘Well, the base is pretty decent — about $80,000 — and if you hit all your monthly targets, you can get up to around $140,000. Joycey cleared $150,000 in his first year last FY, and he’s only 26. The company has some tough KPIs, but they’re all designed to get you to hit your targets. But the “product” is so good it sells itself. It’s a great environment and there are some cracking blokes within the sales force — I think you’d like it.’

Fuck, $80k. That’s more than double what I’m on.

I suddenly realised that Darryl and I had been talking for five minutes. The umpires were already in position. All 11 fielders had started screaming at us. ‘Any danger of a game of cricket?’ the bowler barked angrily from his mark, hands on hips.

‘Fuck, sorry lads!’ Darryl and I apologised in virtual unison.

I rushed to my crease to take strike against the bald, 30-something bowler. For some reason, I was 70 percent more scared when facing a bald bowler. I’m not sure why the absence of hair makes a cricketer more fearsome, but it truly does. Even as he approached the wicket, all heavy breaths and front on chest, my mind was somewhere else. I was picturing myself living in New York on $140,000. I’d live in a loft apartment on the Lower East Side; attend Knicks games at Madison Square Garden. I’d jog through Central Park on my lunch break and shop at Trader Joe’s. On weekends, I’d venture over to Brooklyn and browse a flea market; drink Pabst and catch an indie gig in Williamsburg. Maybe Lara could come with me? There were plenty of neurotic people in Manhattan, based on the Woody Allen movies I’d seen, so I’m sure she’d be able to find a job …

Stop thinking about Darryl’s job offer, and concentrate on the ball, you fucking idiot. Work hard! Labor omnia vincit!

By now, Darryl and I had been at the crease together for about an hour or so. We’d put on a partnership of about 80, and I’d been enjoying myself so much that I’d stopped counting my runs. I had entered a cosmic state; I had rhythm and energy to my batting, for the first time in years.

Without warning, the drinks break arrived. God, it had been so long since I’d been batting at drinks, I’d forgotten what to do. I glanced over at Darryl, who had taken off his gloves, placed them on the pitch along with his bat, and walked over to the boundary’s edge. I quickly followed suit. Out came Nuggsy and Lloydy with the water bottles — Lloydy resplendent in club tracksuit, not a hair out of place, looking a million bucks; Nuggsy in shorts, bare feet and a tattered blue wife-beater singlet which positively screamed ‘Centrelink’. Nuggsy took two glasses over to the umpires, while Lloydy serviced the rest of us with effortless charm, refilling glasses on request. Darryl and I took a glass from the drinks tray and toasted to our partnership. We enjoyed the well-earned brew. Nothing beats an ice-cold glass of Cottee’s cordial.

After buttering the umpires up for a couple of minutes, Nuggsy ambled back over to Darryl and I. He looked around carefully before lowering his voice into a quiet whisper, addressing me directly.

‘Mate, do you want to know?’ he asked, coyly.

‘Do I want to know what, Nug?’ I responded.

‘Do you want to know what you’re on?’

Nuggsy was rarely coy about anything. I knew all sorts of personal things about Nuggsy. I knew whom he voted for (Tony Abbott — because he’s a ‘strong leader’ and said he’d ‘stop the boats’); I knew the age he’d lost his virginity (15, to a distant relative). I was also aware that he’d spent three nights in a Bolivian jail after being mistaken for a mysterious, high-level cocaine distributor — because he used his one allotted phone call to brag about it to me. Nuggsy was an open book. But for Nuggsy to act this way, so strangely aloof, something was obviously up. I must have been close to three figures.

Sometimes it’s better not to know what you’re on. Nerves can set in and you start batting differently. The pragmatic, left side of the brain takes over; the free-flowing slam poetry shelved for a dour, conservative approach. But when it comes to runs, you need to know. Sure, the element of surprise is lovely in many cases, even liberating. Like when your partner is expecting and you both agree to keep the sex of the baby a surprise. Or when you find something special under the tree for Christmas, something that you hadn’t expected. But with runs, you need to know what you are on so that you can prepare yourself for the moment you reach that milestone. So you can turn to the pavilion and salute, just like I did that day as a 12-year-old. Anyone who says they ‘don’t want to know’ is a fucking liar.

After a fleeting second or two, I turned to Nuggsy. ‘Mate, I want to know. I need to know what I am on.’

Nuggsy cocked a knowing eye at me.

‘Mate …’ he said, pausing for dramatic effect. ‘You’re on 97.’

Fuck! Oh my fucking god!

I had been Mr Casual up until this point, but Nuggsy’s information was a game-changer. Now, I was ruled by fear and anxiety. Familiar emotions, to be fair.

But Nuggsy wasn’t done yet. ‘When you were on about 60, I sensed you were a chance for 100. So I made a few phone calls. Look over there,’ he gesticulated to the grassy knoll.

I swung my head around. I saw a young slender man, dressed in cool contemporary clothing and a straw hat. He looked like a folk musician — bearded face and languid posture: an incongruous sight at a suburban cricket ground. Of course, it was Finn. He waved earnestly. I tipped my bat back in acknowledgement, somewhat bemused. Next to Finn was a young woman. It was Lara, my Lara. She’d never been to a single game of mine (I had strictly forbade her from attending matches), but Nuggsy — good old Nuggsy! — had convinced her to come and be a part of history. There she stood on the grassy knoll, next to my best non-cricket friend, wearing a yellow sundress that danced in the breeze, a vision of femininity. She, too, waved, her other hand shielding her eyes from the sun. I felt a knot in my heart. This must be what love feels like. Love felt strangely similar to the feeling I got from striking the perfect cover drive.

‘Um, there’s one other bloke here, too,’ Nuggsy added.

I was perplexed. I didn’t know anyone else who’d voluntarily attend one of my cricket games. My mate Tezza used to come to a few after he retired from grade cricket, but he was living the corporate life in a city far away, so it couldn’t have been Tezza. Then, I saw him. A tall, heavy-set moustachioed man, probably in his 50s or 60s, standing behind a tree, partially obscured. He was wearing a black golf hat — the same one popularised by Greg Norman in the 1990s — and thick-rimmed aviator sunglasses.

It was Dad.

I instantly fell into a state of panic; it felt as if my nervous system was about to shut down. A cold sweat trickled down my brow; my heart rate accelerated rapidly. Dad’s here.  But why? Why was he here? What on earth was he doing at this suburban cricket ground? Did this mean he still cared? Was this my chance to finally win his approval? Or had he come for more macabre reasons, in the hope that I would fall agonisingly short of a ton? Had he come here to taunt me for a life wasted? To tell me that I’d left the oven on again?

I needed to get this hundred.

Word had got around the opposition that I was closing in on the milestone. The captain had brought his strike bowlers back on. The field was up, with two slips and a short cover now in play. The chat had returned — ‘he doesn’t want to be here’ — and the fielders were on their toes. Only this time, I truly did want to be here. I did want to get this hundred — and nothing was going to stop me.

I’d safely negotiated the first five balls after drinks. On the final ball of the over, I was presented with a half volley outside off-stump. I pushed at it eagerly and called an urgent ‘YES’. Startled, Darryl took an eternity to heed my call. He had every right to be startled — the ball went straight to short cover. But I had set off running — and Darryl had no option but to comply. The fielder picked it up cleanly and returned it to the keeper with minimum fuss, and Darryl was caught eight yards short of his crease, out for 49. As he walked off, I avoided eye contact, and hoped dearly that his job offer would still be on the cards come Monday.

In came Lloydy, with the score at 6-200. Lloydy batted eight and didn’t bowl, but he was sometimes good for a quick 20-odd. He greeted me with that famous dimpled grin — ‘you’re on 97, you know’ — and assured me that we would reach this milestone together. I gave him a few words of encouragement and instructed him to ‘run hard between the wickets,’ to which he gave his word.

I crunched the first ball of that over on the up. The sound of bat on ball was so pure, so clean and honest, that I called ‘YES’ without a moment’s hesitation. True to his word, Lloydy ran hard, blindly, without realising that the ball was traveling to conventional mid-off. He wasn’t smart, Lloydy. By the time I had the chance to reverse my call it was too late. Lloydy was out for a diamond duck, and suddenly we were 7-200.

The fielding team erupted. ‘Well done, champ!’ one fielder unctuously sneered. Speechless, I looked back at him blankly. What have I done?

The new batsman made his way to the wicket. Chooka: our captain, our guiding light. ‘Let’s welcome the captain to the crease, lads,’ their opposition skipper instructed his teammates, prompting a smattering of polite applause. It’d been years since I’d played in fourths and I’d forgotten about this quaint custom, which sadly, only exists in the lower grades these days. It was a nice gesture, and duly acknowledged by the man himself, in the form of an understated nod. Cheers, boys.

Chooka had a round body. His face was puffy and red, likely due to a casual drinking problem. Nonetheless, Chooka had presence. I dearly wanted to gain the respect of Chooka. As he approached, I put my fist out, hoping that Chooka would respond with a glove punch. It was an ugly Americanism that had first crept into the game in the late 1990s, but had since been adopted by the masses, particularly at lower grade and junior level. To my delight, Chooka looked me in the eye and punched my glove with gusto.

‘I’ll get you there, mate,’ he vowed, before waddling back to the non-striker’s end.

All was not lost, yet. But now, I had to switch the fuck on. I needed to put the past calamities out of mind. To forget that I’d just run two blokes out in my selfish quest for glory. The collateral damage was huge — we’d gone from coasting at 5-200 to a nervy 7-200 in the space of two minutes; I may have destroyed any chance I had of working at Darryl’s listed IT company, or becoming friends with Lloydy. But with the calm, mature influence of Chooka, I could do it.

Three runs. Three runs and you’re a hero …

As I got into position to face the bowler, I could hear the calls from the cordon. ‘Team hat-trick lads!’ A bat-pad fielder was moved in to position, as if being on a team hat trick was the reason for my nervousness.  Seriously, is there anything less exciting than the prospect of a team hat trick? The only people who care about a team hat trick are those who have never achieved personal success. They are the ones who need this, the ones who need, desperately, to feel ‘something’. I managed to see the team hat trick ball out, much to the disappointment of the opposition. However, the real job was not yet completed. My hundred, still tantalisingly out of reach.

Finally, it presented itself. The opening bowler, now tiring slightly, drifted onto my pads. It was an area, if I may so, that I generally excelled in, chiefly due to my obsession with Mark Waugh as a junior. Waugh, the consummate exponent of the leg glance. I must have practiced his signature shot 10,000 times at home, against the wall. I’d visualised this very moment 10,000 times. Sure, in these backyard fantasies I was usually playing in a test match against the West Indies — as opposed to a meaningless fourth grade fixture in desolate suburbia — but this time it was real. And I was prepared. With sub-continental wrist work, I flicked the ball in front of square, wrong footing the square leg fieldsman, and away it went, making a gratifying thud as it cannoned into the pickets.

The first sound I heard was Nuggsy. ‘YIEEEWWWWWWW!’ he shrieked. ‘HUNDREDDDD!!!!’

The rest of my teammates joined in, even the ones who I’d recently run out, rising from their Ikea seats to applaud in unison. I turned to salute the pavilion, just like I’d always practiced, hands aloft like Nixon, savouring my personal victory. Swept up in the euphoria of it all, I took off my helmet and kissed the badge. Fourth grade: where blokes celebrate tons by kissing a helmet they bought at Rebel Sports. Only I didn’t care. I glanced over to the hill. I saw Finn and Lara clapping wildly. I raised both arms again, helmet and bat, to acknowledge them. I was glad they were there.

But where is Dad?

I looked around the ground to see where this mystery man was. Had it all been a mirage? Had I manifested his image there, on the hill? Had Nuggsy been wrong? Perhaps that bloke on the hill was just some random bloke, one of the many strange men that tend to loiter around cricket fields at all hours of the day. I looked all around the ground, desperately hoping he’d seen it, but I couldn’t find him. I surmised that he’d probably gone home after I ran Lloydy out, disappointed in me, yet again. Just as I was about to give up, I noticed a strange man near the sightscreen. It was Dad. In my blinkered attempt to get to the 100, I’d failed to realise that he had silently made his way up behind the wicket. This was what he used to do when I was a kid: stand behind the bowler in order to get a good view (so he could critique me when I eventually got out). Now, he was there, and I had just hit 100. One hundred runs — all of them mine. I looked at him, waiting for some kind of emotion, an acknowledgement of some kind. It came, eventually, and it was typically understated. A gentle nod and a singular clap, the sound piercing its way through the cold March air and into my eager ears. Well done, son. I returned the gesture: a demure bat tip and a quiet nod. Thanks, Dad. Gruff masculinity personified. It was the best I’d ever get from Dad — and it was worth the wait.

Fuck, I felt good. I felt alive.

Chooka came down the wicket to give the customary handshake. For once, I nailed it. My hand went in hard and good, meeting his at the perfect pressure point. To my delight, Chooka brought it in for a hug. Shit, a hug! The male body contact felt great — it always did. But this time, it was my glory to share. I wasn’t simply hugging someone else; I was being hugged. I had earned this hug.

‘Keep going mate. Job’s not over,’ Chooka advised.

It felt like minutes had passed, but it had only been perhaps 30 seconds since I’d struck the boundary that brought up my ton. Once the commotion had died down, I realised that there was still a game of cricket to be played. Still a job to be done.

In the six overs that remained, I entered a trance-like state. I was dominating the attack in a way that I hadn’t done since high school. I finished unbeaten on 134, out of a total of 256, walking off the field to a warm reception: the sound of 20 or so people clapping sporadically. A century and red ink — is there anything better in life than that? Well, possibly a century/circuit/chop combo, but there was plenty of time for that later. Perhaps Lara and I could go out for dinner and a movie, followed by a night of lovemaking. Sure, it wasn’t the archetypal ‘triple C’ — a glorious hundred + loose circuit with the boys + meaningless one-night stand with an equally lonely woman at 4am — but it was something. It was something.

We strode onto the field following the lunch break brimming with optimism and confidence — probably more so than our total of 256 warranted. Chooka had provided us with another fascinating pre-innings speech — this time, focusing on the themes of individualism vs. collectivism, using Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead as a reference point — and to a man, we were revved up and ready to go. The team ‘energy’ was at an unprecedented level, and I, the centurion, was leading the charge. In the early overs, I was a man possessed: dolling out unsolicited bum taps to anyone within reach; urging our bowlers to work hard; demanding we all be ‘on our toes’ lest an opportunity presented itself. I was absolutely insufferable, a total fucking menace. It had been years since I’d been so fired up on a cricket field. It
had only taken an unbeaten hundred to shake me from my decade-long malaise.

Aaron, the young country kid, had been given the new ball, and he didn’t disappoint, snaring two early wickets to leave the opposition reeling at 2-5 after three overs. Jordie looked equally likely to cause trouble, but was only allowed to bowl five overs due to age restrictions, and went wicket-less. After the early collapse, our opposition fought back to be about 2-60 at drinks, leaving the game evenly poised on a pretty flat deck.

We needed a breakthrough. Soon after drinks, Chooka gestured over to me to limber up, indicating that I’d have the next over. This was my chance to back up my batting performance. I gave Chooka a quick nod and went through the typical warm-up stretches, loosening my shoulder and back for battle. I hadn’t bowled all season, but this was fourth grade — and here, it seemed I was king of the village. I was like one of those blokes in African countries who have 45 wives, just taking what I wanted at will. A big fish in a small pond; just the way I liked it.  

As I stood at the top of my mark, Chooka came over to me from his position at mid-off, put a fatherly hand on my shoulder, and talked through the areas in which I should be focusing on: full and straight. I was always an aggressive bowler, despite my rapidly declining pace, so at the back of my mind existed the ever-present urge to bounce my opponent. It was an urge I had tried to resist in recent years, but for the sake of the team, I resolved to heed Chooka’s advice.

Full and straight. No dramas, mate.

Just as I was about to run in for my first delivery, I noticed — to my horror — our keeper, Smithy, was standing up to me. There is no greater alpha showdown than that between the arrogant keeper and the seamer whose bowling he has deemed slow enough to stand up to. It’s basically an attack on your manhood. Smithy was a lovely bloke with a winning smile and a great attitude, but at this moment he was dead to me.  

Fuck that. I don’t care if Chooka set a 7-2 field. I’m going to lid
this bloke.

I sprinted to the crease and hurled myself towards the batsman, a veritable blur of arms, legs and chest. But in that infinitesimal moment between gather and release, I swiftly calculated that I wouldn’t have the pace to bounce my wicketkeeper. The ball would likely bounce up at chest height, having slowed dramatically off the wicket, and present the batsman with an easy pull shot to the fence. As such, I resolved to do the unthinkable: to bowl a beamer.

Bowling a beamer is basically the loosest, most subversive thing you can do on a cricket field. There is nothing more frowned upon in all of cricket, really, aside from the ‘Mankad’. But while I was enjoying my new surroundings, my immediate success, I was still undeniably a grade cricketer. You can take the boy out of grade cricket, but you can’t take grade cricket out of the boy. Having spent years surrounded by utter fuckwits, I, too, had become a fuckwit. I was a product of my environment.

The ball shot out of my hand at head height, causing the batsman to scurry out of the way, muttering a few choice words. But I wasn’t concerned with his reaction. My focus was on Smithy.

‘Still want to stand up to me, champ?’ I snarled.

‘Shit, sorry mate. I thought you were bowling leg spin,’ was his genuine reply.

Once again, the response drew laughter from all around the wicket. To be fair, my run up was only eight paces — so I could understand the confusion. I wasn’t a noted bowler, so how could Smithy have known what to expect? On Tuesday night at training, I’d been imitating the 1990’s South African left-arm leg-spinner Paul Adams — best known for his ‘frog in a blender’ action — in the third net for a laugh. Still, it was yet another chastening humiliation in a career littered by them. I made a feeble attempt to backtrack — ‘sorry mate, was only kidding … it slipped out!’ — but it did nothing to curb the laughter. This kind of misguided alpha aggression wouldn’t fly in the convivial confines of fourth grade. I had to rid myself of this defensive reflex.

I got through the rest of my over without further incident, although perhaps unsurprisingly, it was to be my only one for the innings. And despite my strident efforts in the field, we were unable to halt the opposition’s run chase. They ended up passing our total with seven overs to spare.

We had lost the final game of the season.

I always hated the moments directly after a loss, where we’d sit in our dressing room and listen to the opposition sing their club song, enjoying the spoils of victory, arms linked, swilling beers like Freemasons. The throaty growls of 11 tuneless men singing a song penned by alcoholic ex-players that usually didn’t even rhyme. Of course, the team song was strictly reserved for the rare occasions we got a win. The whole reason for singing it was to make the opposition hear it, to rub in the loss. It didn’t seem right. I’d hit a hundred, we’d had a good day out, but now, we had to sit there and listen to this.  

A passion stirred within me. I had forgotten what it was like to come so close and yet so far. I’d hit a hundred, put in all my effort, but we’d still lost. Suddenly, I felt myself rise to my feet.

‘Lads, if I could just get a bit of quiet for moment, I’ve got something I’d like to say.’

A hush came over the dressing room. The floor was mine. I took a deep breath and spoke from the heart.

‘Normally, I feel a great sense of relief after the final game of the season, in that I don’t have to see these terrible blokes I play with for another six months.’

A few half-laughs broke out. I pressed on with my soliloquy.

‘I’m 29 years of age in a couple of weeks. I’ve been playing cricket for about two decades. I was the best player in my age group all the way through, but things changed when I got to grade cricket. I struggled to find my place within the strict social hierarchy. It stopped being fun. But today, I’ve had a great time playing with you blokes. And for the first time in years, I scored some runs, too. I felt good out there. I felt confident. It was fun. And when I hear that fucking team song in there, those blokes screaming their hearts out, it pisses me off that we don’t have anything to sing in here, regardless of the result.’

I knew the next thing I had to say would cause a stir, but I went for it anyway.

‘Lads, I know that this might sound a bit rare, but I’d like to read a few lines from a poem, if I may.’

I’d been reading poetry at book club — Edgar Allen Poe, Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, and several other notable nineteenth century American laureates. I heard a couple of murmurs among the playing group — what’s this bloke up to? —  but blocked it all out.  I cleared my throat, closed my eyes, and hoped for the best.

‘Success is counted sweetest

By those who ne’er succeed.

To comprehend a nectar

Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple Host

Who took the Flag today

Can tell the definition

So clear of victory

As he defeated — dying —

On whose forbidden ear

The distant strains of triumph

Burst agonised and clear!’

I thought the poem was well chosen. It would remind the players that we, in losing, are now better prepared to understand victory. That the ‘distant strains of triumph’ — in this case, the opposition’s team song — would teach us the true value of winning. That victory and defeat are both equally fleeting in nature.

To my distress, two or three seconds passed without anyone saying a word.

Shit, you’ve outdone yourself this time. Grade cricket isn’t ready for Emily Dickinson.

Then, to my relief, a slow clap emanated from the shadowy, mildewed corner of the dressing room. Nuggsy’s corner. As always, Nuggsy was in my corner.

‘Mate, that’s one of the best things I’ve ever heard. Fucking emotional. Every time we lose from now on, we’ll recite that as a team, together. Who’d you say it was by — Emma Dickens?’

‘Emily Dickinson. One of the greatest American poets of all time, Nuglet.’

‘Well bloody oath, that got to me,’ Nuggsy said, wiping away
a tear.

Chooka winked at me as he rose purposefully from his bench. ‘Lads, I want you all to learn that poem over the off-season,’ he announced. ‘Hopefully we won’t have to recite it too many times next year, but that’s a bloody good idea. A team losing song, to inspire us to future victories!’

And there it was. I had made my mark on grade cricket. I had scored a century and I was the founding father of a new, obscure concept: the team losing song. Whenever our team lost from now on, we would recite Emily Dickinson’s famous poem, like soldiers mourning a lost battle.  I’m not sure if there is anything more incongruous than maudlin, Victorian-era poetry addressed to a group of amateur Australian cricketers following a loss, but I didn’t care. There we stood, defeated, weary, in various states of undress. At that moment, we were more than just a cricket team made up of 11 blokes from disparate backgrounds. We were together. We were a unit.

Just a few games prior, when at my lowest point, I had resolved to quit after the final game. However, that decision had now been complicated by my unlikely century in the final game of the season. Did I want to go out on top, like Joe DiMaggio, hanging up the cleats after a World Series win? Or would I wait too long, like Muhammad Ali, and bow out bloated, beaten, and suffering from a thyroid condition?

I sidled over to Chooka, who was sitting in the corner nursing
a can of VB. ‘Chooka, mate. Have you ever considered giving the game away?’

Chooka relaxed his shoulders, took a generous swig of his VB, and stared out the dressing room window, contemplatively. ‘Yes, mate. Several times, actually. Especially when I was around your age — in and out of the grades, searching for meaning in my cricket.’

‘And what changed?’

Chooka shrugged, took another sip. ‘Mate, eventually I just became comfortable with myself. You seem like a bright kid — and someone who loves cricket. Let me just say that if you really love the game of cricket, that should be enough. Don’t worry about moving up and down the grades, son. Don’t worry about your rig. When I finally let go of all these insecurities — my batting average, my rig, circuiting — that’s when I could finally relax and enjoy the game again, just like I did as a kid.’

Chooka’s words rang true. I did still love cricket. Today was evidence of that. Perhaps it was time to stop worrying about what other cricketers thought of me. To go back to the days when I was young; where I didn’t even think twice about my social standing within a club, or whether my penis was big enough to garner begrudging respect in the dressing rooms.

‘Chooka, do you remember that time when you came into the bar with Vikram and a couple of the other fourth graders, and Marty Henson called you a paedophile for basically no reason?’ I began, tentatively.

‘Ah yeah, I remember that.’

‘Well … I felt really bad that I didn’t stick up for you. I still do, actually. I was just trying to fit in.’

‘Look mate, it’s nothing. Have you ever heard the expression, “champ or be …”’

‘Champed!’ I butted in. ‘Yes, I have heard that phrase. But to be honest, I lived by that creed for most of my playing career. Are you saying that this is a flawed philosophy?’

‘Absolutely, mate. Don’t worry. One day, as I said, these sorts of things won’t bother you any more. It seems significant right now, but in the grand scheme of things, it means absolutely nothing.’

I now understood why the older blokes couldn’t give the game away. I no longer felt sorry for those men who spent their weekends battling away in park cricket, a shadow of their former selves. When played in the right spirit, with the right group of blokes, cricket was fun. It was how it started out — and perhaps, this was how it would end. My middling middle years would go down in history as a mere aberration, bookended by brilliance. All I really wanted was to compete with my mates on Saturday and hit a few runs in the process. At the end of the day, we’d have a few beers, regardless of the result. We’d have a shower. We’d have a sing. Maybe we’d have a circuit. They say the true definition of insanity is repeating the same thing over and over again, but still expecting a different result. It’s a tired cliché, but one that had perfectly described my grade cricket experience to this point. Every year, I played cricket. Every year, I averaged between 13.5 and 18. But this century was a true outlier. Maybe I wasn’t so insane? Maybe Einstein was wrong, after all?

As I made my way out of the dressing room, heavy kit slung over my shoulder, I saw Dad chatting amicably with Lara and Finn, arms crossed, beer in hand. On closer inspection, he was smiling. My Dad was smiling! The mere sight left me with a slight dizziness, as if I’d just given blood. I wondered whether he’d let me sit in the front seat on the way home. We’d pull in to McDonald’s Drive Thru; I’d order a Big Mac meal, he’d tell me not to spill any of it on the leather seats. We’d drive home, in silence, radio tuned to the soft, analogue sounds of ABC Grandstand, just like old times. I sighed at the thought.

Should I ask him? I could always come back and pick my car up later …

Fuck it. Maybe I will go around again next season.