Almanac (Fiction) Cricket: Viv on milking the strike (Part 1)

 

(Viv Tufnell is a Tasmanian Shield cricketer in an alternate universe. He lies, makes excuses and plods at a 28.3 strike rate, while all the while busying himself in the art of being an a@#*hole. In today’s journal, Viv is frustrated by all-rounder Phil’s attempts to hog the strike and a ‘thumbs down’ from Tassie great, Booney.)

 

Phil f@#*^g Groenenhoegoen. Philip. F@#*^g. Groenenhoegoen.

 

So I’m in the middle of a promising innings today (I’d raced to 30 off 114 balls), when Phil arrived at the crease with his usual swashbuckling all-rounder swagger. “Viv,” he said, “I’m really feeling it today; reckon I’ve gotta big one in me; mate, the spectators will be ducking for cover.” Yeah? I thought. Ducking for cover, eh? I reckon their real problem will be circumnavigating your ego.

 

Anyway, it turned out Phil was feeling it, because over the next few overs, he peppered the stands with a clutch of top edged wild slashes. But what he didn’t do was launch into the last ball of those overs. No, the last ball of each of those overs was trickled to the deep. F@#*, I thought, cottoning on to what he was up to, he’s hogging the strike! That’s the fourth over in a row he’s contrived a single.

 

Even though I was understandably miffed, I was prepared to let if go if it stopped there, but when he again nudged a single in the following over, I’d had enough. “F@#*”, I vented as we met mid pitch, “You’ve gotta be sh*tting me? Another single off the last ball?”

 

“What?” he said, clearly playing dumb.

 

I was about to lose my sh*t. “I haven’t faced a ball in 5 overs!”

 

“Really?” he said, again looked to play dumb. “I hadn’t noticed.”

 

“Well I have!” I barked. “Cut it out!”

 

We returned to our ends, and on the fourth ball of the next over, confronting him did the trick, because he glanced the ball down to third man. ‘Bout time, I thought, now finally on strike.

 

The trouble was, ripping into Phil at the end of the last over had not gone unnoticed by the Victorians, and Brendan Maloney, their most toxic sledger, was about to capitalize on it.

 

“Sh*t Tuffers … back on strike, eh? The last ball you faced was in the Cretaceous.”

 

So droll, I thought.

 

“Yeah boys,” he continued. “Viv’s innings has gone as cold as a Four’n’Twenty in an AFL blow out. Sh*t, they turn off the pie-warmer in those games well before half time.”

 

I considered retorting, F@#*, I’ve had plenty of pies late in AFL games and mate, there’s always a good chance they’ll have a bit of heat left in em, but that all felt too wordy, so I just bit my lip.

 

Ok, I thought, as I knuckled down to face my long overdue next ball. They’ll be hell-bent on denying me a single here; to capitalize on Phil derailing my momentum. Hmm, I’ll bet it’ll be banged in short, so it flies way over my head. Or maybe it’ll be a wide one which I’ll have to hyperextend to reach? Whichever way, stay psyched Viv, stay psyched: don’t do anything risky. Short, wide, full …. play it on its merits.

 

And what did my long overdue next ball turn out to be? A pie on leg which I nicked into my pads. “Jesus Tufnell, you are f@#*n hopeless,” laughed Maloney. “That was on a platter to get you to the other end. We want you on strike, not your biff and bash mate!”

 

Huh? … Oh great, I then thought, upon realizing they were actually more focused on stemming Phil’s pyrotechnics rather than keeping the wind out of my sails.

 

Greg Nichols, the Vic’s captain, signalled for all the fielders on the leg side to retreat to the deep. “Now Viv,” patronized Maloney, “if you haven’t guessed it, we’re transmitting that this one will be a half-tracker. Comprendi? So just do that drab grafting shit you do, and give it a nudge, okay. That’ll be a real help.”

 

I wanted Maloney dead.

 

To my chagrin, the next ball was a rank half-tracker, which under normal circumstances, I would have pulled in front of square leg with a minimum of fuss. But it turned out my innings really had gone cold and all I managed to do was miscue a leading edge, which dribbled back to the bowler. “F@#* me dead,” again laughed Maloney, “you really are an incompetent. That was gift wrapped with a red ribbon in a bow! I mean, what’s it gonna take to keep you on strike? A manufactured overthrow?  Sheesh!”

 

Phil and I met up mid-pitch and I grumbled, “Are you happy?”

 

“What?”

 

“What do you mean what? What you’ve caused.”

 

Phil had the nerve to shake his head in bewilderment. “Listen mate, I’m just strutting my stuff. I didn’t mean to hog  … it just played out that way.”

 

“Pff.”

 

“Lovers quarrel?” laughed Maloney. “You two are worse than a soap!”

 

I was now ready to punch Maloney. I mean, to actually smack him!

 

Over the next few overs, Phil continued on his merry way. He’d slash beefily at the first few balls and then contrive a single around the 3rd or 4^th, thinking that’d get me off his back. As doing all this gave me a fighting chance to keep the strike, I eased up on him, but by now, my derailed momentum had become so cancerous, it had metastasized into every stroke I played. I inside edged, and played and missed and miscued and mistimed. And all the while Maloney was all over me. “This shit is living in your head, Tuffers,” he thrilled. “It’s taken up residence and is having over guests!” He was right about that too. This shit was in my head. And the guests it was having over were debilitating yips and ticks.

 

Mercifully, I was put out of my misery before too long. I inside edged on to my pad and the ball dollied to short leg, who could have snaffled it blindfolded. F@#*^g Maloney was jubilant. He beamed as though he deserved more credit for my wicket than the bowler. As for Phil, his fed up expression said ‘What, you’re gonna blame me for that as well? ’

 

As I left the field and made my way through the gate, I had one last humiliation waiting for me: Boony. I noticed he was seated in the superbox, which overlooks the player’s race. So that’s what this was all about, I realized. F@#*^n Phil knew Boony had turned up and all this hogging the strike was a big fat ‘look at me, look at me!’

 

Pff, I went on to think, I should have joined the dots while I was still at the crease, I mean, it’s just like Phil to hyper-extend himself whenever Boony is around. F@#*, he’d do anything to impress him. Even betray a teammate!

 

But this realization had nothing to do with my further humiliation; no, that actually had to do with Boony. Whenever he approves of an innings, he’ll scull a tinnie as you make your way up the race. When he disapproves –  like a roman emperor giving you the thumbs down – he’ll crush an empty and toss it in the bin. And, of course, that’s what I got: a crushed empty. Tossed in the bin. Violently.

 

Boony is all coy about whether he wields his clout this way. The only time I’m aware that he was asked about it was a few years ago when he was having a beer with all the boys after a match. “So Boony,” asked Daniello, having fawned all starry-eyed over him for an hour, “is it true? Does a crushed empty mean a thumbs down?” Boony shaped a Svengali like expression. “Dunno what you’re talking about, mate?,” he answered faux-irritated; but we were all sure his demeanor pointed to a ‘yes’ – and especially so when he later crushed an empty in disgust upon overhearing someone blurt, “Two pot screamers can be just as manly as hard drinkers.”

 

And so with Boony’s crushed empty salutation as my final humiliation, I ignominiously made my way up the race, ruminating, Phil f@#*^g Groenenhoegoen. Philip. F@#*^g. Groenenhoegoen. But struggling to  stop these ruminations morphing into verbalizations. And mostly failing when I got to the ‘F@#*^g’ bit. And unfortunately when passing Dads with kids.

 

 

More from Punxsutawney Pete can be read Here.

 

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