Almanac (Club) Cricket: Makeshift magic

 

 

 

Round 1: Makeshift magic

 

First we noticed the dust. Layers of it that coated the walls, the tables and the poor kitbags that had been disregarded in the rooms since Thursday, left to be hit by a brown powder so thick that the movement of an ant in the corner was enough to cause a tiny plume to erupt below a bench. It was like snow, dense enough to infect any open wounds. It had evenly fallen on all in the room. The decaying cash register, the Gatorade cooler awaiting its weekly potion to be brewed and served, the monstrous fridges stacked against brick walls that had been recently filled with a variety of beer and soft drink, and maybe the odd bottle of wine, by the committee member chatting away while the bottles clinked into place and the labels were turned to face the front with the precision of a 15-year-old stacking shelves at a local Coles. It was the type of dust that couldn’t be easily swept away with the awkward technique of our 19-year-old opening bowler as his hands tightly gripped the broom handle the wrong way around, meaning the dust was only pushed into the air in harsh swirls that danced in the mid-morning light blasting through a couple of thin-slit windows near the roof. It was a presence that had to be accepted.

 

It was the opening day of the season, the type of sunny Melbourne Saturday morning that boded a toasty afternoon. It was an hour and a half before the first ball of the season was slated to be delivered in front of a pack of local homeowners and their dogs, as well as the odd family member or friend. Instead of the usual arrival at the front of the clubrooms, we congregated inside our makeshift rooms for the season – the 10-metre long back-up rooms along the side of the building that smelt like the discarded wardrobe of an elderly woman riddled with dementia. Inside we had been able to fit various fridges, benches, tables and marquees, a side room proved sufficient for the valuables like stumps, balls, iPads and unclaimed merchandise, while a shipping container dumped in the carpark by the local council on the eve of the season was the latest home for the larger items that adorned our now demolished clubrooms. By the time the marquee had been marched out to the fence surrounding our main oval and assembled, with flimsy ropes tying the legs to the gate, the fridges had been switched on and prepared for older club figures to climb through kitbags and source a beer, and the tables had been wiped down and placed outside the rooms, just inside the temporary fencing that cordoned the rest of the upgrade works off, the rooms had just enough space to be considered homely. Then came the rattling of the tin partition to cut the room in half, giving our opponents for the day their own section to raise some dust.

 

You’d think this would be enough to curtail any opening round exuberance. Inside the rooms felt like a sauna, and not the Scandinavian glass house-type with a comforting fire and clear air, maybe situated deep in a snowy forest. No, it was more like an asthmatic’s nightmare of swirling dust, hazy air and the hint of cigarette smoke as our club president and long-time toiling out-swing bowler pulled his moth-eaten kitbag through the door. It was enough encouragement to quickly put our shoes on, apply some sunscreen (I’d taken the luxury of acquiring a coconut-scented moisturising mixture that had been on special during the week) and jog out to the ground and nets to get the show on the road.

 

While the general consensus was one of eager anticipation to get the season underway, there was a hint of the unknown that permeated the group of young and old as we huddled on the ground. The previous year had ended in heartbreak, starting with our captain walking out on the club on the eve of Round 1, leaving our struggling side in the second highest flight of the local competition and heading to the biggest and most hated club in the district. With barely enough players to constitute two teams, an inevitable fight saw us drop the final game of the regular season in the penultimate over and face relegation to the third division despite being only a game and a half out of the top four. Now the once-proud club was in uncharted waters, playing sides we’d only ever seen scores of on paper or online.

 

This uncertainty coincided with my own personal demons that came with being captain of the club’s top team for the very first time. While many would think this would lead to team selection headaches or personal form doubts, my afflictions were more superficial. How did I want to compose myself when marching out to do the coin toss? Would bright and perhaps vile Kmart-bought sunnies do the trick, or should they be flicked back to sit atop my baggy playing cap? Should I jog to the two umpires in the middle to show a baseline level of fitness, or walk with calm, purposeful strides that conveyed a sense that I had meticulously planned every second of how the day would pan out, and that the hapless opponent was a mere pawn in my game? Either way, the coin was tossed and the opposition captain called heads. It was tails.

 

“We’ll bat,” I squeak out as confidently as possible.

 

The nerves of the first ball of a day’s play are often enough to make the toughest of people look away. Some of the meanest looking, tattoo-covered men I’ve played senior cricket with have been known to crane their neck away as the bowler steams in to start proceedings, flicking one eyeball back towards the field to catch a sliver of the action. There’s something different altogether when it’s not just the first ball of the day, but of a season. We all stood under the marquee as it flapped in the gentle breeze, holding our breath as months of predictions materialised into the reality of a white leather ball being sent down 22-yards.

 

Crack. It was a wide long-hop that swings out and straight onto the seasoned Kookaburra bat of our 50-something year old coach who is still in tremendously good physical condition. Most people in the league have seen this cut shot before, but our opponents for the new season get their introduction to it on the very first ball. Four runs. From there the day followed a trend that surpassed our wildest dreams. Both openers, father and son, make half centuries in quick time and we sit in a position as strong as Fort Knox come the 20-over drinks break at the halfway mark. A wicket fell shortly after and I was in, then another and I’m joined by our second drop who has returned to the club after a couple of years away, indulging in the finer parts of life like getting married and starting a family. The bowling was tired and a tad rusty, we’re able to cash in. We finished at 2/220, walking off with beaming smiles ahead of a collective of 11 men in canary yellow one-day kit who were relieved the fielding torture was over.

 

Our makeshift tea was enjoyed on the white tables on the gravel outside the rooms, sweat, dirt and dust mixing in with the sandwiches, fruit and scones. Members from both clubs intricately worked themselves around the fencing with the precision of a stealthy bank robber to slip around to the old front of the clubrooms and investigate what once was our home base for many an event or night of shenanigans. These people, whether they be accountants or police officers, IT coders or engineering students, folded their arms and pointed out the finer details of the empty rooms like they had the knowledge of an experienced project manager. Before we knew it the air of supremacy had to be peeled away from the construction site and back onto the field.

 

Despite some lofty blows at times, overall hazardous batting in pursuit of the total meant we were quickly ahead of the game, and the final 10 overs became a building crescendo to an important first round win. After the handshakes and the smiles, the walking off to a smattering of applause from a couple of old timers who made the trek down, we were back into the dust-riddled rooms we had managed to largely avoid for the day. In just a couple of minutes, family and supporters were piling in with us to access the fridges and crack open the beers. Five minutes later the metal partition was slid upwards with a high-pitched grind and the opposition joined. There would be chairs pulled out the front onto the grass and people lying around chatting for the next couple of hours. But, most importantly, before all of this was the glory of linking arms and shouting a winning song with 10 others, inhaling the dust we first squinted through hours earlier. Showers, singlets and the final relaxation of the shoulders mark the end of the day as we eventually pulled our bags out of the rooms and piled into our cars, only to be back at the makeshift rooms on the following Tuesday. It may not have been a perfect way of starting a season of rebuilding, but it came pretty close.

 

Read more from Sean Mortell HERE

 

 

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