7

FITTING IN AGAIN

Most grade cricketers have contemplated switching clubs at one stage or another. As humans, we have an inherent tendency to think the grass is greener on the other side. But all grass looks the same when you’re standing on it for six fucking hours every Saturday, wondering what you’re doing with your life. For most blokes, a club change doesn’t amount to much. The only difference now is that you’ve got to drive an extra 25 minutes to get to training at your
new club.

But sometimes, for a select few, a club switch can prove very fruitful. In many ways it’s like starting at a new school, you’ve got the chance to reinvent yourself — not only as a cricketer, but as a person. You might have left your last club as an off-spinner who batted 8, so why not re-brand yourself as a dashing opening batsman? Your last captain sent you from fine leg to fine leg? Tell the lads you dislocated your shoulder playing footy in the off-season and — voilà — you’re fielding in the cordon. Were you considered a ‘rare unit’ at your old club? With a handful of sex stories and a few lucky wins on the circuit, you could become the new Chop King. Loved and adored by all, a fresh new face for everyone to ‘get around’. This social capital will come in handy the moment everyone realises that your batting is terrible, your hands are shit, and you haven’t had sex since 2009.

But what’s the point to all this, you might ask? Why would an ageing cricketer want to switch clubs? What is the point of starting again at a new club, toiling your way up the grades, proving yourself — both on and off the field — to a new group of sceptical blokes?

Well, I hate to admit this, but I still harboured ambitions of playing state cricket.

I could never have vocalised this dream because it would have sounded ridiculous coming out of my mouth. After all, my highest score in five years was 47 not out — in fourth grade — and I was dropped three times during that knock. I struggled to get to training once a week, despite being ‘in between jobs’. My abdominal skinfold was so loose that I could probably have pulled it over my penis to use as a condom. There was absolutely no empirical evidence to suggest that I could ever play first grade cricket, let alone state cricket. But the dream was well and truly alive. It always is. Because for true grade cricketers, this dream is never fully out of reach. You could be a 41-year-old father of three with a BMI of 37 who bats six in fourth grade, but if you hit nine double-centuries before Christmas, you’re a chance for Sheffield Shield cricket.

I switched clubs two years ago. Leading up to my decision, I was averaging well below my usual range of 13.5 to 18 runs per innings. I’d started the season in second grade, but was now barely clinging on to the number six batting position in fourth grade. The only thing keeping me in fours was our captain, a bloke called Deeks, who lived around the corner from me. Deeks’ car was out of action for a few months and he needed me to give him a lift to the game every week. I was literally being selected for my ability to drive a car. At least once a week I’d have the same recurring nightmare — Deeks’ car had finally passed a roadworthy test, and I’d been dropped to fifth grade. I’d wake up in a cold sweat, trembling at the mere thought of playing fifth grade cricket, looking around the change-room at 10 blokes, each wearing a slightly different shade of cream. God, I’m mouthing the word ‘Yuck’ now just thinking about it. Those were fucking dark days indeed.

My spot was in jeopardy, sure, but the club demographic was shifting, too. A new wave of young kids, fresh out of high-school, had come on board, and I’d found myself in no man’s land: too old to partake in youth-focused chat about Tinder, university admission scores and Schoolies banter — and too young to chat with the older blokes about mortgages, wives, redundancies and other depressing shit. As a result, my chat became weak and repetitive. Most tellingly, my rig — once ‘decent enough’ — looked shameful when pitted against a bunch of first-year uni students with skinfolds in the 5-10 percent range. The only blokes with worse rigs than me were those who’d retired from the circuit a long time ago. If I had a girlfriend or a wife, then at least that’d be a reason to let myself go a bit; no one bats an eyelid when a married bloke puts on a couple of kilos. No such excuse for me: I was just a depressed comfort-eater with poor time management.

There was also one particular ‘incident’ that, I’ll admit, did hasten my departure from the club. We were out on the circuit after our last game, a disappointing loss, which put us at 11th on the ladder. We had decided to do our traditional three-pub circuit — affectionately known as the ‘golden triangle’ — before possibly finishing off the night at a strip club. The strip club component would hinge heavily on whether Bruiser was kicking on or not, given that he was a) the most cashed up of us, and b) the most sexually fiendish bloke I’ve ever met. Bruiser was a derivatives trader at a well-known investment bank and earned an enormous salary. He worked 80-hour weeks and, as such, was unable to ever attend training, but he was a good bloke and loved splashing his cash around, so we had a safe spot reserved for him in fourth grade. Being a high-flying trader, he also knew his way around a bag of coke, but that’s neither here nor there.

At the second bar, Bruiser excused himself to go to the men’s room, leaving his wallet on the table. I eyed it sitting there, plump, leathery, and bulging with $50 notes.

He won’t notice if I take one, will he?

I quickly scanned the room to see if anyone was watching. The coast was clear. I slipped my fingers in and nicked a crisp bill, thrusting it greedily into my back pocket.

Thank fuck. I can finally afford to fill my car up with petrol.

Bruiser never noticed that the $50 note was gone. But later that evening, Deeks sidled up to me after 12 beers. He’d seen the whole thing. He said he wouldn’t tell anyone, but he was visibly disappointed in what I’d done. He banged on for 20 minutes about ‘club culture’, ‘respecting others’, and ‘doing the right thing’. All this from a bloke who would, in a few hours time, gleefully cheat on his wife with a Taiwanese prostitute. This sobered me right up. I couldn’t even enjoy the four lap dances that Bruiser bought for me later that night. Deeks knew that I was a thief — and Deeks was my captain! My career at this club was doomed. It’d be fifth grade for me next year, at best.

I needed a fresh start.

EMAIL

Subject: Grade Cricketer Application

To: admin@sharks.com.au

BCC: admin@settlers.com.au; admin@bears.com.au; admin@blues.com.au … and 40 more

Dear Sir or Madam,

I am writing to you today to announce my candidacy for the vacant role of gun cricketer. If I can keep your attention for the next few minutes, I’d like to introduce myself and let you know why I’d like to play for your club.

Firstly, a bit about me. I am a top-order batsman with a wealth of first and second grade experience. My batting technique is solid and dependable, allowing me both the flexibility to grind out 8 off 50 balls on a sticky wicket, or provide quick runs in a chase scenario through my innovative stroke play. I can bat anywhere from 1-8, depending on what the team needs.

If your club is short on bowling this season, then you will be interested to know that I am capable of bowling up to 130 clicks. Given my innate ability to move the ball (both ways, mind you — and late), I’ve proven myself an extremely effective weapon on all pitches. I have five different variations of the slower ball that I deploy depending on the scenario. I’m currently working on a sixth one for the T20s this year.

A few years ago, having recognised the shifting demands of the modern game, I spent an off-season learning the craft of off-spin bowling. I undertook this extra-curricular exercise in order to have the option of switching from pace to spin mid-over, depending on the context of the game. It is now quite common for me to bowl both pace and spin during the same game. Actually, sometimes I wish I could bowl at both ends!

I am a firm believer in ‘working hard’ on all aspects of cricket — and that includes fielding. While many grade cricketers view fielding practice as a waste of time, something that gets in the way of a net session, I see it as critically important. I am equally at home in the cordon as I am in the outfield; my hands are safe and my arm is strong. I would add that during a game, I’ll be the first person to tell a teammate to ‘think about it’ when his throw to the keeper hits the ground, or shoot a vicious glare at the bloke who isn’t backing up. Some might consider this abrasive; I consider it to be constructive.

I mentioned the importance of ‘hard work’ earlier in this player application. To me, pre-season fitness is simply part of the modern game now. In years past, players would dismiss ‘beep tests’ and ‘road runs’ in the misguided belief that it had no impact on their chosen discipline, be it batting or bowling. ‘I just want to hit balls,’ they’d say. I would argue that this is an outdated philosophy and not reflective of the modern game. One must be fit — mentally and physically — in order to get the most out of himself. These one-percenters may not seem like much, but they are often the difference on a 42 degree day when you’ve got a tricky two overs to negotiate before stumps.

Finally, I would highlight my sense of humour, open-mindedness, social awareness and cordial ratios among my key interpersonal strengths. I am a team-oriented player who is always looking to improve both my own game and those around me. In conclusion, if you’re looking for an experienced, selfless cricketer who will provide immeasurable value to your club, both on and off the field, then look no further.

I’d appreciate the chance to tell you more, so please do not hesitate to contact me for more information.

Cricketing and character references are available upon request.

Yours sincerely,

The Grade Cricketer

I’d sent my email to over 40 cricket clubs across most of Australia. The first nine replies were a cruel mix of bounce backs and spam. One club’s auto-reply directed me to an online pharmacy specialising in Viagra. Twenty minutes later, having duly cashed in on the 50 percent discount for bulk purchase, I returned to my inbox, where I was startled to find three positive responses. All I had to do now was show up at pre-season training, see which of the three clubs was the best fit, and my state dream could live on for another season.

I showed up at pre-season training for the first club, only to find out we were doing a 12 kilometre ‘time trial’ road run. After about 800m, short of breath and sweating profusely, I snuck off down a laneway and walked to my car. This club wasn’t for me. No dramas, still two more clubs to choose from.

I tried my luck at a second club the following week. As it turned out, this mob had recently hired a former state cricketer as head coach. Everyone was striving desperately to win the approval of this former state legend. As the new player, I represented a clear threat to the old blokes, but I hung around for the entire pre-season, toiling away in the nets, chatting to all the relevant power brokers to help me move up the grades. I was feeling good about my game; my fitness was improving a bit. I had even started wearing Skins.

A week before the start of the season proper, I was selected in an intra-club trial game that would ostensibly determine the teams for round one. Batting at first drop, I hit an unbeaten 88, at which point I was retired by the captain to give others a go. I sauntered off the field safe in the knowledge that I’d done enough to at least make third grade — possibly even seconds. The following Tuesday night, the selectors announced the teams for round one. I edged forward in my seat, listening intently for my name, but it was never called. I assumed that this was a simple oversight; after all, there was no way they could have looked past my excellent 88 not out, could they? I walked up to the selectors at the end of the meeting to find out what had happened. Having not been named in any of the five grades — five! — I asked whether they could check again to see if there had been a mistake.

‘Sorry son, but it’s a particularly strong group this year. We’ve got you on standby for fifth grade in case someone drops out,’ Harold, an 81-year-old club official and eczema sufferer, politely informed me.

‘But what about my glorious 88 not out?’ I implored.

The words ‘88 not out’ spat off my tongue like rapid-fire bullets. My delivery was well practiced; I’d been bragging about it all week. Surely my first score over 50 in six years had not been in vain?

‘It was a good knock, sure, but there are a lot of quality young batsmen this year. It’s a shame you’re not a fast bowler — we need more of those — but there’s a lot of competition in the middle order,’ he said.

I looked Harold up and down, contemptuously. This was a frail, elderly man who had dedicated his entire life to the club. A stalwart who played for over 17 seasons back in the 1950s and 60s, Harold was the club’s all-time leading run-scorer until last year, when Damo finally overtook him. This gentle widower was probably somebody’s granddad, but at that exact moment he was the worst bloke I’d
ever met.

I noticed that Harold’s liver-spotted hands were now shaking, his lips quivering in fear. The poor old bastard was scared shitless; he could sense the explosion coming.

‘Well, you’re a fucking prick, Harold!’ I stammered, crudely. ‘A fucking prick!’

I felt my heart speed up. A surge of blood rushed to my face; my eyes began to water. It was like being at primary school all over again; a seven-year-old kid throwing a tantrum after losing his ‘king’ spot in handball. I stormed out of the meeting in a fit of primal rage, fully aware of the 55 blokes that were watching this drama unfold, each barely stifling their giggles. As soon as I got outside, a cacophony of laughter erupted. I had been completely ostracised by the villagers.

There’s a German word, schadenfreude, which describes the pleasure one derives from someone else’s misfortune. Grade cricket is full of fucking schadenfreude. In fact, the whole game centres on it. I don’t think I’ve ever genuinely celebrated someone’s hundred or five-for without considering the flow-on effect on my own position in the team. Even when I’m at the non-striker’s end, I’ll gently whisper ‘that’s plumb’ to the umpire when my batting partner gets rapped on the pads. His failure is my gain. Anyway, what I’m saying is that 55 blokes took immense satisfaction in my public emasculation.

The grade cricket system is hierarchical in nature, with veterans up the top and newcomers well down the ladder. Of course, certain characteristics can help elevate one above the conventional social order — for example, a large penis and a good rig can help a newcomer leap up the grades — but for the rest of us, it’s tough business starting out at a new club. It wasn’t Harold’s fault — he was simply the bearer of bad news. It was the fucking selection panel that had conspired against me. This club had a very traditional hierarchy, with players ranked according to power and importance. I was neither powerful, nor important. My 88 not out had presumably sparked a sense of fear among the top social strata, and as such, I was cruelly cast aside.

Still yet to find a team, and with just five days until round one, I vowed to myself that I’d try one more club before copping out and contacting a Shires team. This was definitely a last resort, though, for Shires is where grade cricketers go to die. Scoring runs in Shires feels good at the time, but you certainly don’t want to tell anyone about it. Deep down you know it doesn’t count. I turned up to this final Wednesday training session, just four days before the start of the season, not expecting much. The one thing working in my favour was the fact that this club had languished at the bottom of the Club Championship for the past decade. If there was anywhere I might be able to get a game, it was here.

Having been a grade cricketer for the best part of a decade, I knew that I needed to make myself known early. I approached a perma-tanned, tracksuit-clad man in his 50s, whom I took to be the club coach. He shook my hand and listened half-heartedly as I launched into my sales pitch, staring at me with dead eyes. Keen on erasing my recent past, I told him I’d just come back from a season in the UK and was looking to start fresh at a new club. I noticed that his ears visibly pricked up upon hearing the acronym ‘UK’.  

‘What div?’ he asked.

Unprepared for this follow-up question, I stuttered something vague about a Surrey-based competition. According to my story, I’d been paid £100 a week as their Aussie import, with board included for free. Buoyed by his sustained interest, I continued to wax lyrical about my fictitious batting average (46.7) and the swag of wickets I’d taken that season (52 — a club record). I crossed my fingers behind my back, hoping desperately that he wouldn’t do a background check and find out I was a fourth grade thief with a single-digit average.

‘Sounds very impressive, young man,’ he said, in a fatherly tone. ‘Throw your pads on and jump in the second net.’

Young man! Second net! Shit, it had been years since anyone had called me ‘young man’, or indeed asked me to hop in the second net. With this newfound confidence, I proceeded to have what I can only describe as the best net of my life. I was smoking them everywhere. The ball looked huge. For 15 minutes, I developed a temporary sixth sense, in that I knew where exactly the ball was going to pitch, every time. My brain and body were in perfect sync, for the first time in years. The bowlers became frustrated and began pitching it short, but I was too good. The loud ‘clunk’ sound of a perfectly middled pull shot reverberated around the indoor complex, lingering in the air for what felt like minutes. My performance was turning heads. I was actually enjoying cricket again!

Towards the end of this flawless net session, I noticed the coach beckon an athletic-looking bearded bloke over. They stood together, speaking in hushed, conspiratorial tones, gesturing towards me as I continued to pummel the bowling. I had overheard earlier that this bearded bloke was the second grade captain. Could this be happening? Was I actually being tapped for second grade? I finished the net with a confident back-foot drive (resisting the in-built urge to slog the shit out of my last one) and strolled out of the net, calmly soaking up the attention my magnificent performance had garnered. All eyes were on me, just as they had been during my hissy fit days earlier, but this time I sensed a grudging respect from those around me. Who is this bloke? Who the fuck is this new bloke?

As I was taking off my pads, the second grade skipper ambled over to introduce himself. Gus was his name. He was tall and swarthy, with piercing dark eyes; he smelled like stale cigarettes and sawdust. Everything about him screamed masculinity and demanded respect.

After a few casual pleasantries, Gus asked me where I usually liked to bat.

‘Usually 4, Gus,’ I responded, careful not to inadvertently ‘champ’ him.

‘And do you bowl, bud?’

‘Yeah, fast-meds. About 130 clicks,’ I offered.

‘Good stuff. We’re playing away this week. You going to be alright getting out there?’

‘No dramas, mate. Yes, I do have a car.’

My bowling was certainly not ‘fast-medium’. My shoulder muscle was likely in a state of atrophy; it had been years since anyone asked me to bowl in a game. But after that net session, anything was possible. I was in-demand, hot property. My state dream was back on track.

But most importantly, I was relevant again.