By Guest Blogger, Simone Kerwin….
It was the gloves that started it all.
Max had been waiting in front of the St Vincent de Paul welfare house for the doors to open, so he could chat to the kind souls inside.
He often felt he was “all at sea”, as his Mum used to say, until they helped right his ship. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, as he watched the sun rise high in the sky and tried to avoid eye contact with his fellow assistance-seekers. He needn’t have worried about that; they were all doing the same thing.
When the door was at last opened by Margie – the cheery, grandmotherly lady he’d met last time – he hung back to let the bunches of women and kids in line move in first to the cool of the house.
His Mum’s voice whispered through his mind, reminding him to think of those around him: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you, Maxy. That’s the golden rule.”
As some of the gathering moved through to the interview rooms, he joined those in the waiting area, where a few boxes bursting with clothes, books and toys were ready to be checked out by people in need of a helping hand; people like him.
Max spied the cricket gloves straight away. They seemed an odd inclusion to the pile, but something inside Max lit up. That didn’t happen very often these days.
Again, he waited for others as they collected what they needed, but when the curtain of humans parted, the gloves were still there……..Waiting for him, so it seemed.
He picked them up, caressing the palms, and felt a little like Aladdin with his lamp, in that story his mum used to read to him.
Instead of a genie, though, memories flowed thick and fast from the soft leather. Summer days, good days when he had his whole life laid out in front of him.
Images flashed through his mind: endless blue skies; banter with teammates and opposition; his bat connecting sweetly with the ball; a grin after executing the perfect delivery; his mum watching from her favourite seat on the hill; a few drinks after the game…
He shook his head then, to stop the visions running through his mind.
“Max?…”
Raising his eyes, Max saw Margie smiling at him from the doorway to the interview room. He nodded and slowly raised himself from the chair, noticing that only a few people remained in the room.
He must have been daydreaming for longer than he’d thought. As he walked towards Margie, he realised he was still clutching the gloves, and suddenly felt embarrassed to have picked them up. He dropped them onto the chair behind him.
“What have you got there – oh, batting gloves …wow; I spot cricket gear and it takes me right back to the days when my boys played,” Margie said, as they walked into the interview room to join her fellow volunteer.
“They loved it, and I loved watching. So relaxing, a day at the cricket. How about you, Max? Are you thinking of having a game?”
Max shook his head violently. “Nah, nah, just been thinking about when I used to play……Bit silly.”
“I wouldn’t say that. Nothing’s silly if you enjoy it,” Margie said.
“Unless you enjoy it a bit too much…” he replied, glancing sheepishly at the older woman as she drew out some papers and slipped on her glasses.
“Max, you’re doing so well. Just keep going to your meetings, and following the plan you’ve made. I know it might not always feel like it, but you are making progress. It’s little by little that it will all come together. Now, let’s see what we can do for you, shall we?”
He felt ready to step outside again after speaking to Margie and her colleague, felt armed with a bit more confidence. Steering again towards his true course, bit by bit. As he turned to walk away, giving her a hurried wave, she called him back and handed the gloves to him.
“The club where my boys played backs onto the river path, Max. You could always drop in and have a look at training some time if you get the urge.”
He smiled, and meant it. “Yeah…maybe. Thank you.”
***
The kookaburras in the gum trees by the walking track seemed to be laughing at Max as he stopped to consider what he was about to do.
It had been a week since his chat with Margie, a week of eyeing the gloves sitting next to his swag, of staring out at the river and hoping it might tell him what to do.
The presence of the gloves reminded him of both what he’d loved about cricket, and the fact that he might not feel it again. Together with Margie’s suggestion, they’d also planted a seed in his mind, and he thought he might just about have summoned the guts to do something about it.
Max’s pace slowed as he drew closer. He stopped and leaned on the tall fence, enmeshing his fingers in the wire and watching the action from afar. He could feel his heart beating wildly in his chest, and wondered if the sound of it wasn’t what was drawing the mirth of the birds above.
Finally, he could stand it no longer. He took in a deep breath, just as Mum always advised, and walked the last few metres to the gate. He looked up, took in the perfect blue of the sky, the sun peering over the clubrooms, and the few wispy clouds trailing lazily over the scene.
“Bugger it – got nothing else to lose,” he said to spur himself on, and stepped across the expanse of grass to the cricket nets.
There was a burly bloke on the outskirts of the action, who Max had asserted might be the coach, or at least someone in authority. He was chatting animatedly to a younger man as Max approached and took another deep breath, steadying himself for interaction.
“Excuse me, fellas…” he started, but they continued their lively discussion, seeming not to have heard him. Max cleared his throat and tried again, “Excuse me, fellas…”
The men turned to face him, and he pleaded inwardly with himself to stop. Stop now…..Stop speaking…… Just walk on…… His inner self ignored him.
“I ah…just wondered whether I might have a bowl? Been a fair while since my playing days, but I wouldn’t mind seeing whether I can still get them on a decent line,” he said.
He watched the two men take in and at the same time try to overlook his appearance. Max had done his best to look presentable, but there were limitations. He shuffled on the spot, anticipating a firm no, and prepared to spin around and make a quick exit.
The older man regarded him seriously, then burst into a smile: “Mate, if you can get the rock out of Johnno’s hands, it’s all yours…….Johnno! Time for a spell, mate – give this fella an over, will ya?”
The young man stopped at the top of his run-up, his brow furrowed as he shielded his eyes from the sun and regarded the interloper. …A whole over at once at net training?
He appeared to be on the cusp of arguing, then Max saw something – a flash of recognition, perhaps – pass across his face. Instead, he threw the ball to Max, who caught it one-handed and responded with a nod.
“Ta, mate,” he rasped. There were only about a dozen people around the nets at this early stage of training, but Max could feel all of their eyes on him as he walked to the top of his mark for the first time in years.
He’d thought it through… while the batting gloves had been the impetus for this moment, no cricketer would willingly hand their precious bat to a complete stranger, but he thought they might let him have a bowl. As Mum always said, being an all-rounder had its perks.
His chest thumped louder than ever as he looked towards the nets…… Just an over…….Six balls…. He could handle that, surely. Just to see if he still ‘had it’.
He’d made it this far. Max looked down at the old training ball, scarred and misshapen by what it had been through, and felt a kind of kinship. Being ‘at one with the ball’ was something he recalled his old PE teacher saying. ‘Don’t get weird, Max’, he scolded himself.
The first delivery was loopy and ugly, and just barely pitched in line. He noted the smirk from the tall, young batsman, evident even from under his helmet. ‘First tries are always the worst, Maxy’, he heard his Mum whispering, ‘keep going’.
The second was not much better, and again he doubted why on earth he’d put himself in this position. He gathered his confidence and hoped muscle memory would kick in.
Max allowed himself a deep breath, and drew back his shoulders as he collected the ball and walked back to his mark again.
His third delivery was still not quite what he’d hoped for, and the batsman sent it shooting forward, but Max felt it coming back – that inner belief and desire to deliver his best.
It had been so long since he’d felt that way. He took it in, absorbed the warmth of the sun, and even the stares of those around him as he prepared himself again.
He was actually enjoying himself now, and was emboldened by the thought of Margie, and of his Mum.
This was where he needed to be right now, and the next ball was a physical example of what he felt inside: a yorker that bit the toes of the unsuspecting young fella and prompted a grin from Max that he stifled as he turned away.
The fifth ball felt good, but still wasn’t quite where he wanted it to be…..One left….this was it….. He breathed deeply at the top of his mark again, and felt himself slip into an old rhythm. Max exhaled and smiled as the iron wicket clattered behind the batsman, who glanced back in Gatting-like bewilderment.
Feeling simultaneously excited and calm, he retrieved the ball the aggrieved batsman had tapped along the concrete pitch and tossed it to the next bowler in line, then gave the coach a thumbs-up.
“Thanks heaps. Just what the doctor ordered – appreciate it.”
“No worries at all. You’ll have to drop in again.”
With a smile and a nod, his head arced towards the towering gum trees and blue sky of the spring afternoon, Max walked away, feeling lighter than he had in a long time; no laughter from those kookaburras now.
He felt ready to face the world…or, at least, to return to his temporary riverside home with his head held a little higher.
Hope was in his heart, and that was all he could ask for. Was there a more important human feeling than hope? He doubted it…….
***
Behind Max, Wattlevale Wanderers Cricket Club coach Jason Reynolds watched the unexpected visitor retreat from the nets, and felt awe-struck, bewildered and sad all at once.
Club president Graeme Thompson stepped in next to him, and it was clear from the look on his face that he was grappling with the same mixture of emotions.
“Was that Max Daniels bowling in our nets?” the older man asked the contemplative coach.
“Sure was, Thommo. Haven’t heard much about him for a while. I was trying to remember…what was it – about eight years ago?”
“Somethin’ like that. On track for Test selection, he was – still a teenager. Always a bit of a party boy, but he could still perform alright, couldn’t he?” Both men paused, as if recalling a highlights package.
“His mum raised him on her own, you know, after his dad left; the dad had treated both of them pretty rough, and Max and his mum became each other’s greatest support.
“Then the father showed up again the night Max was out celebrating clinching that Sheffield Shield title….. maybe angered by his son’s success and thinking he might find his ex alone and vulnerable….. He was right. Would’ve been unimaginable for a young kid to see what he saw when he got home.
“She never recovered from her injuries, and he never played again – blamed himself for not being there. Bloody tragic, the whole business,” he said, shaking his grizzled head and exhaling.
“What’s he doin’ round here?”
“Dunno,” Jase replied, “but I thought the least we could do was give him an over in the nets. He seemed happy with that. Looks like he’s still got it…hope we see him again; these blokes could do with some of his class.”
“You’re not wrong,” Thommo patted Jase on the shoulder and moved on to chat with the skipper, leaving the coach to his own thoughts.
Jase looked up to the blue sky, closed his eyes and issued a silent prayer, of which he knew his mum, Margie, would approve.
Gee, he hoped she was right and that all prayers were heard. He had a feeling that Max and the Wanderers needed each other.
Hopefully the fella upstairs was a cricket fan…………
To read more by KB Hill click HERE.
This story appeared first on KB Hill’s website On Reflection and is used here with permission.
All photos sourced from KB Hill’s resources unless otherwise acknowledged.
To read more of KB Hill’s great stories on the Almanac, click HERE.
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Lovely yarn, Simone. Lots in there about care, sensitivity, opportunity, redemption, hope and respect.
Enjoyable read. Hope for the future. Optimism maybe?
Thankyou