Horribly hungover on Saturday morning, my phone wakes me. It’s a mate asking if I’m still playing cricket.
“Whaddya mean ‘still’. No. I told you, I’m hanging up my gloves … ah bat …pads ... whatever.”
“You bastard,” he said. “I’m counting on you. I’ve penciled you in.”
It turns out I’d phoned him the previous night, clearly in an unfit state to make such a decision, and said I’d play. Worse, he wasn’t going to cut me any slack. He was holding me to it.
I checked the clock. It was 11. The game started at the headache-friendly time of 1pm. Well, I calculated, we might win the toss. It was a two-day game so if we won the toss and I batted at the end I might not have to do anything at all; just sit on the sidelines and read the papers, maybe have a hair-of-the-dog, and go home smug and self-satisfied that I’m leading an active, healthy lifestyle.
Regular visitors may remember it was only two months ago I swore never to step out on a cricket pitch again. I made this decision because I am, frankly, hopeless. You can’t bat, you can’t bowl. So who are you kidding? It was time to stop the lies, to abandon the delusion.
After struggling through the horrible Sydney traffic jams, through Surry Hills up to Moore Park near the SCG, we arrive late to find we had, indeed, won the toss. And, yes, there is no argument. I would bat last. Number 11 was the place to be. And there are two massive papers to work my way through. Maybe I could even squeeze in a few ZZZZs under a tree somewhere.
I may be a cricketing zero, but I accept it. Nay, I welcome it. Far worse would it be to be John Howard, who has discovered even after supporting the war and being the US’s number two ally, he’s still a political zero. They still don’t know who he is. His mate George is coming to a special sitting of the Australian Parliament this month. However, when this was announced in the US the statement referred to “the Australian Prime Minister, John Major”.
The US certainly knows how to win friends and influence people. Meanwhile, Phillip Adams delivers an interesting reading of Bob Woodward’s Bush at War:
“The thought that this monumental mediocrity is the most powerful man on Earth will reassure Bush’s Christian fundamentalist followers that Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution is utterly wrong. Descended from apes? The US President hasn’t descended at all.
Don’t you love that phrase, “All Stetson, no cattle”?
Glancing up from my papers, it begins to dawn on me that the guys I’m playing with this week were rather good. It turns out I’m playing number 11 for the Kingsford 4th grade. I haven’t been in such exalted company since turning out occasionally for University-St Heliers in my twenties.
“Shit,” I thought, as a ball flew down the pitch. “Their opener is pretty quick,” an impression reinforced shortly after when he sent one of our openers’ wickets flying. One wicket fell and then another until we were five down. One guy, Dave, soldiered on to a fine 87.
Howard also has to deal with some strange and annoying distractions right now. And believe it or not a real sleeper is the so-called “Sheep of State”, a shipful of woolies that have been floating around in the Indian ocean for more than 60 days. The issue has given the cartoonists a field-day. One had two cages side by side. The first holding a refugee was labeled “vote winner”, the other holding a sheep was labeled “vote loser”.
Then Dave went. By 3pm I knew I was going to have to bat.
Padded up, gloved up, boxed up I wandered out to the centre. Two balls left in the over. The first whizzes past. The fielders seem suddenly excited. They close in. The second ball I block staunchly. My partner gets the strike. Brilliant.
He hits two, then one. I’m back on strike. Another ball whizzes past. Then another. Then I block a good ball. So far so good. I’m settling in. These guys ain’t so tough. Unlike last time, my feet are moving. It feels okay. I’m ready to hit something.
I see the over out and once gain the strike goes to the other end. He misses the first. The second he knocks up straight to a fielder and it’s all over.
Not out for nought.
Of course we still had to field, but to cut a long story short, here’s my record: I didn’t bowl. I didn’t take any catches. I didn’t drop any catches. I was not out for nothing. My impact on the game was zero, nothing, nada, but I did not humiliate myself!