Howzat! (3 page)

By eleven o’clock all the registrations were done. We spent the rest of the morning being introduced to one another and to our coaches for the week. Some of them even had video footage of games to go with their opening talks.

‘It was blistering hot and they had us on the ropes.’ A guy called Tom Gilbert, who had played during the 1970s, was talking about hanging tough. ‘We were gone. Hung out to dry and flapping in the wind like old rags.’ He looked around at our eager faces. ‘Then the skipper threw me the ball. The
old
ball. Sixty-eight overs old. I can remember holding it in my hands—this useless, battered, gnarly old ball. Flat seam. No shine. Nothing. They were 1 for 232, it was 39 degrees, the pitch was dead, the crowd as silent as a graveyard, and the skipper says to me, “Show us your heart, big feller. Inspire us. Bowl your guts out. Turn it around for us.”’

A murmur of excitement swept through the room as the lights dimmed and the dark curtains behind Tom Gilbert slowly opened. An enormous screen flickered and suddenly we were there. I felt a tingle of anticipation.

‘I reckon actions speak louder than words,’ Tom continued. ‘I’m not usually one for much talking, unless I’m standing twenty yards away from a guy with a bat in his hand.’ He grinned, and I heard Scott Craven laugh loudly a few rows behind me. ‘So, here you go. Here’s the over that followed. There’s my skipper heading away to covers. Give me three observations, each of you. Three things that come to mind as you watch this over.’

‘This is almost as good as time travelling with you, Toby,’ Jimbo whispered.

‘Wonder where it is?’ I murmured back.

Tom’s run-up was enormous. He didn’t charge in. Maybe this was a warm-up delivery. We watched in silence as he delivered the ball. There was no commentary. The old ball fizzed off the pitch, rearing up at the batsman’s throat. Like us, the batsman was caught totally by surprise. He jerked his head out of the way at the last second, causing his cap to fall off—right onto the top of his off-stump, knocking a bailto the ground. The bowler and fielders charged in, celebrating the wicket.

‘Look at the energy. Watch the captain,’ Tom said, staring at the screen like the rest of us. The skipper was bringing the fielders in closer for the new batsman.

Tom ran in a lot faster for his second delivery. The batter prodded nervously at the ball outside his offstump. Tom jumped into the air, swinging around at the same time, one finger up, screaming his appeal. His shirt was out and already wet from sweat. The umpire nodded, raising his finger.

‘More pressure,’ Tom said to us, still focused on the screen.

The batsman next in was surrounded by fielders: five slips, gully, short leg, silly mid-off. The only fielder out was fine leg. The batsman survived the next two balls but flashed at the fifth, edging it through to third slip. There was a gasp of surprise as we watched the fielder grass the catch.

‘Eight-ball overs back then, remember,’ Tom said.

His white shirt flapping, Tom Gilbert charged in yet again, sending down another vicious bouncer. The batter thrust his bat up in front of his face, turning away at the same time. The ball ballooned off the splice of the bat into gully for a simple catch.

The last two balls were left alone—bullets that whizzed past off-stump.

‘We hung tough,’ Tom said. ‘Got ’em all out for 281 and went on and won the game too. That’s the thing about cricket. You can come back from the dead. You kids who know your cricket history will know that. There’ve been countless times when teams have crawled back from seemingly impossible situations. Look what Rahul Dravid and VVS Laxman did to the Aussies in 2001. We were ahead by 274
runs on the first innings and enforced the follow-on. And the rest is history.’

‘I think I remember that game,’ I whispered to Jimbo.

‘Now, any observations?’

Plenty of hands shot up. Tom pointed to someone to my left.

‘Your first ball was way faster than it looked like it was going to be,’ the kid said.

‘Very good. Another one?’ Both Jimbo and I had our hands in the air.

‘Yes?’

‘The captain showed faith in you?’ a small kid near the front said.

‘He did. He gave me some confidence. You?’ Tom was pointing to me.

‘Your line was excellent and you didn’t overuse the bouncer,’ I said.

‘You a fast bowler, son?’ Tom asked. I nodded.

‘Very good. I’m more likely to get wickets with balls that are pitched on or around off-stump than I am with bouncers, but bouncers have their purpose.’

A few more observations were made before Tom was thanked. He got the biggest applause of all the coaches. Then another man took the stage.

‘All right, everybody, listen up. My name is Bradley Edwards and I’m in charge here. You’re about to have lunch, but before you do I’d like each of you to collect your security ID.’ Bradley held up his own badge. ‘This hangs around your neck at all times
during the week, unless you’re in the shower, in bed, in the nets or on the field. Those are the only four places I don’t mind seeing this
not
on you. Keep it safe. This pass will take you to some exciting places in and around the ground—places members of the public have to pay to see, and some places they never get to see. Guard it like you’d guard your own bat.’

Two men walked out to join Bradley. Jimbo swore.

‘Oh my God,’ I sighed, hardly believing what I was seeing.

‘There will be a small number of security staff scattered around the place,’ Bradley said. ‘They’re here for your benefit, so make sure you do what they say.’

But it wasn’t the security guard I was looking at. It was the small man with the thin smile standing next to him.

‘And this is Phillip Smale,’ Bradley went on. ‘He’s in charge of security, as well as the library and archive centre.’

Smale nodded his head slightly, his eyes darting about. Maybe he was looking for me. Or his nephew, Scott Craven. I looked down.

‘All right, everyone. I expect you all to be changed into your whites and ready for action by two o’clock sharp. But first, lunch in the Hugh Trumble Café downstairs. That’s where all your meals will be—and make sure you check out the extraordinary history that is all around you.’ Bradley dismissed us with a grin.

‘First Scott Craven and now Smale,’ I muttered, getting up and stretching.

‘Who cares?’ Jimbo said, grabbing me by the arm. ‘Come on. Let’s go and find out which corporate box we’re sleeping in.’ He steered me to where a big group of kids was checking the notice on the wall. ‘How cool is this? Sleeping in a corporate box.’

‘No way,’ I gasped. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Didn’t you read this?’ he said, waving a piece of paper in my face.

‘I must have missed that.’

‘Anyway, we get room service and everything,’ Jimbo continued. ‘We’re probably together because we play in the same team.’

‘Who’s Scott Craven with?’

‘Dunno,’ said Jimbo. ‘Maybe in the library with his uncle.’

‘Well, I just hope his uncle isn’t around to spoil the trip Jim and I will be making,’ I said.

‘And Ally,’ Jimbo added.

‘Yeah, and Ally.’

Monday—afternoon

Our first session that afternoon was in the nets. They were the most humungous set of indoor nets I’d ever seen. We each had to wear a number on our front and back. I was 15 and Jimbo was 4.

‘If any of you look a likely prospect, we’ll be jotting down your number,’ said Glenn Mason, the head nets coach. ‘We’ve got coaches upstairs watching the batters, as well as video. Go about your business efficiently and keep up your fluids. Grab the mini Esky that matches your number. This is your nets Esky—it stays here.’

The Esky was full to the brim with drinks, snack bars, snakes, jellybeans and gum, all surrounded by ice.

‘How brilliant is this?’ number 8 cried.

‘Awesome,’ I said.

‘Righto!’ Glenn shouted. ‘Numbers 9 to 20, come and grab a ball. The rest of you, pad up. Full protection.’
Glenn clapped his hands and the room became a hive of activity.

‘Good luck,’ Jimbo said, heading over to his kit to grab his gear. He was our best batter and was looking very pleased that he would be padding up first.

‘I’ll knock your castle over if we’re in the same net,’ I called after him.

‘As if!’

There were six nets: two for fast bowlers; two for medium-pacers, or ‘batters who bowl a bit’ as Glenn called them; and two spinners’ nets. Another net with a bowling machine wasn’t being used. There was no sign of Scott Craven in either of the fast bowlers’ nets. Fortunately, it looked like he was doing a different activity.

I measured my run-up and completed a couple of run-throughs while Jimbo and the others padded up.

‘All right, what we’re looking for is line and length.’ It was Tom Gilbert. He shook hands with each of us, explaining that he would be our fastbowling coach.

‘You mean there’s a coach for each different type of bowler?’ a tall kid asked. Most of the fast bowlers gathered around Tom were tall, but I certainly wasn’t the shortest.

‘Mate, there are about eight specialist coaches working here this week, each of us in a different area of the game. I’ll be paying close attention to your run-up, delivery stride, how close you are to the stumps here, and, most importantly, where you pitch
the ball. If you have some variation in your bowling, now’s the time to show it.’

‘What do you mean, variation?’ someone asked.

‘A ball that moves the other way; a slower ball; a much quicker ball. Something that will surprise the batter down there because it’s a different delivery to your stock-standard ball. And I don’t want anyone paying too much attention to his speed display.’

‘Display?’ I asked.

Tom pointed to a digital board above our net. ‘We’ll be monitoring your speed now and again, but fastest isn’t best.’

‘Can we go flat out for a couple of deliveries?’ Iasked.

Tom looked at me and laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not unless you’re confident you can maintain your line and length.’

I was itching to go. I couldn’t wait to see how fast I was compared to the others. I was confident I could bowl accurately enough. Maybe I’d start slowish and work up to a bit of pace.

‘The batters will change nets after about ten minutes,’ Tom called.

‘Geez, half an hour of batting. I hope we get a go,’ number 17 said.

‘Yeah, especially as we’ll be bowling for thirty minutes,’ number 13 muttered. He was the kid who’d ignored Scott Craven earlier today.

‘Hi, I’m Toby Jones,’ I said, sticking my hand out. He looked a bit surprised.

‘G’day. Greg Mackie.’

‘From the Scorpions?’ I said. I recognised the name. He was the bowler Scott had replaced when he switched from our team to his uncle’s.

‘Not for much longer, I hope,’ Greg said.

‘How’s your injury?’ I asked, ignoring his last comment.

‘Yeah, way better now. I’m not at full pace yet, but getting there.’

‘Righto, two bowlers to a net. Let’s go!’ Glenn Mason called, clapping his hands.

‘You wanna take the first net with me?’ Greg asked.

‘Yeah, sure.’

We bowled and bowled and bowled. I kept an eye on the speed board, but the numbers disappeared too quickly. Every now and again I’d see the upstairs coaches jot something down, or adjust a camera, or talk quietly among themselves. I bowled okay, and I actually worked up to top pace pretty quickly. Bowling in the nets was way different from a game out in the middle. It was easy to relax and just go through the motions, but Tom kept a close eye on us, constantly chatting and giving brilliant advice. I loved Mr Pasquali, he was a great coach, but Tom was amazing in what he picked up.

Jimbo and I explored the MCG after our nets session had finished and we’d showered. The place sure had a different feel about it since the renovations, though there were signs of the old MCG still—all the famous
photos and paintings lined the walls of the Long Room. There was a surprise around every corner, including a fake scoreboard with the names of the players who’d got the best bowling figures and batting scores ever at the MCG.

We took an elevator down to the basement level, but were quickly rushed back up again by a grumpy security guard. Not before we’d seen a massive collection of old books, magazines, photos and other stuff, though.

‘Probably all the stuff Smale’s moved out of the library,’ I said to Jimbo.

We sat in the Long Room for ten minutes, staring out at the oval and watching the ground staff working on the centre wicket. Jimbo posed for a photo on one of the super-extended couches. After we’d checked the old bats and balls from past matches, we headed towards the Committee Room on the other side of the hall.

‘Hey, isn’t this where the famous toilet is—where you get the best view of the cricket?’ I said to Jimbo.

‘In a toilet?’

‘Yeah, it’s one of the few things they kept from the old days.’

‘What, the actual toilet?’

‘No, the view. You stand there having a pee and look out and watch the action at the same time.’

‘And what if people are staring in watching you?’ Jimbo asked.

‘I think they’d only see your face.’

‘Cool,’ Jimbo said, and laughed. ‘We’ll have to check that out.’

‘If we can get past security,’ I said, avoiding eye contact with the guy standing outside the Committee Room door. I was surprised by the number of security guards around the place.

We all spent the last part of the afternoon in the Frank Grey-Smith Room, watching and analysing a one-day game between Australia and New Zealand. We had to fill in a sheet answering questions and making observations about different aspects of the game.

‘We’ve got to tell Mr Pasquali about this,’ I whispered to Jimbo.

‘I wish all school work was about cricket,’ Jimbo replied. ‘This is brilliant.’

Jimbo and I got back from a night tour of the ground to find my kit open and my pads, gloves and helmet strewn across the floor of our room.

‘Where’s your bat?’ asked Jimbo.

‘Scott Craven,’ I muttered, checking to see that nothing else was missing. ‘Who else?’

‘What would Scott want with your bat?’ Jimbo stuck his head out to look down the corridor outside.

‘I’m just thinking of that dumb comment he made to me this morning—about not needing my bat.’

‘Then you’re probably right,’ Jimbo said. ‘C’mon.’

There was a hint of frustration in his voice that I hadn’t heard before. He noticed my surprised look.

‘Scott Craven’s got it coming, Toby. He’s a bully and shouldn’t be left to get away with it. Let’s go.’

‘Where?’

‘To ask him if he’s got your cricket bat,’ he said, reaching into his cricket bag and hauling out his own bat.

‘Jimbo, I don’t think we’ll need your bat.’

‘C’mon,’ he said again. ‘We need to check what room he’s in.’

We headed back to the conference room to look at the noticeboard. It was just before curfew—when we were all supposed to be in our rooms—so there was no one about.

‘He’s got a room to himself,’ I said, finding Scott’s name at the bottom of the list.

‘Scott and all his friends,’ Jimbo said sarcastically.

‘Or else his Uncle Phillip doing favours for him. He’s probably in the president’s box.’

‘Toby, we don’t have a president.’

‘Prime minister’s then, whatever.’ I looked at the map next to the list of names. It turned out that Scott Craven was almost directly above us, one level higher.

‘Do we knock or just barge in?’ Jimbo asked as we raced back upstairs.

I checked my watch. ‘We’ve only got a couple of minutes before we’re supposed to be back in our own room. But I reckon we knock.’ Jimbo nodded.

There appeared to be only the one corporate box on Scott’s level. We walked quickly past a big meeting
room with windows that looked out onto the ground, and some media boxes.

‘Probably for the commentators,’ Jimbo said.

We arrived at Scott’s door. It was closed. I knocked as Jimbo hid the bat behind him. ‘Don’t want to come on too strong,’ I said.

Maybe Scott didn’t have my bat. But I hadn’t taken it out of my kit during the nets session, and was pretty confident it’d been there when I’d carried my kit back up to the room. No one was answering. I knocked again, harder, this time pressing my ear to the door and gently turning the door knob. It was locked.

‘What now?’ I whispered.

Jimbo shrugged. ‘It’s after nine. He shouldn’t be out either.’

‘Maybe he’s with his uncle down at the library. Quick check, okay?’

We raced back along the corridor, down the stairs and headed for the library. The door was unlocked. Opening it gently, I peered into the room. The lights were on but dim. Muffled voices drifted from the far end. It was a completely different place from the old library where I’d first met Jim. That had been like a little second-hand bookshop, filled with cricket books spilling out from the shelves onto trolleys and the floor. It had a musty smell that I’d grown fond of during my visits. And, of course, it had Jim and the old bookcase filled with
Wisden
s.

This room was way more modern—there was fancy lighting in the glass-doored bookshelves and
heaps more space. The carpet was new, and there were computers and screens instead of old wooden tables and chairs.

‘What now?’ said Jimbo in my ear. I held up a hand. I thought I recognised the voice in the distance and I wasn’t keen to go in any further.

‘It’s after nine, boys. What’s going on?’

I almost jumped out of my skin. One of the security guards had snuck up on us.

‘We were just looking for my cricket bat,’ I explained, turning around quickly.

‘And whose bat is that then?’ he asked, nodding at the bat in Jimbo’s hand.

‘It’s okay,’ Jimbo said, edging past and glaring at me at the same time. ‘We’ll look for it in the morning.’

Jimbo was almost sprinting as he reached the foot of the stairs. I followed.

‘Stop!’

I froze, then turned slowly. The muscles in my stomach tightened. Phillip Smale stood at the door to the library, arms folded, chewing on one arm of the glasses he was holding. ‘Well, well, Mr Toby Jones. Off on another adventure are we?’ he said coldly.

I stole a look up the stairs. Jimbo was probably safely back in our room by now.

‘Someone’s taken my cricket bat,’ I said.

‘Oh deary me. Someone’s taken your cricket bat,’ he sing-songed, shaking his head. Then he stepped into the corridor. ‘I can handle this, Ron,’ he said to the guard.

‘No!’ I shouted. The guard paused, turning to look at me.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Smale’s voice was soft and menacing.

‘I mean, it’s okay. I’ll just go back to my room. We’ll look for my bat in the morning.’

Ron, the guard, looked from me to Smale.

‘Step inside a moment, Toby Jones,’ Smale said, turning back to the library. I didn’t move.

‘You heard the man,’ Ron said, pushing me towards the library door.

Smale unlocked the
Wisden
cabinet. ‘We’ll find your bat in the morning,’ he said. ‘Though I do seem to remember someone bringing a bat into the library earlier this evening. Ron, would you check in my office, please?’

I watched Smale carefully. He seemed more interested in the
Wisden
he was holding than my missing bat.

‘Well, I’m very glad I stopped by at the library tonight on my way home. Very glad indeed. Look here, Toby,’ he said, holding out the familiar yellow book. ‘The 2006
Wisden
. Probably the first copy to reach Australia. Go on, hold it.’ He pushed the book towards me.

As I took it from him, a rush of warmth and calm spread through me. I opened the book cautiously. The familiar swirl of words and letters spun slowly in front of my eyes.

‘Perhaps you’d like to take a trip back?’ Smale said.

I closed the book and placed it gently on the table behind me. There was a pile of packages and parcels spread out there. I looked again. Was that my name on one of them?

‘You know, in 2005 Australia played eleven Test matches. Do you know how many of those they lost?’

‘Um, two?’

I turned back to Smale quickly, wondering whether he’d noticed me staring at the parcels on the table. There was definitely one with my name on it, and I recognised the writing. Smale had picked up the
Wisden
and was thumbing through it, shaking his head.

‘That’s right: two. I’ll say one thing for you. You know your cricket. Both losses to England, and losing the series meant losing the Ashes.’

I edged towards the book-shaped parcel, wondering whether I could sneak it out under my shirt without Smale or Ron noticing. If it was from Jim, Phillip Smale was the last person in the world I wanted to know about it.

‘Do you know what I’m going to do, Toby Jones?’

‘Er, no, Mr Smale.’

I could almost touch the parcel now. Smale was staring at a page in the
Wisden
, a smile spreading slowly across his face.

‘No, of course you don’t. I’m going to take myself back to England last year and rearrange things slightly so that we don’t have to give up the Ashes to those self-righteous Poms.’

I’d only been half-listening, but now I looked up sharply. Smale’s smug expression sent a cold shiver through me.