by Justin Brown
Whether the game was on or not I had to get there.
I looked at my watch. Eight fifty-five. I’d wasted twenty-five minutes! Coach would be so mad if I was late. He used to be a boss in the army and is the scariest man on earth. He’s probably related to Mrs Martin-Edge.
Nearly every week I ride my bike to cricket, but today I begged Mum to drop me off at the ground. So she did. I arrived at 8.59 and 13 seconds. I got my cricket bag from the boot and sprinted. I had to run across three fields.
Eight fifty-nine and 47 seconds.
The ground was dry and hard and the sun made me sweat. I could see Coach in the distance talking to the whole team.
My bag was getting heavier and I was puffing like Grandma.Why was everyone here if the game was cancelled?
Nine o’clock and 34 seconds.
I was late.
‘Gilligan-Flannigan!’ Coach pointed to his watch. ‘What time do you call this?’
‘Yeah!’ said McGarvy. ‘You’re late! Can’t bowl, and only bat last!’
‘Sssh!’ Coach told McGarvy. ‘I’ll deal with this.’
Hughesy and Jonesy were padding up behind Coach. I wanted to ask them why they were here, but didn’t because Coach would have turned my guts into garters. He always threatens to do that when he’s angry, and I don’t know what it means but I’m sure it’s not a free trip to the movies.
The umpires and fielding side walked out to the middle.
‘I’m really sorry, Coach,’ I said.
How could I explain why I was late? I guess I could have said I’d been told our game was cancelled, even though it was sunny, but because Coach is probably related to Mrs Martin-Edge I kept my trap shut. It can’t have been Coach who called my dad at Beach FM to say that it was, because he was standing right in front of me!
‘Coach, I’m really sorry. I…’
‘No excuses!’ he replied. ‘If you’re going to go all the way in life – and on the sports field – show up! On time, every time! Understand?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said.
‘Right.’ He pointed at me. ‘Put on your pads. You’re in at number four.’
‘What?’ said McGarvy, throwing his bat at a tree. ‘That sucks!’
Obviously the bad old McGarvy was back.
Coach went to get some balls out of his car. I ran over to Jonesy and Hughesy, who were walk––––ing out to bat.
‘Where were you?’ Hughesy said to me.
‘I heard the game was off!’ I said.
‘Off?’ Jonesy pointed to the blue sky. ‘Why would it be off?’
‘Dad said it on his radio show. He said all cricket was cancelled.’
‘Geez, Toby!’ said Hughesy.‘I’ve told you before. No one listens to that station. It’s for old people!’ I was still confused, but our game was about to start.
‘Okay, Jonesy, try to get some runs today,’ I said. ‘I’m going to slay it!’
I put my pads on and McGarvy sat beside me. We hadn’t spoken to each other since he told me how good I was against the Kings. I said hi.
McGarvy spat right next to my shoes.
‘What was that for?’ I asked.
McGarvy just stared at me sideways as if he knew something I didn’t. Then he spat again, and this time it landed on my cricket bag. He kicked a pile of dirt and walked off. I felt dumber than a bag of rocks. I should have known he was never my friend. How stupid to think he was serious when he said how well I played.
Out in the middle Hughesy batted like Sri Lankan opener Kumra Sangakkara, and Jonesy got out for a golden duck. He sat next to me and told me how useless he was, but I was too angry at McGarvy to listen.
Why did that idiot annoy me so much?
And why did I even care?
I wouldn’t even want to be his friend.
Luckily I managed to do what Shane Warne does, which is to block everything out when he gets out in the middle. I got 41 runs and four wickets and we won the game.
When I got home Dad was working on his old truck, the one that hasn’t moved from the backyard since before I was born. Most weekends Dad and his friends look under the bonnet and fiddle with the engine, but that’s as far as they get. Which is fine by the CGC, because we use it for cops and robbers. It’s got leather seats and cobwebs and a big gearstick like an army tank’s.
I dropped my cricket bag and took off my shoes. Dad looked at his watch. ‘So the game was on?’
‘Sure was,’ I said, getting some orange juice from his fridge in the garage. ‘Even though the DJ on the radio said it wasn’t.’
‘Hey,’ he laughed. ‘Don’t give me a hard time. Your mother called me and said she’d been told the ground was closed. Did you ask Coach who it could have been?’
‘No way! I was forty seconds late, so he was down on me.’
‘Oh well,’ said Dad. ‘How was your game?’
‘Four wickets,’ I said, letting out a huge burp. ‘Two in one over. I was on a hat trick.’
‘Really?’ Dad had a funny look on his face.
‘Yes, Dad,’ I said. ‘I’m telling the truth this time.’
‘Wow,’ said Dad. ‘Well, as I’ve always said, success is two per cent inspiration and ninety-eight per cent…?’
‘Luck?’ I asked.
‘Perspiration!’ he said. ‘Speaking of which, you need a shower – and take those stinky shoes inside before they walk off by themselves.’
Dad started singing as I left. I felt good. Maybe because I had the ball on a string and was getting tonnes of wickets and didn’t have to worry about the lie anymore.
4th MARCH
Tonight we’ve got a babysitter. Claire’s grumpy. Mum and Dad say that when she’s fourteen she’ll be old enough to look after me and Max, but not yet. So she asked Dad a hundred times if she could stay the night at Nicki Wright’s house. And Dad said no a hundred times.
Claire went the colour of a poison arrow frog and waved her arms around. ‘Just because my baby brothers need a babysitter doesn’t mean I need one!’ she yelled. ‘Why can’t I go out?’
Then I started laughing, which made Claire angrier than ever. But I wasn’t laughing at her, I was laughing at the tomato sauce bottle, which sounds like a fart every time you squeeze it.
I laughed so much I started to choke. Dad slapped me on the back and told me to stop being so ridiculous.
Then Mum walked into the kitchen. ‘What’s all the yelling about?’
‘I never get anything I want!’ said Claire.
‘That’s funny – I thought your father took you clothes-shopping this afternoon.’
‘Call that clothes-shopping?’ said Claire. ‘We spent five minutes looking for clothes and an hour in the fishing shop!’
‘I don’t get it.’ Dad shook his head. ‘I take my boys shopping: I buy them underpants, shorts and a toy, and they’re happy. I take my daughter shopping: nothing fits and it’s all my fault.’
‘Whatever!’ said Claire.
‘Do not use that tone of voice around here, young lady,’ said Mum. ‘Your father and I are going out and you’re being babysat, end of story. Today is our wedding anniversary. We’re off to a restaurant for dinner, and then we’re going dancing. Isn’t that right, darling?’ She rubbed Dad’s shoulders and kissed his neck.
Yuck!
The best thing about Mum and Dad going out is they always leave food for the babysitter. Claire and I figure that babysitters don’t like junk food, so we eat the good stuff and replace it with muesli bars and fruit.
Our babysitter is called Nadia and she’s really cool, mostly because she always has lots of homework and lets us do whatever we want.
‘Do you get homework at uni?’ I asked.
‘Well, we call it study, but it’s basically the same thing,’ she said. ‘Speaking of which, your mum said you had homework to do as well. Have you done it?’
‘Um, yes,’ I said. I hadn’t done it very well, but who cares?
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Amuse y
ourself until bedtime.’
I love being babysat!
Claire was watching a TV show about girls who go to malls and cry when someone else turns up wearing the same clothes, but I didn’t mind. All I wanted to do was to play my drums and read my stats book.
My stats book is the most important book I own, because it records every sports match I’ve ever played. It’s got all my wickets, overs, maidens, runs and catches for cricket. Tries and conversions for rugby. Goals, assists and rebounds for basketball. Sometimes Dad takes a photo of the scoreboard after a good game.
One day when I play for my country the TV reporter will ask if they can display my stats book at Lords or Twickenham. I’ll probably say yes, because by then I’ll be old enough to change my name from Gilligan-Flannigan to Tendulkar or Lomu or Jordan.
I flicked to our game against the Kings. Six wickets. The best I’ve ever bowled.
Then I saw that we only have one game left in this season, and realised I still need four wickets. Normally that would be as easy as eating a banana sundae with extra nuts, but what if it rains?
What if McGarvy gets to bowl instead of me?
What if McGarvy drops another catch for me? I need these four wickets. Nothing is going to stop me.
This is the most important thing on the planet, in the galaxy, in the universe. If I don’t get the four wickets, the whole GameBox V3 Challenge will be lost forever.
I have to get those wickets no matter what.
6th MARCH
Mum told me if I stop cracking my knuckles for a week I’m allowed takeaway pizza on Saturday night. She says knuckle-cracking is bad for my bones. But I only crack my knuckles when I’m nervous or thinking about something too much.
At the moment that’s happening all the time, because if I don’t get four wickets from the last game of the season I won’t get the GameBox V3.
Mum has also been telling me how much I pong. That’s because the CGC is having another com–petition to see who can go the longest with–outshowering. Whoever wins gets the Dirty Trophy.
So far we haven’t showered for four days and five nights.The record is eight days. Hughesy won last year, but mostly because his mum never makes him wash. Anyway, Miss Martin-Edge always talks about how we should be saving water because there’s not much left. Isn’t it better to have one shower a week than a dozen a day like Claire?
Mum went for her usual Saturday-morning walk, so she didn’t notice that I didn’t have a shower. Dad didn’t notice either when we drove to cricket, because his car smells like dead fish anyway.
Having Dad at today’s game was awesome and not-so-awesome. Awesome, because if I got the last four wickets he’d see it with his own eyes. And not-so-awesome because you always feel like you need to get a hat trick and a hundred when your mum or dad watch. But that’s cool, because I suddenly remembered what Coach said at practice last week. ‘Courage first, power second, technique third.’
Sometimes I think Coach and Dad have been listening to the same CDs.
When we got to the ground Hughesy and Jonesy were waiting by the practice nets. I walked over to them while Dad did the same thing he does every time he comes to watch. He set up his deckchair, put sunscreen on his nose, poured himself a cup of tea from his thermos flask and started reading the newspaper.
Jonesy and Hughesy were arguing about the Dirty Trophy.
‘You smell clean!’ Hughesy said to Jonesy.
‘It’s my dad’s deodorant!’ said Jonesy.
Hughesy sniffed Jonesy’s arm. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes! I swear! I haven’t washed!’
Hughesy sniffed again. ‘That’s soap!’
‘Okay, okay,’ said Jonesy. ‘I had to! Mum found out what we were doing and said it was the most disgusting thing she’d ever heard of.’
Hughesy looked so proud. ‘It’s down to you and me, Toby. And you’re gonna choke.’
‘Doubt it!’ I said. ‘The Dirty Trophy is all mine!’
‘You guys are crazy,’ said Jonesy.
‘Whatever, loser,’ said Hughesy.
‘I might be a loser but at least I don’t stink.’
‘No one has ever drowned in sweat,’ I said.
‘You’ve been listening to Coach too much,’ said Jonesy.
There were four bad things about today’s game against the Tigers.
1) Their opening batter, who is called the Little Master because he bats just like Sachin Tendulkar. If you can get him out for under a squillion runs it’s like winning first prize at the school fair.
2) Their spin bowler, who is called the Terminator. He’s taller than a giraffe and never bowls a bad ball. One match last season he got all ten wickets.
3) The umpire, Slow Death. We call him that because he takes sooooo long before he gives a player out. He’s the worst umpire on earth, including in all the countries that don’t even play cricket. Once when I was batting, the bowler appealed for an LBW. Slow Death said nothing for about a minute, so I turned to tie my shoelace. When I was about to face the next ball he put his finger up!
4) The worst thing about this morning was that Coach was even grumpier than normal. It could be because he got out of the wrong side of bed, or it could be because Arsenal played a really late match and lost. Coach likes Arsenal more than anything else in the world. When they win he jumps up and down like Claire when she sees someone from her school at the mall. When they lose he looks like Dad when someone says he’s losing his hair.
This morning Coach yelled more than usual and said things I can’t put in here in case Max reads it one day. But here’s what he said that I can write down: ‘If you idiots lose against these sissies, there’s something wrong with the lot of you!’
‘But Coach,’ said Jonesy. ‘They’ve got the Terminator and the Little Master. They’re way better than us!’
‘Yes, they are!’ Coach thundered. ‘They have more natural ability. Half of them will make the national rep side. But I’ve taught you lot to be mentally tough. What you lack in skill you can make up for in passion and determination. Now get out there and smash them! And if you lose like a bunch of sooky bubbas, I won’t want to know you.’
Coach can be mean sometimes, but I think he’s amazing because once he started a Mexican wave at a basketball match that did seven loops. I’ve seen a Mexican wave that went around four times, but never seven. Coach even had his photo in the newspaper.
Anyway, Scott Honeyford won the toss and told the Tigers they were bowling.
Good!
The Little Master had to wait. While Hughesy and Jonesy padded up I counted our team. We had eleven. And do you know the best news? I couldn’t see McGarvy anywhere! At least that goober couldn’t drop any of my catches or spit on my shoes in the most important match of my life.
We scored 207! Jonesy and Hughesy got a 100-run opening partnership. They were awesome. I hit the last ball of our innings for six and everyone high-fived me. Then we sat down and had some Ice-Cold Motion Lotion. That’s what we call our juice to make us play better. Everyone was so excited. We were going to beat the Tigers!
‘Fifty runs short,’ said Coach with a frown on his face.
‘I agree,’ said a voice behind me.
I didn’t need to turn around, because I knew exactly who it was.
McGarvy.
No! Now we had twelve players. Everyone knows you’re only allowed eleven, so someone would have to be subbed off. If this was any other match I wouldn’t have cared, but this was the cruncher for me.
Four more wickets, remember?
Coach looked at me.
‘Take a breather this innings, Toby,’ he said.
‘Me? Why? I’m in good form! Ask Hughesy and Jonesy!’
The CGC nodded together.
‘Don’t argue, boy,’ said Coach. ‘We need pace today, not spin. The Terminator didn’t get a single wicket. Besides, the Tigers can play spin better than any other team I’ve seen. Now get out there! No wides! No extras! Drop a catc
h and you’ll pay for it at practice.’
McGarvy winked at me as he walked onto the field.
Dad was still reading the newspaper, but heard everything Coach said. I sat beside him and kicked my gear bag.
‘One door closes and another one opens, Toby,’ he said.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I asked. ‘This is the last game of the season and McDickhead is bowling when I’m supposed to be!’
‘Watch your language,’ said Dad. ‘Keep an open mind. Something will come up.’
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ I yelled. ‘This is the last match! This is my last chance! If I don’t get four wickets it’s all a waste of time!’
‘Mark my words,’ Dad said, sitting back in his deckchair and pouring another cup of tea, ‘something will come up.’
‘How can you be so relaxed? This sucks!’
‘Have faith, Toby. Positive thinking leads to positive outcomes.’
The Tigers were 111–5 and Coach was wrong. Our fast bowlers didn’t get any wickets, but my spinning partner Corey Foley got five. McGarvy was bowling as fast as he could, but the Tigers just blocked him. So McGarvy started getting angry and swore at the batters. When Slow Death was looking the other way, he spat at them. He even showed them his shark tooth pendant, but nothing worked.
The Tigers needed 98 runs to win, but they still had five wickets left. The Little Master was still in. He looked about as comfy as Claire when she gets her school report card. But then the most amazing thing happened. When Corey Foley dived for a catch, the ball hit the ground in front of him and flew straight into his nose.
As he left the field, dripping blood, I looked at Dad. He was thinking what I was thinking.
And that was the same thing that Coach was thinking!
‘Toby, get out there!’ he yelled. ‘Finish Corey’s over.’
‘Told you something would come up.’ Dad put down his newspaper and took off his glasses.‘Now make it count.’
Corey had four balls left in his over. But I didn’t need that many, because I got the Little Master with a slider that Coach said was straight from the top drawer! Everyone except McGarvy jumped on top of me. I couldn’t breathe, but I didn’t care. Getting the Little Master out was the best thing ever!