TIME TO GO
Michael sat nervously fiddling with his bat grip. He cursed
his memory lapse - he'd meant to fix the grip the previous evening and tape it
firmly to the handle at the bottom. He didn't have time to fossick around for
the tape and scissors in the dressing room in the bowels of his cricket kitbag.
If a wicket fell, he was next in. "No time now, concentrate on the
bowlers, adjust your eyes to the light, ignore the babble of team mates all
around," he thought to himself.
A glance over the shoulder at one of his mates caught his
attention. Brett had opened the innings today and for the second time in two
days he'd failed to trouble the scorers too much. Now he sat alone hunched up
in semi-foetal crouch, head buried in his hands, oblivious to the others. Michael's
heart went out to his mate - nobody had worked harder at his game than Brett.
Today he'd fallen victim to a great catch, a 'blinder'. Last week it had been a
dodgy LBW decision by a doddering, old umpie and just when he had hoped to
score well against the rep coach's team to cement his place in the rep team.
If Brett looked unhappy, it was nothing compared to the
agonised figure of his mother who stared transfixed at her son from a
respectable distance. His mother had learnt from bitter experience that she
dare not invade her son's space to share his frustration at a time like this.
She had quickly found out early in his cricketing life that disappointment
could rapidly turn to anger and rebuke. Brett's father sat beside her,
ashen-faced. His hopes for a few runs and a good day had been dashed. He
offered little moral support to his spouse because he would never talk about
his son' dismissal, the shot, the bowler, the coach. Brett's father wanted to
suffer in silence and both parents knew the trip home in the car would be long
and subdued.
To Michael's left, the annoying 'clunk', 'clunk' slap of a
cricket ball drummed monotonously into his brain. Another mate, James, was
throwing a bowl into the wall of the grandstand and rebounding on the concrete
back to the thrower. James saw this as an ideal way to 'get his eye in' and
sharpen the reflexes before he went in to bat. His team mates had threatened
James numerous times with all manner of violence if he did not stop this
activity but he simply persisted a further ten metres away.
A frenzied shouting from the field interrupted Michael's
relative calm. A frustrated fast bowler grimaced at the umpire who remained
impassive to his plea for LBW and then the bowler shifted his attention to the
batsman and snarled menacingly.
"He's a bit sharp, this bloke," one of Michael's
team mates volunteered. "He's not that quick," Michael retorted.
The chorus of encouragement from the fielders for the
bowler rose and fell like the thrumming of cicadas on a hot summer's day. The
annoying, mindless chant of 'come on, mate, knock him over!" was heard
constantly. "Yeah, Robbo, this bloke can't bat! "He's hopeless!"
Top seed, that, Robbo!" Then followed the endless clapping and shouts of
approval for a good delivery or false stroke.
A crack of leather on willow ensued soon after. Michael's
team mates suddenly groaned and fell silent as their attention turned to the
flight path of the ball. A frenzied cry of 'catch it' came from several of the
fielders and one second later a whooping of delight from the bowler.
A general excitement arose on the field as team mates raced
in to clap the bowler on the back announcing the fate of the hapless batsman.
Michael stood up... it was time to go.
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