The second-rate, when you think about it, are much maligned. Being second-rate is still pretty good. In fact, it’s usually the best you can hope for, in a world where genuine first-rate anything is a rare commodity.
Or so I’m reflecting later that evening at the Yarras’ Como Park celebratory wake. Everyone’s in a philosophical mood, so I’m not alone. In his speech to the club on behalf of the Fourths, Churchyard tells us that it’s the first time he’s managed to coax his German partner to the club rooms. ‘My girlfriend Ute,’ he says, ‘describes cricket as “that stupid game in which silly men in white run around pointlessly”.’ There are murmurs of guilty assent, mixed with the odd challenge of, ‘Yeah. And so?’
Especially philosophical is Doc. Our Thirds captain is probably the smartest guy at the Yarras. He’s a barrister in his fifties with a deep social conscience who writes incisive opinion pieces for newspapers about weighty issues of legal practice and civil liberties ... who’s now off his tits. His speech, which involves a thank-you to every person who has helped him in cricket from the man at the sporting goods depot who sold him his first bat, makes Halle Berry’s at the Oscars seem the acme of restraint. It takes a lot of well-aimed peanuts to finally shut him up.
Later we have a conversation in which Doc tries simultaneously to eat a burger, drink a beer, smoke a cigarette and cradle the premiership shield—of which he refuses to let go. ‘Interleckchalism?’ he proposes, ‘iss overrated.’
‘Mrs Doc won’t be happy when you get home,’ I warn him.
He looks at me mischievously. ‘She’s away. Hee hee hee.’
So in this environment of communal rejoicing individual disappointment doesn’t stand a chance; in fact, it’s fundamental to the life of a club, or at least of a good club, that vicarious pleasure is as real and solid as personal satisfaction. Hicksy has been at the Yarras for twenty-four seasons and this is his first share in a flag: compared with him, I’m a Tragic-Come-Lately. No one this evening, meanwhile, would mistake Wogger for a loser. The doctor who’d issued his certificate that morning would have been delighted by his recovery, or at least by VB’s efficacy in treating cases of non-specific symptom-free one-day diarrhoea. Wogger, full of love for the Yarras, shakes my hand with vigour: ‘Great season mate. Just great. Really enjoyed it.’ Six times. By the time I leave at 4 a.m., Wogger is sitting on the couch, staring into space, appearing to recite Finnegans Wake. Castaway listens with touching solicitude.
‘Iss hard to bowl,’ Wogger insists. ‘When ya bin run over. Know wodeye mean?’
‘Very true mate,’ agrees Castaway.
‘I think iss terrible,’ Wogger continues. ‘Hmmm. A dog’d be good.’
‘Dogs are good. No doubt about that.’
Yes, good old dogs. I remember a remark by Damon Hill to the effect that ‘the only ones who remember you when you come second are your wife and your dog’. It struck me at the time as an especially cruel verdict on cat-owning bachelors like myself. But there’s a reason why Damon Hill goes unmentioned in Harold Bloom’s The Western Canon or Alain de Botton’s Consolations of Philosophy—his insights into the human condition are pretty bloody limited. Second-place getters we were. Second-rate cricketers we are. Second-class citizens we’re not. Sometimes being second is even recognised.
There’s been an ongoing minor subplot at the Yarras, involving our star speed merchant Torqs. A couple of weeks ago it emerged that Churchyard’s tact, diplomacy and sheer unctuousness had paid off: Torqs was told he’d won the trophy for the best bowling average in the grade. But in order to retain the title of our number one Management Challenge, Torqs told the association secretary where he could stick the trophy—if not where the sun don’t shine, at least a shady spot somewhere nearby. ‘Sure, fine, whatever, free country, etc,’ said the Yarras committee. But this left the association, and us, with a problem.
In the wee hours of the morning of our celebratory wake, Evo from the Hearters, who sits on the association executive, breezes in for a beer. ‘We’ve been discussing the Torqs thing,’ he says. ‘We need to present the trophy to someone. But there’s a concern that the guy who finished second in the bowling averages wouldn’t want to accept it if he knew he wasn’t actually top.’
‘Obviously that’s a personal issue,’ I reply. ‘The individual concerned would clearly need to have no pride, no shame, and no hang-up about mediocrity. Any idea who it is?’
Evo smirked. ‘It’s you.’
‘You’ve come to the right man, Evo,’ I say. ‘I accept on behalf of all second-rate cricketers.’
Reward at last.
Three days elapse. The phone falls quiet. There aren’t twenty Yarras-related emails clogging my Hotmail account. Guess the committee will have to meet again soonish.
Then there’ll be presentation night, and eventually the annual meeting. But there’s nothing pressing, and for a change I find myself writing something other than the South Yarra Sentinel. The phone rings.
‘Chairman? G’day. What are you up to?’
‘Oh, not much, Moof,’ I say. ‘Bit of writing.’
‘What are you writing about?’
‘Actually, I’m knocking out something about a great all-rounder like yourself. W. G. Grace.’
‘The fat guy, right? With the beard like Castaway’s?’
‘Correct. I’ll include that in the “Stuff Moof Knows” round for trivia night next year. What’s taking up your time at the moment?’
There’s a pause. ‘Well, not much,’ says Moof. ‘Work. It’s boring. I’m at a bit of a loose end. Suddenly I’ve got all this time on my hands.’
I sigh. ‘Same here. Only six months to go though.’
‘Of course,’ Moof says, ‘we don’t have to wait that long.’ Then hesitantly: ‘You ... errr ... wanna hit at Hawthorn Indoor tomorrow night?’
I don’t have to think about this either. ‘Done.’
‘I’ll ring Womble,’ says Moof. ‘Let’s go!’