3

I HAVE MATES OUTSIDE CRICKET

Should you mix cricket with the rest of your life? Most grade cricketers would say no. The decision to mix your cricket and non-cricket friends can result in a horrible aftertaste. In all my time as a player, I have seen the two groups mix successfully. Integrated, maybe. Assimilated, maybe. But not ingrained. However, there have been moments where I’ve succumbed to ambition and entertained the thought that maybe, just maybe, both groups could get along. I’ve sadly learnt the hard way. More on that later.

Finn is my best friend outside of cricket. We have been near-best mates for twenty years, going through school together as children, teenagers, and into adulthood. He was there for the formative years: the first cigarette, the high school parties, female liaisons and penis insecurities. Finn is a musician — a singer. He was in all sorts of choirs and singing groups at school. Before puberty he had a beautiful falsetto voice, and I gather that he managed his transition to adolescence with distinction. I never really appreciated his talent in school; as ‘the cricketer’ I distanced myself from anything that had the potential to detract from my masculinity. Singing was ‘gay’, and I didn’t want to go near it.

Privately, I really liked music, and Finn knew it. I often found myself singing at home when no one was around. Finn overheard me one day as he entered the house, but to his credit, he was cool with it; even encouraged me. Because that was Finn — open, accepting, encouraging. Before long, he was harmonising my melodies, and for the first time, I felt the joy of playing music from the heart. He must’ve always known I was interested in music, because it didn’t seem to bother him at all that I — ‘the sportsman’ — shared his passion. It was like he already knew. Although I’d always trusted him, I swore him to secrecy by physically threatening him if word got out. He hasn’t told a soul, and we continue to sing together, in private, whenever we get a chance. He’s a great friend.

Finn has been clear that he has no interest in cricket. Sure, he might keep an eye on a couple of the international fixtures — ‘this looks much more athletic than the stuff I’ve seen you play,’ he’d say — but that’s about it. He has zero interest in conversation about rigs, and doesn’t lift at all. Interestingly, it has no impact on his ability to engage in either short sexual trysts or long-term relationships. He has no chest or biceps to speak of, but he’s pretty slim and his clothes look good on him. His diet’s OK, I guess, so good luck to him.

Finn has a long-term band and a couple of other projects on the side. He’s the front man for all of them and has made a bit of money from it, too. I like to give Finn advice on performance and team building, mainly because I think grade cricket is more ‘elite’ than his pursuit. In reality, I’m just regurgitating one-liners from pre-season sessions about culture. I monitor his performance when I’m watching him play a gig because I, too, know what it’s like to perform live in front of 20-30 people. In that sense I don’t think there’s too much difference between cricket and music, and that’s why I’ll offer a stern ‘work hard!’ at the end of one of Finn’s tracks, always ensuring to get the words in before the crowd applauds the song.

Finn is my first port of call when my attention turns from the match to the circuit, usually seconds after I exit the field of play. I’ll spend 20 minutes in the sheds by myself after an innings, ‘reflecting’ on how I got out, but in reality, I’m texting Finn regarding our Saturday night circuit.

But Finn doesn’t understand why I still play cricket. He hasn’t said that directly, but I can tell. He used to at least ask how I went; whether I was a shot at a higher grade, but he’s stopped doing that now. Even though I embellished my abilities to him during school — ‘Yeah, I basically play state’ — I’m a bit more honest with him these days. We lived together for a while, which exposed him to the grim grind of it all. I’d walk in the door on a Saturday evening after yet another dispiriting cricket experience, and there he’d be, on the couch, head down in some rare music publication.

‘How’d you go?’ he’d ask.

Well, mate. My seven-minute net session on Thursday night facing two slow-medium fifth graders of Indian origin proved the ideal preparation for my 18-ball duck today.

‘Yeah, hit 40-odd,’ I’d eventually answer, through gritted teeth.

I fell foul of mixing cricket and non-cricket mates once, though. I was in third grade, and we’d just been comfortably beaten by an outfit who’d lipped us heavily over the two-day fixture. We were livid, so we spent the next few hours building consensus that they were, indeed, the biggest fuckwits in the comp. We felt better.

At this point, Bretty suggested we do a Paddingville circuit. ‘The birds there are unbelievable!’ he reasoned.

There was widespread scepticism, however. Paddingville was not aligned with the prevailing socioeconomic status of our team’s rank and file. There were muttered objections, but Bretty held sway, and his promise of ‘unbelievable birds’ triumphed. Sadly it was only Swampy that couldn’t make it; he got red mist again after being given LBW (I immediately said ‘that’s plumb’ from the stands). He steamed off the field of play, smashed a few things in the change room, packed his bag, walked straight to his car and left for home. Under the guise of ‘getting drinks ready’, a few of us had actually scurried into the sheds to watch the spectacle. He just kept alternating between the words ‘Nup’ and ‘Why?’ as he bashed his pad into the wooden bench. By day Swampy is a high-ranking bureaucrat within the Department of Human Services, so I shudder to think of his reaction were he ever made redundant.

A full team circuit is uncommon, so this night came with a sense of occasion. The pub was our marshalling area, and Paddingville our arena. We were like an elite footy team unable to remain still while singing the national anthem, all fidgety energy. Our collective nostrils were flaring. In the words of our 20-year-old private school product, Nathan, it was ‘on’. So there we were, 10 of us cabbing it from our middling suburban location into Paddingville. It was rare (in the true sense) for that many of us to be there. Even the private school kids hadn’t swanned off to some lavish 21st birthday party in the leafy part of town.

I was in a cab with Bretty, Nuggsy and Bruiser. Bretty sat in the front and dazzled us with an impromptu interview of the cab driver. He covered all the basic territory, from establishing when the driver commenced his shift (3.30pm), to where he’s ‘actually from’ (Australia), whether he liked cricket (he did), and when he finished (2am). Bretty was winking at us all throughout the exchange. I failed to see the humour within any aspect of the conversation, but I giggled along regardless, making sure I at least appeared to know what was going on. The thing is, the content of Bretty’s conversations never matter because his shirt always looks so good on him. They’re always tight and snug all over, as though he has a custom made body for clothing. His chest looked defined and the correct amount of bicep skin protruded from his invariably short sleeve.

I’ve got to get big and cut like Bretty, I thought to myself. Then I would really nail a circuit like this.

We’d arrived at our bar and slid out of the cab, all adolescent jostling and shoving and hijinks. The excitement had not diminished an iota.

Bruiser picked up the fare, and was startlingly quick to do so. ‘I’ve got it, boys. You can get me a drink,’ he warbled in a register one or two rungs below his normal voice.

There was no objection from us. I had ghosted in close to Bruiser as we were initially hailing the cab. He didn’t train, hadn’t taken a pole in three months, and abhorred playing with the teenagers in the grades below, so he retained his place through gestures like this. We walked into the bar and the team was already there, drinks in hand.

‘Any danger of getting here on time?’ Deeks growled sarcastically.

Deeks was our captain; he wasn’t very funny. He’d been at the club for 14 years, sat on a senior committee of some description, and had won a premiership in second grade six years ago, which he still spoke about. His name had recently been etched on a dilapidated wooden club board in our pavilion for players with over 3000 runs and 100 wickets for the club. There was even a special presentation for the milestone. His face turned a distinct crimson, though, when the MC, our state player, suggested this gave him a career batting average of 14.5. There was uproarious laughter in the venue, some of it quite aggressive. Deeks responded by shouting ‘it’s 17 actually, check MyCricket!’ — a move that failed to stem the torrent of giggles. So it was against this background that Deeks made his remark. As always, we laughed it off. Secretly, everyone was disappointed Bruiser hadn’t appeared sooner, because he normally buys the first round of beers and they’re usually premium.

The team had arranged tables and seats in the corner of the establishment in almost identical fashion to our formation at the pub earlier. ‘Yeah we’ll get a good optic from here,’ I ventured to the boys, receiving a couple of validating nods in the process.

The two 20-year-olds were nodding with alarming vigour, sharp eyes piercing right through me, which I found disconcerting. Even though I’d made the ‘optic’ comment, it occurred to me that we were simply mimicking our pub set up, except this time the seats were leather, the tables mahogany and the beers $8.20. Still, optics.

The bar was called Le Bain. It was an intimidating name for our less cosmopolitan teammates, like Nuggsy and Dazza, who saw it as an assault on their very identity.

Nuggsy cornered me at one point, asking with great vulnerability why we had to ‘mix with these pretentious posers’. ‘Mate, I like a night at Fargo Bar as much as the next bloke, but I’m here being made to drink $20 cocktails, listen to this French shit and deal with birds who take one look at my Jeans West shirt and piss off,’ he said. ‘What sort of name is “La Bain” anyway?’

A part of me felt like telling him it was actually pronounced ‘Le Ban,’ but quickly thought better of it. Personally, I was loving the vibe, but nonetheless wary of being too demonstrative about it. Nuggsy’s description of the music as ‘French shit’ couldn’t have been more misguided. I welcomed the jazz-infused lounge beats overlayed with classic European singers like Edith Piaf and Nana Mouskouri. As the night went on, those voices provided a welcome soundtrack to a fascinating conversation I had with John, our bookish teammate, who had recently completed his Master of Art Curatorship, and taken up a role with the Australia Council for the Arts.  He divulged his plan for developing a new grants model to support artists. I was thoroughly engaged.

Soon, a pivotal moment came when John, upon finishing his white wine, asked what I was drinking. I had to think about this. I snuck a cursory glance towards the group to see whether anyone was looking in my direction. They were all watching Bretty entertain three blondes at the bar, presumably laying hypothetical bets as to which one he’d take home later that night. They couldn’t see me over in the dark corner, talking with John about government funding for local thespians, thinking about ordering something other than a schooner of beer.

‘I’ll have a glass of the white,’ I said eventually, in hushed tones.

John stopped, cocked an eyebrow, and stared at me for a few moments before heading to the bar.

As he returned, I felt the need to explain my hesitation. ‘You won’t believe how often it happens to me mate. The amount of times I ask the barman for a Carlton Draught and some chips, when really I’d much prefer a crisp Pinot Grigio and a cheese platter,’ I lamented.

Alan raised his eyebrows, pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose, and looked me directly in the eye. ‘Wasn’t it Laertes in Shakespeare’s Hamlet that said:

This above all: to thine own self be true,

And it must follow, as the night the day,

Thou canst not then be false to any man.

Farewell, my blessing season this in thee!

‘Actually, I think it was Polonius!’ I laughed.

‘Indeed!’

We clinked glasses. This was connection.

I was feeling great after a couple of glasses of Pinot Gris. Suddenly, I felt a vibration in my pocket.

‘You about tonight mate? Lounge bar, Paddingville. Mike’s doing an acoustic set: Elliot Smith’s ‘XO’ album. The one we listened to last week. Keen?’

Finn’s text sent my internal dialogue went into overdrive. I was very keen on his proposal, but I couldn’t leave the team. I hadn’t hit enough runs during the season to abandon them for a better offer. Could I possibly convince them to come? It was an audacious thought, and one that could have huge implications on my social capital at the club. Lounge Bar was around the corner, but may as well have been a world away from Le Bain. Most of the lads were struggling to wrest themselves away from the corner of this bar, but did Lounge Bar hold better prospects? Or were they forever confined to every corner of every establishment, regardless of where they went? No, I’d seen Bretty do some damage away from the corner. But would they have any interest in the music? And what about Finn? He barely has any time for cricket conversation; how would he manage all 10 of us?

I had a nice buzz going by now. I was feeling buoyant, free to be myself. My conversation with John had been illuminating. Maybe I could embrace my artistic interests? Maybe I could openly prefer aromatic white wine to a carb-y Carlton Draught? Lord knows Finn had been encouraging me to do this for years. Moreover, the boys were struggling here, and much like John had done with me an hour ago, I was about to offer them an option, a lifeline. Yes, Lounge Bar is a good idea. It’s a new path, a new way, and I am going to lead it.

I’d have to be shrewd to get the boys there, though. I swallowed my doubts and approached the pack, trying my best to embody gruff confidence in my voice. ‘Boys. My mate just sent me a pic of his missus. She’s unbelievable.’

The woman I was referring to was Finn’s long-term girlfriend. She wasn’t nude, but it was revealing enough. I knew it was wrong, but the jaw-dropping awe of my teammates was intoxicating.

‘Very tidy,’ replied Nuggsy, now in a trance, eyes fixated on
the screen.

The other boys were similarly engaged, with various primitive sounds and whistles cutting through the classy lounge beats. They were in the palm of my hand.

Is this influence? I wondered. Whatever it was, it felt great. But the next thing I announced was probably even worse than the first.

‘Lads, this bird is at Lounge Bar next door.’

‘Does she have mates?’ Nuggsy asked hopefully.

‘Plenty of ‘em,’ I shot back. I felt like a street rapper delivering
the shutdown.

So we went.

‘Can’t believe there was no bouncer. Great result!’ Thommo wailed at me as we bounded into the venue. I didn’t know what was worse — his yeasty breath, or the flecks of saliva cannoning into my eye. He was now probably 12 drinks deep, had undone a button on his newly purchased $149 Marcs shirt, and accrued multiple beer stains on his tattered brown leather shoes, bought on sale at YD.

It was a dark bar — full of music posters, dim lights and vinyl music. The carpet smelt of stale beer; Pink Floyd tunes wafted through the band room. This was inner Paddingville, now. Even though we’d only gone around the corner, the demography had changed. I was standing with Nuggsy, explaining why I had no time for Thommo since all he wanted to do was talk cricket, when I spotted Finn on the other side of the room. We caught eyes momentarily — a non-verbal ‘hey, man’ — but to my relief, he stayed there in the corner, perhaps sensing the situation. Once I’d finished educating Nuggsy about my position on Thommo, I came over. This was Finn, my oldest and dearest friend. He’d been there from the start, and knew me better than anyone. It was good to see him.

‘G’day champ,’ I said to him, shaking his hand more firmly than normal. ‘You remember Nuggsy, don’t you?’

‘G’day bud,’ said Nuggsy, clearly seeking out the social head start. His 6’2” frame seemed to envelop Finn, who took his hand and offered a friendly ‘Hi.’

‘Where’s your missus, mate?’ Nuggsy said, a little too eagerly. ‘She’s unbelievable!’

Nuggsy wouldn’t have noticed anything, but the brief glance that Finn shot at me, eyebrows furrowed and eyes ablaze, felt like it lasted a lifetime. He was smart, Finn. In those infinitesimal moments he had made the calculations and realised what had happened.

‘You mean Chloe?’ he replied. ‘Yeah she’s here. Have you guys met, or something?’

Finn delivered the enquiry calmly, looking directly at Nuggsy and adopting a look of genuine interest with undertones of suspicion. Finn had no rig, but he wasn’t intimidated by grade cricketers in the way I could be. He didn’t see Nuggsy as a guy who’d played 42 career first grade games, who’d once lidded the state player in the nets, who you avoided bowling to at training because he had levers and could hit a long ball. He hadn’t had the opportunity to admire Nuggsy for his rocket arm or occasionally salacious sex tales. To Finn, this was just a bloke with an incongruously tight white V-neck t-shirt, overly firm handshake and limited vocabulary.  

Nuggsy laughed. ‘Mate I haven’t met her, but old mate here showed us a screenshot of that SnapChat pic. Wow!’

Wow, indeed. The blood drained from my face. ‘Old mate’ meant me. It was an appropriate reference, albeit unintentional. Finn stared at me. He’d sent me that pic a month ago — Chloe had just placed 5th in a beach triathlon, and he’d taken a shot of her, bikini-clad, against the ocean backdrop. Sweat glistened off her tanned, toned body as she stood there, staring directly down the barrel of the camera. I’m probably going to keep this, I’d thought at the time. She looked good. But Finn had sent it to me because he was proud, not because she looked good. And now I had re-appropriated his earnest celebration of Chloe into something sexual in order to curry favour amongst my cricket teammates. Good from me.

As Finn looked at me, the final moments of that inimitable female solo in Pink Floyd’s Great Gig In The Sky hovered through the air. I loved that solo.

‘Is that right?’ Finn asked, his trained voice heavy with sarcasm.

We had been standing in a triangle formation as the exchange took place, with Finn staring at me as he faced Nuggsy. However, he had now fully pirouetted his body to address me, just me. Nuggsy realised something was amiss. He hated confrontations, which made this worse. For someone whose commitment to alphadom was so pronounced, he was now a shrivelled embarrassment of physicality; all bowed-head, stiff shoulders, darting eyes and overzealous swigs of his bourbon and coke, the loud clinks of his ice only serving to amplify the growing tension.

As this all unfolded, Mike was humbly closing out his cover of Sweet Adeline, the first track off Elliott Smith’s XO album. ‘Or any situation where I’m … better off than dead,’ he sang, to modest yet respectful applause. Just as Mike was introducing the backstory for the next song, Tomorrow, Tomorrow, a sharp, piercing yowl came from the back of the room, causing the band members to look up from the instruments they were tuning.

‘Give us Khe Sanh, champ! Yiew!’

It was Bretty, boldly calling on Mike to perform a rendition of Cold Chisel’s celebrated pub anthem. His ironic song request instantly gave way to three boisterous ‘Yiews!’ of varying length and intensity from other teammates. The crowd turned around and looked at them, leaning proudly up against the wall, beers in hand, totally oblivious to anything.

Bretty’s rude interruption had allowed me time to contemplate my response to Finn. I had done the wrong thing. I knew he’d be livid. Deep down he meant more to me than any of my cricket mates. I really hated upsetting him. But at the same time, I couldn’t back down in front of Nuggsy.

‘Take it easy, bud,’ I blurted out back to him, finally. ‘It’s a tight rig, nothing more nothing less.’

I couldn’t believe that’s what I’d said. Finn could have taken exception to any number of words within my belligerent response. He chose the first one.

‘It’s a tight rig?’ He looked distressed, but then he calmed. ‘Mate, who are you?’

It was a good question.