Read Online The Rules of Backyard Cricket by Jock Serong - Free Book Online
Authors: Jock Serong
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I’m lounging in one of the plastic chairs regaling the boys with a few tales about how they do things in the Eastern Suburbs. Up to this point, I’ve never been there.
The pattern of things is much like always. No one can get through Wally’s defences. Not an edge, not a swipe, not a chancy lofted shot. He exudes permanence, even as wickets fall around him. He defends a lot: stretching into technically perfect shapes that look like fencing. He is very still, stiller than I’ve ever seen him. He is, for the first time, imposing.
Rifling through my bag to get padded up, I can tell that Mum’s been in it. The pads have been strapped neatly around the bat, and inside each of them is a rolled-up bathtowel. A Granny Smith in the bottom of the bag. Spare socks.
It’s eleven. She’ll be mopping out the bar at the Mona Castle, rolling in the new kegs.
Twenty minutes later I’m standing in the middle with Wally, who’s unbeaten on forty. I’m not going to ask him how the bowlers are, because I can see. The wicket’s clearly not treacherous.
‘You right?’ he asks vaguely, and I nod and wander to the striker’s end.
They take a while setting the field. Their skipper has a smug look which to me says either he’s already played a lot of representative cricket or he’s accustomed to running things. He’s clean-looking, new shoes. He stands only metres away, arranging everything as thoughI’m not there. He even talks about me as he does so.
‘No, come straighter. He won’t hit wide through there.’
Then he gestures to the guy standing at deep backward square. He’s tall, and I recognise him as one of the opening bowlers. Skipper winds him right in until they’re standing side by side.
‘Come in to short leg, mate. Right under him, please.’
And so this big lummox squats down almost within reaching distance of my bat, watching me. And as soon as his skipper’s moved back to slips, he starts on me. As I scratch out my guard:
‘Fucking peasant.’
I tap my bat gently on the turf as the bowler reaches the end of his walk back and turns to run in.
‘Dad on fucking welfare, mate?’
The bowler’s almost all the way in towards me and I wait until he’s just about to leap into the air, then pull away and raise my bat. The bowler staggers to a belligerent halt. I point my bat at Short Leg in accusation.
‘Good one, cockhead,’ I mutter softly.
He swings immediately towards the square leg ump. ‘I’m sorry ump, but there’s some very ugly abuse being directed at me by the batsman,’ he says, mouth full of private-school plums.
‘Fucking sook,’ I add. He’s a foot taller than me.
‘What’d you say?’
He’s advancing on me as Wally comes down the wicket to defuse. The two umps meet us mid-pitch. One of them’s got his hands out in a conciliatory way like he’s soothing dangerous animals. Short Leg gives me a death stare as everyone gets back into position and the bowler runs in again.
This time the bowler’s high in his delivery stride.
‘Commission-flat maggot.’
His timing’s very good. I’ve pressed forward and missed outsideoff as the ball bends elegantly way from the edge of my bat. I turn and look him over without responding.
‘Fucked your mum,’ he adds, staring straight back. ‘She fuckin loved it.’
I curl and uncurl one hand on the bat handle, imagine crushing the bridge of his nose with it so his breathing crackles through little chips of bone and the blood makes bubbles as the air comes out.
Curl, uncurl.
But somewhere within me, a switch is tripped. Not the one you’d expect, perhaps, from his inclusion of Mum in the banter. It isn’t tipping me towards white-hot fury, but into a state of perfect composure. A sudden understanding.
I’m not hosing out a urinal so you can lose your temper and blow your big chance. That’s what she’d say.
The bowler runs in again. Pitches perfectly straight at good pace on middle stump. Ordinarily, and two balls into an
The pattern of things is much like always. No one can get through Wally’s defences. Not an edge, not a swipe, not a chancy lofted shot. He exudes permanence, even as wickets fall around him. He defends a lot: stretching into technically perfect shapes that look like fencing. He is very still, stiller than I’ve ever seen him. He is, for the first time, imposing.
Rifling through my bag to get padded up, I can tell that Mum’s been in it. The pads have been strapped neatly around the bat, and inside each of them is a rolled-up bathtowel. A Granny Smith in the bottom of the bag. Spare socks.
It’s eleven. She’ll be mopping out the bar at the Mona Castle, rolling in the new kegs.
Twenty minutes later I’m standing in the middle with Wally, who’s unbeaten on forty. I’m not going to ask him how the bowlers are, because I can see. The wicket’s clearly not treacherous.
‘You right?’ he asks vaguely, and I nod and wander to the striker’s end.
They take a while setting the field. Their skipper has a smug look which to me says either he’s already played a lot of representative cricket or he’s accustomed to running things. He’s clean-looking, new shoes. He stands only metres away, arranging everything as thoughI’m not there. He even talks about me as he does so.
‘No, come straighter. He won’t hit wide through there.’
Then he gestures to the guy standing at deep backward square. He’s tall, and I recognise him as one of the opening bowlers. Skipper winds him right in until they’re standing side by side.
‘Come in to short leg, mate. Right under him, please.’
And so this big lummox squats down almost within reaching distance of my bat, watching me. And as soon as his skipper’s moved back to slips, he starts on me. As I scratch out my guard:
‘Fucking peasant.’
I tap my bat gently on the turf as the bowler reaches the end of his walk back and turns to run in.
‘Dad on fucking welfare, mate?’
The bowler’s almost all the way in towards me and I wait until he’s just about to leap into the air, then pull away and raise my bat. The bowler staggers to a belligerent halt. I point my bat at Short Leg in accusation.
‘Good one, cockhead,’ I mutter softly.
He swings immediately towards the square leg ump. ‘I’m sorry ump, but there’s some very ugly abuse being directed at me by the batsman,’ he says, mouth full of private-school plums.
‘Fucking sook,’ I add. He’s a foot taller than me.
‘What’d you say?’
He’s advancing on me as Wally comes down the wicket to defuse. The two umps meet us mid-pitch. One of them’s got his hands out in a conciliatory way like he’s soothing dangerous animals. Short Leg gives me a death stare as everyone gets back into position and the bowler runs in again.
This time the bowler’s high in his delivery stride.
‘Commission-flat maggot.’
His timing’s very good. I’ve pressed forward and missed outsideoff as the ball bends elegantly way from the edge of my bat. I turn and look him over without responding.
‘Fucked your mum,’ he adds, staring straight back. ‘She fuckin loved it.’
I curl and uncurl one hand on the bat handle, imagine crushing the bridge of his nose with it so his breathing crackles through little chips of bone and the blood makes bubbles as the air comes out.
Curl, uncurl.
But somewhere within me, a switch is tripped. Not the one you’d expect, perhaps, from his inclusion of Mum in the banter. It isn’t tipping me towards white-hot fury, but into a state of perfect composure. A sudden understanding.
I’m not hosing out a urinal so you can lose your temper and blow your big chance. That’s what she’d say.
The bowler runs in again. Pitches perfectly straight at good pace on middle stump. Ordinarily, and two balls into an
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