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A DECADE OF GRADE CRICKET

I’ve now played 10 seasons of grade cricket. That equates to around 150 matches, over 200 weekends, complemented by 400 training sessions, and enough financial investment to sufficiently cripple my ability to purchase property for at least a decade.

My first few years of grade cricket were pivotal in shaping the man I am today. I’ve already described how good I was as a junior cricketer, so my reputation preceded me when I entered the titillating world of men’s cricket. When I joined our club, I felt like a star. As a prodigy, this was nothing new to me. At my first ‘selection night’, our club secretary touted me as a ‘player of promise.’ His assessment carried great personal weight for me at age 17; in fact it still does — maybe even more so now. That I later learnt he was a prolific philanderer with an embezzlement conviction and a penchant for Asian prostitutes was immaterial. His credibility was, and is, safe with me. I rode this assessment and I rode it hard. I am a player of promise, I would say to myself. I am a player of promise. In the early 2000s, no family function passed without me pivoting to our club secretary’s comment. It rang through my ears and rolled off my tongue sumptuously.

But then grade cricket got hard. Gone were the regular appearances in the paper that I’d become so accustomed to as a junior. My on-field performance degenerated into an exercise in naked mediocrity, which shook me to my very core. And this was only half the problem. If my on-field performances were bad, my off-field reputation was worse. I could accept that the majestic 30s and 50s of my youth had now been replaced with grisly 13s and 23s; I came to terms with the fact that I was no longer ‘rapid’ with the ball. It was away from the sanctuary of the cricket field that I was most vulnerable. There existed a world of intangible social rules, and as a naïve 17-year-old I was found wanting.

It started with one word. It seemed that everywhere I went, whether on the pitch or away from it, I heard the faint echo of one expression: ‘Yuck.’

When I started at my first club, three weeks passed without anybody speaking to me. I was devastated. Sure, I knew one or two guys my age from juniors, but I considered myself on a different level, so I avoided any association with them. But while no one spoke to me directly, I did feel as though people were speaking about me, and that’s where I came across this confounding term.

For reasons still unknown to me, a guy called ‘Nuggsy’ approached me during training, offering a confident ‘G’day’, muttering something obscure about being ‘the Nuggler’. I should say his introduction wasn’t the warmest: his handshake was hard and alarmingly masculine. He was also looking over my shoulder mid-shake. I needed someone to talk to me, though, so I accepted his cold introduction with a full heart and damp eyes. He was difficult to read back then, Nuggsy. He had a disturbing emotionlessness to him. Nevertheless he had spoken to me, so I felt a degree of safety.

I had one burning question, so I went for it.

‘Mate, what is “yuck”?’ I half-whispered, trembling.

He looked at me with dead eyes, his mind clearly ticking over the implications of my enquiry. He had approached me, and I had responded with insecurity. He had just met me. He was uncomfortable. Yet he must have seen an opportunity, because his eyes narrowed, his mouth curled into this makeshift, crooked half smile — that stroke smile again! The same as that guy from Queensgrove! — and there he stood poised to change my life forever.

‘Your rig, mate. It’s your rig. It’s very sloppy.’

I was aghast. I didn’t understand what Nuggsy meant, specifically, but I had learnt something more important. Whatever a ‘rig’ was, I never wanted it to be called ‘yuck’.

Nuggsy’s comment hurt me deeply, but his honesty was nonetheless refreshing. What’s more, he was the first person to speak to me in weeks. This was a bloke who had been around for while. A bloke who had the ‘ear’ of the selection panel. A bloke who was never, under any circumstances, ‘champed’ by first graders. I needed to know his secrets to success in grade cricket. I needed to grasp this opportunity now.

‘Want to grab a beer after training?’ I blurted.

Having successfully lured Nuggsy over to the local pub with the promise of a beer, I was determined to make the most of our time together. This was a bloke who oozed everything grade cricket. What’s more, he seemed surprisingly compassionate towards my plight. Perhaps he, too, had experienced a rocky start to his grade cricket experience. I told Nuggsy that despite my great efforts at training, I wasn’t getting anywhere. No one knew who I was. I was just another kid with a mediocre rig filling up the numbers in the lower grades, destined for a career average of 13.8.

‘Mate, I’ve only been here for a few weeks, but I don’t think anyone even knows my name. I’ve already slipped three spots down the batting order. I’ve got no idea what the lyrics to the club song are. And every time I get a hit at training, I hear the faint sound of blokes whispering that one word under their breath: “Yuck.” What am I doing wrong?’ I began, nervously.

Nuggsy paused, took a long swig of his Reschs schooner, and reclined languidly into his seat. He scratched his bald head for a moment, seemingly in deep thought, before embarking on the long-winded response that would indeed shape my cricketing future. ‘Listen, bud. You’re a grade cricketer now. And it’s time you learned a little bit about what that means. This isn’t club cricket, “Shires” cricket, or that stupid school shit that you wasted your time on for all those years. This is grade cricket: the highest level of amateur cricket in the world,’ he said with pride.

Just for those who don’t already know, I should quickly provide a bit of background on the grade cricket competition. Grade cricket (or ‘Premier cricket’, as it is known in some states/territories) is the level directly below the state competition.  Despite this close proximity to the professional arena, it is nonetheless an amateur competition. Sure, one or two first graders might get paid a little bit under the table, but everyone else must pay a registration fee in order to play. Normally, each club has four to five grades — first grade being the strongest; fifth grade the weakest. Those in first grade enjoy a status that the fifth graders can only dream about. Being a first grader is like being a celebrity to 50 blokes whose names you’ll never know — or never even need to know — unless you end up playing with them after a severe run of poor form (or a serious disciplinary breach). The rest of the club — seconds, thirds, and fourth grade — is basically an assortment of talented youngsters and ageing desperates. The common denominator between the young and old brigade is that they were all once told they were ‘good enough to play for Australia’. In many cases, it was the first and last compliment they ever received — and the reason why they’re still playing. In all cases, it was the worst thing that could have ever happened to them. The ultimate grade cricketer, therefore, will possess the perfect balance of good and not good enough that will haunt them for all of their playing days. All this of course, is something that can only be learned with experience. At this early stage in my grade cricket career, I considered these young players to be ‘cool’ and the older players worthy of my respect.

Nuggsy tilted his head to one side as he lit up a cigarette. He took a deep drag, holding it in for what seemed like hours, before launching his head back to expel a thick plume of smoke towards the ceiling. ‘Listen, great man,’ he began. ‘Success in grade cricket has nothing to do with skill, ability, or even results. It’s all about the social ladder, bud. You’ve got the big dogs up top, the peasants down the bottom, and everyone in between is just trying to stay relevant,’
he offered.

In many ways, grade cricket social hierarchy bears great similarity to the feudal systems that first appeared in the Middle Ages in Europe — something I’d learned a bit about at high school. As I remembered, kings and monarchs sat at the top, enjoying their pick of the land, women and food. They were the ones who established the rules that everyone had to live under. The barons leased their land from the king; the knights leased their land from the barons; and the knights granted the lowly peasants their land.  The peasants were not allowed to marry, nor could they even leave the manor without permission. Basically, they were the fifth graders of the 8-12th Century.

‘Mate, I want to be a big dog one day. How do I go about making that happen?’ I asked.

Nuggsy sat up in his seat and looked me straight in the eye. ‘Don’t worry too much about runs, big guy. That’s your first mistake. When we met, I told you your rig was sloppy, didn’t I? Well it is. That’s the first thing you’ve got to sort out.’

This was my ‘oh, shit’ moment. The rig, in case you’ve been living under a rock, is the male body. Specifically the torso, but not always. Looking good naked is absolutely imperative if you want to be taken seriously as a grade cricketer. Most of us are time poor these days, so there’s really no point training anything beneath your lower abdominals. You wear long white pants during the game, anyway. Two muscle groups are crucial: chest and pipes. If you’ve got decent pipes, your shirt will tightly hug your torso and give others the impression you are strong. It might even get you first in line for a promotion up the order if some big hitting is required.

In the melting pot of grade cricket, your rig says more about you than your runs. A good rig offers tangible and intangible freedoms that sloppy rigs don’t enjoy. It affords you freedom from oppression in the dressing room, specifically the freedom to shower free of harassment. It affords you freedom of expression with regards to training kit. While Skins are the sole reserve of those in second grade or higher, a training singlet is the exclusive domain of strong rigs, regardless of grade. At the end of my first season I vowed that I wouldn’t return unless I was able to pull off a training singlet. In retrospect, if it weren’t for those winter months of split sets and supplements, my life would have taken a different course. A good rig also offers you freedom of speech. While there are notable exceptions, those players enslaved to the title of ‘shit rig’ rarely enjoy good careers. They will be subjected to cruel and degrading treatment, and rightfully so. Why? Because they’ve got a shit rig.

But mainly, a good rig affords you freedom from the word ‘yuck’.

Grade cricket compelled me to look at my rig square in the eye. It’s decent enough now, but of course I can’t be sure. I’m not ridiculed like I once was, but I’m no Bretty, either. I used to have pretty good hair, but it’s decidedly thinning. I’ve focused heavily on my arms and chest, though I wish they were better. They could always be better. Bretty has always led the way in the domain of chest and arms, and I’d easily substitute 1000 career runs for his bicep girth. Maybe even 2000, if I had that many to give.

My stomach is a weird shape and it’s always bothered me. I can get those little line thingy’s that separate your abs from your pelvis, but never much definition in the actual abs. My belly button has an ungainly protrusion, so I always make sure my towel covers it. This means my towel sits fractionally higher around my waist than what is considered normal, so it’s a point of anxiety for me. I’ve also never been the biggest fan of my general body shape; when I stand side-on, my back has an unattractive curvature that accentuates any stomach fat I’m carrying. Yuck, indeed. Despite a zillion squats a week, I never seem to lose anything off my buttocks, either. I used to do a mountain of cardio until I realised it did nothing for my rig. These were wasted years. Years I could have spent building my biceps. And chest.

Nuggsy continued on. ‘Seriously, legend. A bloke might have a six-figure salary at a job he truly loves, but it all means nothing if he has a shit rig and a poor grasp of Anchorman quotes. It probably doesn’t even matter if he averages in the mid-30s and does a lot at the club, because he’ll never go anywhere.’

I briefly wondered as to the relevance of Will Ferrell movie quotes, but then remembered back to my first training session. I had overheard a crew of second graders reciting dialogue from the movie Step Brothers while mucking around on the slips cradle. Obviously this broad style of comedy had particular resonance within grade cricket circles. The humour was absurd, male-skewed, anti-intellectual, and highly quotable. Suddenly, I was beginning to understand the things that made grade cricketers tick. Meanwhile, Nuggsy continued to bluster on, flecks of spit now hissing out from his animated mouth. The next piece of advice he had for me revolved around women: a subject I knew little about.

Dad had never spoken to me about sex before. The only time we’d come close was when we were both up late one night after a One Day match between England and Australia, when I was about 10 years old. Dad flicked over to SBS and there was some raunchy Spanish movie on, with the main characters smack bang in the middle of a simulated sex scene. I remember everything: the heaving bosom, the cries of ecstasy, the incongruous Latin jazz soundtrack. Dad and I watched the entire scene in complete silence. At one point, I looked over to him, hoping he would switch the TV off and end this awkward moment, only to see he had a strange smirk on his face, his eyes glued to the set. He was not about to inform me that this was a beautiful, consensual act between a man and a woman who were in love. He needed this.

So it fell to Nuggsy, a 31-year-old bachelor who lived with his Mum, to tell me about sex. ‘It’s a numbers game, pure and simple,’ he chuckled. ‘You know that bloke, Stewey, in fifth grade? He’s got a gorgeous wife and three beautiful children, but so what? No one wants to hear about little Madeline’s finger-painting at Kindergarten, or how Susan manages to juggle raising the kids with her job as a barrister. However, if you’re a second grader who’s slept with three birds in the past month, you’re a club hero. If you’re a moderately good cricketer who can tell an engaging sex story, you are instantly among the upper echelon of the social ladder. Now don’t get me wrong: having a girlfriend is a wonderful thing. But for God’s sakes, don’t ever bring her to a game — unless you enjoy the prospect of 10 blokes speculating over your sex life all day. That said, if you are comfortable disclosing these graphic details, you’ll win a great deal of respect among your teammates.’

‘So basically what you’re saying is that I should work on my rig, get my chat right, sleep with some random women, and everything will go from there?’ I ventured.

‘That’ll help a lot, pal, absolutely. But don’t forget that cricket is a sport largely made up of individual battles between you and your teammates.  As such, I strongly advise that you keep a close eye on the weekly performances of your teammates — and those at the club in general. When chatting to someone at training, only ask how well he performed on the weekend when you’ve already received prior confirmation of his failure. That might sound sociopathic, but believe me, the last thing you want is to turn up to training on Tuesday to hear, to your surprise, that a bloke in the grade below you tonned up.’

I frantically scribbled Nuggsy’s advice down on a notepad. It was probably somewhat unbecoming to be taking notes, but this was valuable information.

‘But you’re good enough to succeed in grade cricket, bud,’ he continued, earnestly. ‘I knew it the first day I saw you in the nets. You remind me a lot of myself — and I’m going to help you get up the grades where you belong. Now do you reckon you can spot me another beer? My pay cheque doesn’t come through until tomorrow.’

The chat with Nuggsy had gone well. I realised that he was taking me under his wing. I was now his protégé — and I looked forward to deploying these strategies in the coming months. It had been a slow start to my grade cricketing career, but with the help of Nuggsy, I felt like I could really make it. I had hope.

‘A jug of Reschs, thanks champ,’ I instructed the barman, with newfound confidence.

Everything made sense after Nuggsy’s little chat with me. It was clear that the grade cricket political system was feudal and I was a leper. Nuggsy showed me that I had to cure this disease and it wasn’t going to be through runs or wickets — though they can help — it was going to be through a tight rig and good chat. And so for the first three or four years of my grade cricket life I focused on just that. I lifted and I circuited. I did cardio in pre-season, which had nil positive effect on my cricket results but allowed me to see the boys and exchange sex stories. I ruthlessly watched popular Will Ferrell offerings and immersed myself in the dialogue for later quoting. And guess what, soon enough, things changed. I graduated from the ‘third net’ — usually reserved for other cricketing lepers who sometimes wear whites to training — to the middle net.

As far as on-field results go, for 10 years I’ve been what most would describe as middling to poor. As I’ve matured, I’ve come to understand the diminishing relationship between on-field results and selection in higher grades, but nevertheless I will provide a brief profile. I am a batsman, and I have settled for a serviceable batting average of somewhere between 13.5 and 18 in every single season I’ve played. In terms of playing style, it’s pretty simple: if it’s full, I’ll drive. If it’s short, I’ll pull aggressively. If it’s anywhere in between, I’m fucked. In the rare event I make two 30s in a row, I will move up a grade. On those occasions I will bat 8 and not bowl. As a result I assume the role of political attack dog in the field. Harsh, personal sledging is my forte and I don’t resile from these obligations. In fact I enjoy them more than the game itself. There’s nothing that makes me feel more alive than sledging a 15-year-old all day before getting into my 1991 Nissan Pulsar and driving to my parents house.
Absolutely nothing.

Like many, I haven’t totally abandoned the idea that I will one day become a professional cricketer. And if I’m not dreaming about playing first grade, or gaining selection as an overage player in the newly formed Futures League, I’m dreaming about the coveted ‘triple C’: the Century, Circuit, Chop. To score a hundred during the day, get drunk with your mates all night, and then have sex with a woman later that evening — all within a 12-hour period — is to achieve the holy trinity of amateur sport. If I am honest, it’s the slim chance of nailing this mouth-watering trifecta that drives me to continue playing cricket. I have never done it, not yet, but I desperately want to.

As you can see, grade cricket is a twisted and backward thinking society. The more I see it, immerse myself and revel in it, the more I realise its absurdities. But it’s all I’ve known. I’ve often read how heroin users continually chase that first high. I’ve never done heroin because it’s the wrong kind of drug to be taking if you’re to be accepted amongst your teammates. In many ways, however, grade cricket is my heroin. I sort of know that I’m past all of this now and that my world is so full of unreached potential, but I think about that one perfect cover drive I hit at training four weeks ago and it fills me with this warmth. I feel like I could still be good enough to play first grade. It crawls into my bloodstream and I feel whole again.

That’s why I play cricket.