Almanac Cricket: My last innings

 

 

 

 

Can you remember the last innings you played?

Reflection occurs more as one ages; there is more to reflect. I’ve written about the concept of a second innings in life before, but I recently recalled my last innings in a cricket match. I also wondered if this was common for men approaching 61, semi-retired, and with too much time on their hands.

It was the summer of 2009, not as alluring as Bryan Adams’s ‘Summer of 69’  but filled with enough charm. We’d not long moved from Alice Springs to Busselton when I first encountered vigorous objections to daylight saving, a parochialism born of isolation in a land of bushfires and towns with difficult-to-pronounce names.  It was also during the reign of the ubiquitous King Colin (Barnett), the state’s premier with grand plans, a rapidly growing iron ore price and economic surplus. Things were indeed looking up in the West.

That summer, I played six games for St Mary’s Cricket Club in the local C Grade competition on hard wickets, primarily against thirty-something-aged men. The occasional appearance of a young quick temporarily raised the standard of play. Our ruggedly turfed home ground was by the beach with trees shielding it from the afternoon sea breeze. While not the same as the ‘Fremantle Doctor’, the winds that swept through the town, typically after tea, were a welcome relief. Our team included a mixture of characters: a tree lopper,  a FIFO worker, a medium pacer with the uncanny ability to skid the ball off the artificial turf, a stalwart who hadn’t missed a game since 1988 (his wedding), twins who I could never quite tell apart and one bloke with all the gear but no ability. Then there was me—a broken-down former District cricketer who hadn’t struck a ball in anger since the mid-1990s.

And so, at 46, as I faced two-piece cricket balls on Gabba grass pitches, the bounce and pace had me struggling and, more often than not, soon heading back to my teammates gathered in deckchairs on the sidelines. I barely reached double figures in any innings and typically departed with stumps shattered, often somersaulting out of the ground a la World Series Cricket days. My fielding was more problematic.  Chasing a ball to the boundary required an over of recovery. Powerfully struck drives were avoided, catches went missing, and my gentle off-spinners barely turned. On Sunday mornings, my three young children would burst into laughter as I raised myself from the breakfast table, more like a man in his 90s requiring a frame than someone in his mid-40s.

The season’s finale was played at Cowaramup, a picturesque farming community about thirty minutes south of Busselton. The ground, nestled on the edge of the main street, was lush, more reminiscent of an English village green than a typical Australian oval. The weather was overcast and cool, starkly contrasting the past scorching summer. The skipper won the toss and chose to bat. We lost a few wickets and, surprisingly, I hit a ball sweetly in front of the square for the first time that season. Perhaps the slowness of the turf pitch gave me time to play the stroke. Maybe there was an intrinsic desire to watch the ball more carefully, given that season’s failures and knowing this might be my last hit. One controlled off-drive raced away and had me proudly standing, watching the ball slide into the picket fence.  I almost had a spring in my step. That’s right, I’ll show the bastards I can play, I thought.

Cricket, though, is a great leveller.  By the time I reached 14 (my season-high), I was struck on my thigh playing forward, only to be given out by my teammate, Leon, a 20-year-old who bowled looping inswingers and failed to understand the unwritten law of giving teammates ‘the benefit of the doubt.’

I paused before walking off as a sign of displeasure, having stayed in the position where I was struck as if emphasising the point. Max Walker’s lament of ‘another fifty nipped in the bud’ echoed in my ears.

The day’s pleasure then lay in the luscious afternoon tea. Scones and vanilla slices sourced from the Cowaramup Bakery – a reminder of the sumptuous spreads playing league cricket in England.

Did we win? I can’t remember.  Was it fun?  Briefly.

The final sting of the day was the speeding ticket I picked up on the way home.

It was the last time I donned my whites. I considered playing the following season, but life got in the way.

But the thought lingers: Should I give it another go? It can’t be that challenging, can it?

And so I wonder, dear reader, what was your last innings?

 

Image: Wikipedia

 

To see details of an evening with Barry Nicholls in Perth next month click HERE.

 

To return to our Footy Almanac home page click HERE.

 

Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.

 

Do you enjoy the Almanac concept?

And want to ensure it continues in its current form, and better? To help things keep ticking over please consider making your own contribution.

 

Become an Almanac (annual) member – click HERE.