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Authors: Jock Serong
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at his grip and see the oversize bulge of his forearm protruding from the shirt. His face is all puppydog giddy. Never have I seen a human being so desperate to be loved. Remembering after a moment that I’m no longer batting with Wally, I allow myself a smile.
He waddles off down the pitch, saying g’day to each fieldsman he passes. None of them returns his greeting. As he walks, I’m conscious of how he fills his clothes, even his sneakers. He’s not fat, in the simple meaning of the term, but there’s so much of him.
When he reaches the crease he doesn’t take guard or look at where the fieldsmen are placed. He thumps his bat happily into the turf and looks up to see where the bowler is. As the ball streaks towards himhe plonks a foot down the wicket and misses by at least the width of the bat. He’s laughing at his own impetuousness, so he doesn’t hear the fieldsmen sledging him. Next ball he plays a very self-assured glide through gully, and it runs away slowly as a fieldsman pursues it.
I call him through, charging down the pitch at him before I realise he hasn’t moved. We’re nearly standing next to each other.
‘Craig! Go!’ I scream. The fieldsman’s gaining on the ball.
He looks at me calmly.
‘It’ll get there. Relax.’ He still hasn’t moved. The fieldsman lunges and slides. The ball finally tumbles into the gutter under the advertising boards.
‘See?’ His face isn’t boastful. He’s just happy things worked out.
The next over, I finally reach fifty and he runs down the wicket and hugs me. We’ve known each other for eight minutes.
‘We’ll remember this,’ he says, suddenly dead serious. ‘You and me. This is special.’
I don’t know where to look.
It’s getting steadily darker, and now the umpires are looking skyward. It’s hard to tell what’s going on because the sun’s moved behind the grandstand and the MCG next door. The sky’s tint has become an orange glow like an eclipse. The umps confer briefly then ask me if I want to go off. I don’t. Craig, who hasn’t been asked, makes it clear that he too wants to keep batting.
As the bowler wanders back to his mark, a stiff breeze picks up, swirling papers and leaves across the ground. It’s cold, cold air, instantly chilling the sweat on my back, and for a moment it’s a relief to feel the layer of hot air stripped off my skin. Then I’m cold like the heat never existed. I’m screwing my gloved hands against the rubber grip of the handle, trying to regain my concentration, when I realise that all the fieldsmen, and the umpires too, are looking up.
There’s a wall collapsing across the sky.
A plume, a cloud, an avalanche: none of these things. It looks like smoke but it’s a deep, rich brown colour. Although it floats across the sky like cumulus, it looks unbearably heavy. By unfortunate coincidence, we’ve been doing Pompeii in Ancient History, so I assume we’re all about to be petrified under ash. I’ll be found by archaeologists in cricket pads, smothered under the considerable bulk of Craig Wearne.
People are running for the grandstand. I look at Craig, who looks back at me, momentarily unsettled. Then we both run after them.
Outside the world drowns in haze. The stumps are still out there, lonely sentinels. But the far boundary is gone. Punt Road is not only invisible from here but silent too, like someone stopped a printing press. We sit around in the dining room under the stern gaze of the old bearded gents. One of the officials comes over.
‘They’re saying on the radio it’s a dust storm. Topsoil blowing down from the Mallee. Take a couple of hours to clear, but they reckon no one should be outside till it’s gone. So we’re abandoning the match.’
Amid the chatter and complaints, he eyeballs me.
‘Well batted, son. Terrific.’ He’s looking over his glasses at me, like he really means it.
I find Wally in the dressing room, carefully repacking his gear.
‘Would’ve been nice
He waddles off down the pitch, saying g’day to each fieldsman he passes. None of them returns his greeting. As he walks, I’m conscious of how he fills his clothes, even his sneakers. He’s not fat, in the simple meaning of the term, but there’s so much of him.
When he reaches the crease he doesn’t take guard or look at where the fieldsmen are placed. He thumps his bat happily into the turf and looks up to see where the bowler is. As the ball streaks towards himhe plonks a foot down the wicket and misses by at least the width of the bat. He’s laughing at his own impetuousness, so he doesn’t hear the fieldsmen sledging him. Next ball he plays a very self-assured glide through gully, and it runs away slowly as a fieldsman pursues it.
I call him through, charging down the pitch at him before I realise he hasn’t moved. We’re nearly standing next to each other.
‘Craig! Go!’ I scream. The fieldsman’s gaining on the ball.
He looks at me calmly.
‘It’ll get there. Relax.’ He still hasn’t moved. The fieldsman lunges and slides. The ball finally tumbles into the gutter under the advertising boards.
‘See?’ His face isn’t boastful. He’s just happy things worked out.
The next over, I finally reach fifty and he runs down the wicket and hugs me. We’ve known each other for eight minutes.
‘We’ll remember this,’ he says, suddenly dead serious. ‘You and me. This is special.’
I don’t know where to look.
It’s getting steadily darker, and now the umpires are looking skyward. It’s hard to tell what’s going on because the sun’s moved behind the grandstand and the MCG next door. The sky’s tint has become an orange glow like an eclipse. The umps confer briefly then ask me if I want to go off. I don’t. Craig, who hasn’t been asked, makes it clear that he too wants to keep batting.
As the bowler wanders back to his mark, a stiff breeze picks up, swirling papers and leaves across the ground. It’s cold, cold air, instantly chilling the sweat on my back, and for a moment it’s a relief to feel the layer of hot air stripped off my skin. Then I’m cold like the heat never existed. I’m screwing my gloved hands against the rubber grip of the handle, trying to regain my concentration, when I realise that all the fieldsmen, and the umpires too, are looking up.
There’s a wall collapsing across the sky.
A plume, a cloud, an avalanche: none of these things. It looks like smoke but it’s a deep, rich brown colour. Although it floats across the sky like cumulus, it looks unbearably heavy. By unfortunate coincidence, we’ve been doing Pompeii in Ancient History, so I assume we’re all about to be petrified under ash. I’ll be found by archaeologists in cricket pads, smothered under the considerable bulk of Craig Wearne.
People are running for the grandstand. I look at Craig, who looks back at me, momentarily unsettled. Then we both run after them.
Outside the world drowns in haze. The stumps are still out there, lonely sentinels. But the far boundary is gone. Punt Road is not only invisible from here but silent too, like someone stopped a printing press. We sit around in the dining room under the stern gaze of the old bearded gents. One of the officials comes over.
‘They’re saying on the radio it’s a dust storm. Topsoil blowing down from the Mallee. Take a couple of hours to clear, but they reckon no one should be outside till it’s gone. So we’re abandoning the match.’
Amid the chatter and complaints, he eyeballs me.
‘Well batted, son. Terrific.’ He’s looking over his glasses at me, like he really means it.
I find Wally in the dressing room, carefully repacking his gear.
‘Would’ve been nice
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