Almanac Cricket: You are never too old to go to the nets

 

“I am not letting you go into the nets without pads Dad, you are bloody 72 years old!” Dad, with an equal mix of arrogance and excitement, looked me straight in the eyes and told me, “Don’t be silly, they are only kids, they won’t cause me any dramas.”

 

The Septuagenarian then strode into the nets, for the first time in probably 40 years, for the showdown with his 11 and 8 year old grandkids. This should be interesting.

 

Dad came prepared it must be said. A tad disappointed that the handle on his 1966 Stuart Surridge blade, which was oiled to within an inch of its life and covered in Pigskin, and is still lovingly kept in the closet since his retirement in 1972, was not up to the battle. Instead, he had pulled out one of my brothers’ old Gunn & Moore blades from the 1990s – The Dodson kids bedroom closet in Wagga Wagga remains pretty much intact from 1993. Nothing EVER gets thrown out. The jury is still out as to if the old man is sentimental or just lazy.

 

The offer of a helmet was met with a roll of the eyes. Dad was from the old school where you got back and across and kept your eye on the ball, relying on your Terry Towelling cap for protection as you hooked them off your nose.

 

I advise 11 year old Jack to just roll out some leggies to start with. The young colt is a handy cricketer and can bowl quite sharp for his age, particularly of the shortened pitch his age group play and from where he would send them down today. When I think of him bowling pace to Dad I just have visions of when Bob Hawke missed the old hook shot and had the glasses spread everywhere.

 

Jack’s leggies are handy as well and I’m pretty sure a set of 72 year old eyes won’t pick that deceptive wrong-un. I know I can’t and I’m only 44.

 

For ball one Jack pitches a well flighted delivery and I watch through concerned and squinted eyes, suspecting that any impact of a hard leather ball on exposed weary bones may result in a fracture and a visit to Wagga Wagga Base Hospital Emergency.

 

Dad skips down the pitch on a lifetime of muscle memory, gets to the pitch of the ball and effortlessly strokes the ball through the covers. Cue SILENCE. The smirk from Jack’s delivery stride is gone and I’m a little stunned.

 

Jack decides to drop the second pill a little shorter. No dramas here for Rod Dodson as he rocks onto the back foot, like a young Ricky Ponting, and pulls the ball with ease.

 

I don’t think Dad has felt this alive for years.

 

The next 10 minutes are magical to watch as Dad revisits his youth and just bats for nothing more than the pure joy of it. The thrill of hitting one in the middle and the simplicity of see ball hit ball.

 

Barely a ball misses the middle of the blade. I am tempted to join the fray but I am in equal parts just enjoying the display and not wanting to see my offspinners treated with disdain.

 

The movement is slow as expected, but the inherent traits of a good cricketer remain remarkably in tact – the judgement of length and the ability to hit the ball under your eyes.

 

With confidence growing, there is a glint in Dad’s eyes that I can’t recall seeing. A group of late teenagers join a nearby net, slightly taken back by what they are witnessing. I am waiting for Dad to invite them into the net, so they can take some punishment.

 

I knew Dad could play but had really only seen glimpses or heard stories. A dashing batsman from all reports who was good enough to score a century representing Wagga in the 70s when cricket was the only sport in town. He still tells the story with a hint of lingering bitterness about the day in a first grade game when “The bastards didn’t tell me I was on 97 and I got caught on the boundary.”

 

Retired in his early 20s to focus on kids, he did come out of retirement to play a masters game when we were kids and I saw him stride out to Robertson Oval and skip down to his first pill, which landed on the nearby Tennis Courts. He also played a few lower grade games with us as kids, but my memories are sketchy.

 

Jack keeps plugging away and is enjoying the challenge and manages to toss up some testing deliveries. It is an intriguing battle. Jack asks if he can come off the long run, but I tell him to stick with the leggies.

 

My older brother (a former very well credentialed former local first grade cricketer) decides to roll out his offies… He learns quickly to not drop short to the man who is batting like he did when Harold Holt was Prime Minister.

 

Fatigue sets in towards the end of a 10 minute net and the quality of the stokeplay starts to fade a little. It is also nudging 35 degrees, so in my risk adverse nature I call an end to proceedings. That being said I feel a little like the Grinch that stole Christmas when I tell Dad that his time is up.

 

Dad carries his weary body out and shakes the kids hands for their toil. Muscles not used for decades are already starting to tighten. Dad gives me a look to suggest I shouldn’t have been so worried.

 

I see another look in Dad’s eyes. I think it is perhaps some sadness that this may be the last time he will ever strap on the pads for a net. I think he just felt so alive for the last 10 minutes that he didn’t want it to end. A lifelong love of cricket, that he thankfully passed onto his boys, and now I am passing onto mine.

 

Whenever we chat on the phone these days we always still talk about cricket in some shape or form. In recent times talk has been about selling the house and moving into retirement living, but Dad could not bare to sell the old homestead while his grandkids still enjoy the backyard ‘Test Matches’ on their annual Christmas Visit to Wagga. In the preceding weeks, despite the 40 degree days, Dad pumps an obsessive amount of water into the backyard and the strip comes up a tad greener than what they present at Lords.

 

I make a pledge to myself to bat in the nets against my kids for as many years as I can until they don’t want to be seen within 50 metres of their Dad – hopefully at least a few more years yet.

 

Today has taught me that you are never too old to lose that simple thrill of bat on ball and a trip to the nets. The feeling when you can middle one and can look a bowler in the eye and think to yourself ‘don’t bowl again there champ’. Age is but a number, but no one can extinguish that 10-year-old that lives inside of us all. I won’t ever forget this trip to the nets.

 

 

More stories by Craig Dodson can be read Here.

 

 

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