A thousand feet down, we set off into the big trees, him humming Beethoven while we hiked—and he could do whole symphonies, even in the Australian tropical thunderstorm. Where we walked, we left deep tracks that filled with rainwater. It was hot. Sounds of water falling onto rocks. The screeching of white birds that flocked high up in the tall trees and stared down at us. Every so often a hunting call from something big—like a dinosaur, maybe. Every so often something slithering in the low grass—probably snakes, my father said. Every so often something scrambling through the underbrush—probably little crocodiles, my father said.
They didn’t sound little.
And then, in the late afternoon, the rain stopped and the sun sprang out from behind puff clouds and we came to a clearing that gave away the whole valley.
“Watch,” said my father.
The sunlight belted the leaves of the eucalyptus trees and steam began to rise up, and up, and up, and no kidding, the air turned blue. Blue over the leaves, blue over the tallest trees, blue over the red rock formations, blue hovering everywhere, and then blue coming down onto us. I could almost hold my hand out and watch it turn blue.
Blue.
We saw it happen every afternoon, when the Australian tropical thunderstorm stopped and the sunlight hit the trees and their eucalyptus oils evaporated into the air and everything hovered blue.
We were down in the valley for five days. We never saw another person the whole time.
We were just there. My father and me. Just there. Just us.
We didn’t even talk that much.
Hardly at all.
It was so quiet, I almost missed Annie and Charlie and Emily.
And I held the green marble tightly.
And now, walking with the Butler, in a white sweater and a white hat carrying marshmallowy pads and huge gloves and a bat that wasn’t really a bat, it’s where I kind of wished I still was.
* * *
We walked past the Ketchums—who were watering their azaleas and who looked up and stared at us—past the Briggses’ rhododendrons, past the Rockcastles’ holly hedge, past the Koertges’ petunias—the Koertges stared at us out the window—and stopped by Billy Colt’s house, where he tried to tell his mother he was feeling sick because he ate too many apple tarts but the Butler told Mrs. Colt we’d be learning to play cricket and she told Billy it was a wonderful opportunity and he looked like such a little gentleman in his white sweater and white hat, and we walked six more blocks to Longfellow Middle School.
“You look like such a little gentleman,” I said.
“Shut up,” Billy Colt said.
And I don’t know where Billy Colt wished he was, but I could bet it wasn’t on the Longfellow Middle School fields, where three pickup games were already going.
Three pickup games, on the three baseball diamonds that butted up against the red oval of the track, where the eighth-grade varsity cross-country team was getting timed by Coach Krosoczka, who was hollering like he was not a very happy coach.
We crossed the track, hesitated, then followed the Butler onto the perfect green lawn of the Longfellow Middle School football field, home of the Longfellow Middle School Minutemen, a lawn cut and watered and fertilized and worshiped by a whole team of landscapers, a lawn watched over like it was holy ground by Vice Principal DelBanco—who was the football coach when he wasn’t being the vice principal—a lawn upon which no sixth grader had ever stepped before.
I was sweating.
“This will do perfectly,” said the Butler.
“Mr. Bowles-Fitzpatrick . . .”
“Keep up, young Master William.”
Billy Colt was sweating too.
We followed the Butler to the center of the Longfellow Middle School football field. I turned around and looked at the baseball diamonds. One of the left fielders was looking our way.
The Butler took three long stakes out of his case—and a wooden hammer.
“Mr. Bowles-Fitzpatrick,” I said, “you can’t . . .”
The Butler pounded the first stake in.
“Mr. Bowles-Fitzpatrick, you really can’t . . .”
He pounded in the second. Then the third. I turned around again. Most of the outfielders from all three diamonds were looking at us now.
“Mr. Bowles-Fitzpatrick,” I said again.
He reached into the case, pulled some stuff out, put it back again, and finally held up two short pieces of wood. “These are called the bails,” he said. “Repeat after me, please. ‘The bails.’”
“‘The bails,’” we said, sort of helplessly.
He laid them carefully across the tops of the stakes, and then, pointing at the stakes, the Butler said, “These are called the stumps. Please repeat.”
“‘The stumps.’”
“Young Master William, together the stumps and the bails are the wicket. You are standing in what is called the crease. A good cricketer stands in the crease to defend his wicket to the death. So, put on your pads—you’ll have to lay the gloves aside for the moment—yes, that’s right. Put on the pads—you’ll need to help him, young Master Carter. And then”—rummaging about in the case again—“remove your hat and replace it with this.” He handed Billy a black hat with something like a cage on the front.
Billy tried it on.
“No, that’s not quite right. Let me help you.”
I looked around again. Two of the pickup games had stopped to look at us.
“All right, then,” said the Butler. “Young Master William, you take the bat and hold it by the handle—both hands—yes. And now you’ll stay here in the crease and young Master Carter and I will take a bit of a walk.”
Billy Colt looked around behind him, then at all the outfielders from the three pickup games, then back at us. “You’re not going to leave me here,” he said.
“It is your wicket to defend to the death.”
Billy did sort of look like death was on his mind.
“Now, young Master Carter, we walk twenty-two yards precisely. How nice that the yardage is so clearly marked.”
“The reason the yardage is so clearly marked is that this is the football field and we’re not supposed to be on it.”
“Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two,” the Butler counted. He laid the case down again and took out three more stumps and two bails. “Presumably your family pays its city taxes?” he said. He handed the bails to me and began to pound the first stump in. “Given such financial faithfulness, we might assume you may freely walk onto a publicly owned school field.” He pounded in the second stump.
I turned around. All three games had stopped.
They were all looking at us.
Coach Krosoczka and the eighth-grade varsity cross-country team were looking at us too.
“I’m not sure everyone understands that,” I said.
“Then perhaps,” said the Butler, pounding in the third stump, “a stronger emphasis on the study of civics and democracy is required at Longfellow Middle School.”
Coach Krosoczka began walking toward us.
Coach Krosoczka did not look interested in a stronger emphasis on the study of civics and democracy.
Behind Coach Krosoczka came the entire eighth-grade varsity cross-country team. Twelve eighth graders.
They didn’t look like they were interested in a stronger emphasis on the study of civics and democracy either.
I told you how in the Blue Mountains of Australia my father and I were surrounded by screeching birds and hunting dinosaurs and slithering snakes and scrambling crocodiles?
I think it might have been safer there than it was right now on the football field of Longfellow Middle School.
· 10 ·
The Wicketkeeper
The wicketkeeper plays behind the batsman and wicket to catch the balls that the batsman misses. He stands closer to or farther from the wicket depending upon the speed of the bowler. He
wears protective gloves—the only fielder to do so.
Billy was still standing by the other wicket. I thought I heard him whimper from twenty-two yards away. The eighth-grade varsity cross-country team would reach him first.
“Place the bails on the stumps, please,” said the Butler.
I did.
The Butler rummaged again in the case. He pulled out a red ball and tossed it lightly up and down in his hand. He looked at Billy.
“Now, young Master William, it is my role to bowl this ball, bouncing it once, so that it hits your wicket, knocking off the bails. It is your role to defend your wicket, batting the ball away so that it reaches into this area around the pitch. You will then run to the wicket behind me—no, young Master Carter, this one—to score one run. If you can make it back to where you started, you will score two runs. Had we another batsman working with you, he would start at the stumps behind me, and you would cross over and trade places with each run, together scoring runs until such time as young Master Carter—who will represent the entire fielding team—had retrieved the ball and brought it in. Do you understand?”
Billy Colt nodded, but I doubted he understood a single thing.
“Do you understand?” the Butler said to me.
I nodded too—but I really didn’t understand a single thing.
The eighth-grade varsity cross-country team had grouped behind Billy Colt. They watched their coach walk the twenty-two yards toward us.
Now I was sure Billy was whimpering.
The Butler turned back to Billy. “Young Master William, your rather anxious expression suggests that there are some elements of the game that yet seem unclear.”
Billy nodded again.
The Butler turned back to me. “Perhaps it would be best if you took the bat first, young Master Carter.”
I looked at the Butler. I looked at the eighth-grade varsity cross-country team coach coming toward us. I looked at the eighth-grade varsity cross-country team gathered around Billy Colt at the wicket he was supposed to defend to the death.
“What?” I said.
“Inform young Master William that he will field at point.”
“Okay,” I said.
“And perhaps this scowling gentleman advancing with such purpose will be wicketkeeper.”
The scowling gentleman advancing with such purpose did not look at all like he wanted to be wicketkeeper.
“Mr. Bowles-Fitzpatrick, I don’t think so.”
“Nonsense.” The Butler steadied the bails on top of the stumps. “On a brisk morning such as this one, who could resist the opportunity to be wicketkeeper?”
“I can’t imagine,” I said.
“Hey, you!” said Coach Krosoczka. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He really did not sound like he wanted to be wicketkeeper.
The Butler finished steadying the bails. He slowly lifted his hands from the wicket, then turned to the coach.
“At the moment,” he said, “I am preparing to play one of the world’s most elegant sports. Equally, I am hoping you might be wicketkeeper.”
This stopped Coach Krosoczka.
“Excuse me?” he said.
“No excuse necessary. Young Master William has the gloves. Come with me and I will show you where to stand.”
“Where to stand?”
We started walking back the twenty-two yards toward Billy Colt. Coach Krosoczka came with us.
“To the left and back from the wicket,” said the Butler. “I’d suggest you stand only slightly back, as we will not be bowling with anything like speed today. I am sorry—perhaps you are already familiar with the game?”
Coach Krosoczka looked like he was not as sure of himself as he wanted to be. “What game is it?”
“Cricket,” said the Butler, “and no matter. A sportsman such as yourself, it will come to you quickly. And you gentlemen”—he was calling to the eighth-grade varsity cross-country team now—“you gentlemen—young Master Krebs, good to see you—would you rotate once please?”
They looked at the Butler.
“Just once. Clockwise, if you please.”
After a moment, they all rotated once. Clockwise.
“How convenient to have your names printed so prominently on your jerseys. Young Master Krebs—yes, it all comes back, doesn’t it?—young Masters Krebs and Hopewell—a most forward-thinking name—you will be slips, and you will stand here and here around the pitch. No, young Master Hopewell, here. We need keen eyes and quick hands at gully—perhaps young Master Singh? Splendid. Young Master Chall, you look like sprinting may be in your blood. Shall we say that you will field at point with young Master William? Be ready, for the ball may come at you quickly—but it is also a lovely position from which to learn the game. Young Masters Jenkins and Briggs—not related to the Thornton-Briggs, are you? I suppose not—you will be covers and stand here and here. You, young Master Hettinga, are at midwicket—here. Young Master Bryan, at mid-off—here. And so you see, gentleman, we have fanned out in such a way as to cover the entire field and are now prepared to deal with any ball that comes off the bats of the opposing team. Now, young Masters Carter, de la Pena, Klatt, Barkus, and Yang—who together sound much like a firm of solicitors—you will represent that opposing team and prepare to bat. Young Masters Carter and Barkus, you are the first batsmen, I will bowl the overs, and Coach . . .”
“Krosoczka,” said the cross-country coach.
“Coach Krosoczka will be wicketkeeper for both teams.”
Coach Krosoczka was still sort of scowling, and he still did not seem like he wanted to be wicketkeeper for both teams, but he took up his position to the left and about four steps back from the wicket.
“Perhaps a little closer, Coach Krosoczka.”
Coach Krosoczka came one step closer.
“Splendid all around. Now, young Master Carter, you will need those pads on your thighs. Young Master Krebs, if you would lend him assistance for a moment.”
Carson Krebs, who is the captain of the eighth-grade varsity cross-country team, took the pads that Billy Colt handed him. Together, we strapped them on my legs.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” he said.
Those, by the way, were probably the first words that Carson Krebs, eighth grader, had ever spoken to a sixth grader at Longfellow Middle School.
“What?”
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Nope,” I said.
“This is cricket,” he said.
“I know.”
“Then you know you don’t fool around with cricket, right?”
“Right.”
“So pay attention,” he said.
Everything in me suddenly froze. I thought I heard high screeches from far away.
“What?”
“Cricket is serious. Pay attention.”
“And while they are negotiating the pads,” said the Butler, “let me instruct you all in your duties.” And he did. One by one. Gully and slips and covers and the midwicket and the point fielder and the mid-off and even the wicketkeeper.
I couldn’t figure out why Carson Krebs wanted me to pay attention to whatever it was I was doing, which I wasn’t sure about anyway, so how would I even know if I screwed up? And what did he care?
“We will practice our batting only at this point. Running between the wickets will come later—though young Master Barkus, to give us some sense of the lovely camaraderie necessitated by this game, perhaps you would take your place at the wicket behind me, imagining a run across the pitch if young Master Carter were to strike well.”
“Okay,” Barkus said—even though I don’t think he knew what he was doing either.
The Butler walked toward the other wicket, then turned.
“Young Master Carter, are you ready?” he called.
“He’s ready,” said Carson Krebs.
No, I wasn’t.
“How about i
f Barkus goes first?” I said.
“You’ve already got the pads on,” said Krebs.
I turned back to the Butler. I held the bat up. I could still smell the linseed oil.
“All right, then,” said the Butler. “Bat straight, young Master Carter. Straight, not bent, when you strike the ball. And head still, not bobbing about as if it were on a spring. Feet a little farther apart. Young Master Krebs, perhaps you will show him. Exactly right.”
The Butler turned to the eighth-grade varsity cross-country team. “Remember, a keen eye. You are either catching the ball or racing to the boundary—which we will define as your sidelines for the sake of convenience—to retrieve the ball and throw it back to the bowler or wicketkeeper. Soft hands, all around. And as I run in to deliver the ball, you would all do well to take one or two steps toward the batsman. This is not meant to intimidate as much as it is meant to show your active awareness.”
“You got all that?” hollered Coach Krosoczka.
The whole eighth-grade varsity cross-country team nodded.
“Pay attention,” called Carson Krebs.
I have to tell you, this all seemed sort of wrong to me. I mean, cricket? On the Longfellow Middle School football field?
Cricket?
With eighth graders?
With Carson Krebs, who sounded like he’d played cricket forever?
With Coach Krosoczka, who had never played cricket before in his life—obviously—but who suddenly seemed to think cricket was all-fired important—because I guess that’s what PE coaches think about every game with a ball.
“Young Master Carter, you are paying attention?”
I nodded—even though I thought I heard the high screeches again. Even the sound of waterfalls, and the hunting calls of hungry dinosaurs, and the slithering of snakes in low grass, and the scrambling of little crocodiles through the underbrush.
Pay Attention, Carter Jones Page 5