by Brett Lee
‘Anyway, you can bowl faster than Scott Craven can’t you, Toby?’
‘Of course I can, Nat. I can bowl faster than Brett Lee!’
‘And I’ve climbed Mount Everest in a kilt,’ Dad said, ruffling my hair.
‘Well, I might bowl as fast as him one day.’
Mum looked across at me. ‘Yes, Toby, one day you just might.’
The best bowling figures in a World Cup match are held by Glenn McGrath of Australia. He achieved 7/15 against Namibia during the 2003 World Cup. Two other bowlers have taken seven wickets in a World Cup game. They are Australia’s Andy Bichel (7/20) and the West Indies’ Winston Davis (7/51).
2 The Library
Friday—morning
THE next morning I was up early. It was the day of the excursion to the MCG—the Melbourne Cricket Ground! You could choose to go to other places, but any chance to get to the MCG—and with Mr Pasquali as well—was something you didn’t knock back. My best friend, Jay Bromley, felt the same. He’d never been there, but he’d heard me talking about it often enough.
There were 10 of us going from my year—all boys, except for Georgie—plus Mr Pasquali and Jono’s dad, Mr Reilly. Georgie loves sport, and it didn’t bother her that she was the only girl taking the MCG tour.
Georgie was great. She lived with her mum at the other end of our street, and we’d played together since we could walk. Our house was like a second home for her. Often Georgie’s mum would call round and end up staying for dinner. Georgie and I, and sometimes Nat, would play cricket outside, or down the hallway if it was dark.
Most of the cricket team were going on the tour except for Jimbo, who was doing the Old Melbourne Gaol. Jimbo was different, somehow. He was friendly if you spoke to him, but he didn’t seem to be too interested in being with other kids. Georgie said that the opposite was actually the truth, that he really wanted people around him. I wasn’t so sure. There was something about him that I liked all the same.
Anyway, Mr Pasquali, Jono and his dad, Jay, Rahul, Martian, Cameron, Minh, Georgie and I, as well as Scott Craven and his best mate Gavin Bourke, were taking the tour from heaven.
When we arrived at the MCG we passed through a modern front section with lots of glass and then went through an older-looking gate. This was the back of one of the big stands, which we walked around underneath.
Jay was looking pretty impressed, but he really wanted to get out to the actual ground, which we kept getting little glimpses of. He wasn’t really listening to the stuff we were being told about the dressing rooms and other places.
They took us upstairs past some fantastic pictures of old players; they were massive. I kept thinking how much Dad would have loved this. It was sort of like a museum.
Then we came to a little library, stacked with books—all on cricket. The floor creaked as we movedquietly into the room. It was cluttered and busy. There were piles of books on tables and on the floor. The place was messy, but you got the feeling that this was how it was meant to be. There was a heap of brown and yellow books in a bookshelf just on the right.
‘Wisden Cricketers’ Almanacks,’ said a small voice behind me. I jumped. An old man with a wrinkled face and a kind smile was looking at me. ‘Would you like to see one?’ he asked.
I looked across at Jay. He shrugged.
‘Um, yeah, okay. Thanks,’ I replied.
The old man unlocked a glass door and pulled down one of the brown books. It had ‘1949’ in gold letters on its thick spine.
‘Have you heard of the Invincibles?’ the man asked me. His eyes were sparkling.
‘Wasn’t that Sir Donald Bradman’s team?’
‘He was part of the team, yes, and other great players too. Go on, open it.’
I must have been holding the book as if it was some kind of treasure, too afraid to open it and turn the old, musty-smelling pages. The rest of the group were leaving the library, but I couldn’t put the book down. It felt so warm and comfortable in my hand.
The nice old guy was smiling. ‘My name is Jim Oldfield—and do call me Jim, boys,’ he said. ‘I was wondering, would you mind opening the book and telling me what you see?’
‘C’mon, Toby,’ called Jono’s dad from the library door.
It was as if a spell had been broken.
‘Coming, Mr Reilly,’ I said reluctantly. ‘Mr Oldfield—er, Jim—was just showing me these old books.’
‘You want to stay on a bit? We’re just heading out onto the ground,’ Mr Reilly said.
‘Yeah, okay. I’ll catch up with you soon. See ya, Jay.’
I looked over at Jim’s friendly face then back down at the book I was holding in my hands. Jim was nodding at me, urging me to open the book.
My first reaction was that there must be something wrong with my eyes. Maybe they had dust in them. There was probably plenty of that floating around an old room like a library. Everything on the page—the words and numbers—was blurry and shimmery, as if it was in water. The words kept dissolving, then reappearing. I closed my eyes and shook my head. Then I looked back at the open book in my hands. It was the same again.
‘See if you can find page 221,’ Jim suggested.
It was so weird. ‘What’s going on?’ I stammered. ‘I can’t read this.’
There was a pile of different cricket books on the oval table where Jim was sitting. He pushed one towards me.
‘You open it,’ I said.
He smiled and did so.
We both stared at the open page. Everything looked normal. There were no swimming words. I grabbed another book and flung it open. It was the same. I squeezed my eyes shut again.
There was something about the old brown book. I turned it over in my hands, peering at the sides and the spine, trying to work out how the blurry effect was achieved.
‘Toby,’ said the old man, ‘page 221. Go on.’
‘Are you coming, Toby?’ It was Jay, standing at the door of the library. He must have come back to find out what had happened to me.
‘Jay…come over here and look at this wisdom book.’
‘Wisden book, Toby. Wisden.’
Jay was looking a bit surprised. He glanced over at me with a questioning sort of look. I was glad I hadn’t told him what I’d seen. I was wondering whether the book would have the same effect on him.
Jim passed Jay the book.
‘Is there a famous cricket match in here or something?’ asked Jay, sitting down and opening the book at its first page.
‘Try page 221,’ I suggested.
Jim sat there, nodding his head.
Jay flicked through the pages fast, then stopped turning, presumably at page 221. I sat down next to him.
Jim was staring at me, almost sadly. Then his eyes went to the book. ‘Read it, Jay,’ he said.
‘He probably won’t be able to,’ I offered, my eyes finding their way back to the page.
‘What do you mean, “won’t be able to”?’ scoffed Jay, and he started to read.
‘“Essex v Australians. At Southend, May 15, 17. Australians won by an innings and 451 runs. In light-hearted vein, they made history by putting together the highest total…”’
Jim was chuckling, the wrinkles on his face crinkling like cracks in dry mud. His chuckles turned to coughs.
Jay looked up from his reading. ‘What’s the joke, then?’
‘Tell him, Toby. Tell Jay here what you see when you open the Wisden.’ Jim was speaking softly, his voice a bit raspy.
I picked up the book yet again and opened it. The letters were a blur. Now and again vague shadows would appear, then just as quickly they would vanish into the white mist of the page. I pushed the book towards Jay, who was looking at me oddly.
‘Jay,’ I said, ‘can you really see the stuff on this page here?’ I pointed at the page. I even touched it. It felt warm and alive, like the book had when I’d held it.
By now, I knew that Jay sensed something was up. ‘Is it your eyes or something?’ he asked me.
Jay and I looked at each other. He shrugged and said, ‘You tell me later, Toby. I’m heading back to the group.’
Jim stood up and made his way over to the glass bookcase where all the heavy brown and yellow books stood. He reached in and took down another Wisden. It looked even older than the one lying on the table in front of us.
‘You see, Toby, you and I share a special gift. These pages are the doors to cricket matches from the past. It’s a funny thing, but I knew that you would eventually arrive here in the library. That’s the thing about time travel—you learn all sorts of things about the future that you normally wouldn’t know.
‘Let me explain. In 1930 I was nine years old and living in Leeds, in England. Don Bradman was touring with the Australians. My father had bought tickets for both of us to go to the first day’s play. But the night before the match, I became very ill; I’m afraid I deteriorated so badly that by the time Don Bradman walked out to bat on that second day, I was lying in a hospital bed.
‘I missed one of the most remarkable innings ever played in the history of Test cricket. Instead of marvelling at the greatest batsman anyone will ever see, I lay on a hospital bed fighting for my life.
‘Well, as you can see, I survived the illness. But six months before the Second World War started, my father died quite suddenly. My mother and I came out to Australia and she let me bring my father’s collection of Wisdens, all 11 of them.’
I had a thousand questions flying through my brain, but Jim raised a finger to his lips as I was about to speak.
‘Now that I’m an old man my powers have weakened and I can’t travel, without the help of someone else who has the gift,’ he explained. ‘And even with you here now, Toby, and even if you were willing to help an old man like me, I fear that my time for travels of this kind are well behind me. Alas, that match of 1930 will remain a dream. As it always has been. You see, I have a memory of six words that I have played and repeated in my head all these years. “Don’t ever come back here alone.” I took it to mean don’t come back to the time of 1930 alone. I don’t remember who said the words to me. My father? Perhaps my grandfather. Anyway, I have obeyed the instruction.’ Jim looked away for a moment. ‘But you, Toby, with my help, have the opportunity to, to…’
I swallowed.
‘To travel back through time. To watch any game you choose. To…’
There was a noise behind me. The wall opened and a lady walked in with a plate of food. I jumped.
Jim chuckled and said, ‘This library is full of surprises.’
‘Jim’s spinning his stories to you, is he?’ the lady asked cheerfully, setting a plate of sandwiches down in front of him. She headed out again, but left the door open. I bounced up and looked at it, checking both sides. From the inside it looked like a solid wall, but there was a handle on the other side.
‘Alas, I fear the spell has been broken,’ Jim said quietly.
I went back to my chair and stood behind it.
‘Here, Toby. Take this.’ Jim had pulled a small sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket and passed it over to me.
‘That’s my father’s handwriting. He copied it from a letter that his father wrote to him.’
I took the sheet from him, and without looking at what was written on it, slid it into my shirt pocket.
‘Come back will you? Sometime?’
I walked over to the door. ‘Thanks for the story and all that, Jim.’ I turned towards him but was afraid to make eye contact.
Jim didn’t reply.
The first catch taken by a substitute in Test cricket was an odd affair. In 1884, the Australian captain, Billy Murdoch, came on to field for England as a substitute. He caught his own team-mate, who had top scored with 75. The injured English player was W.G. Grace.
3 The Chase
FOR the rest of the excursion I was in a daze.
‘You’re quiet, Toby,’ someone was saying to me.
‘Huh?’
It was Georgie. ‘I said…’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘He’s been freaked out by an old guy in that library,’ said Jay.
‘Well?’ she was looking at me, expectantly. Georgie never missed out on anything.
‘I’ll tell you later,’ I said.
‘Before he dies. Promise?’ she chuckled.
I must have looked a bit shocked.
‘Just joking!’
The sheets of paper on my clipboard stayed blank. It wasn’t till I was on the bus, sitting next to Jay, who had three or four pages of notes and sketches, that I reached into my pocket and pulled out the piece of paper that Jim had given me.
When Jay looked over and asked me what I was reading, I filled him in.
‘Why don’t you just chuck it away and forget about it?’ he said, watching me scan the words in front of me.
I didn’t answer. It was as if the words were talking to me. There was no washy effect with these words. They were clear and still on the paper.
What wonders abound, dear boy, don’t fear
These shimmering pages, never clear.
Choose your year, the Wisden name,
Find the page, your destined game,
Then find yourself a quiet place
Where shadows lurk, to hide your trace.
Whisper clear date, place or score
While staring, smitten; then before
(You hope) the close of play,
Be careful now, you’ve found the way.
So hide your home, your age, your soul
To roam this place and seek your goal.
Be aware that time moves on—
Your time, this time; none short, or long.
So say aloud two lines from here
Just loud enough for you to hear.
From a quiet spot, alone, unknown,
Back through time, now come—alone.
And never speak and never boast,
And never taunt, nor ever toast
This knowledge from your time you bring.
To woo the rest, their praises sing:
They wonder, and your star shines bright…
Just this once, this one short night?
But every word that boasts ahead
Means lives unhinged, broken, dead.
Don’t meddle, talk, nor interfere
With the lives of those you venture near.
Respect this gift. Stay calm, stay clever,
And let the years live on forever.
Dear Jim,
’Tis all, perhaps, for another time…
Your loving father,
Ernest James Oldfield
For a few minutes I stared at the words, trying to work out their meaning. I was a bit spooked by the unhinged, broken, dead part. I thought of showing Jay, but he was talking to Martian across the aisle. Somehow, these old words from another time didn’t seem right. I was also afraid that Jay would convince me that all this time travel stuff was stupid. I didn’t want that. There was something exciting happening here. I wanted to explore it further. Maybe I’d show Georgie. She was really smart. She’d know what it all meant.
The most exciting thing about the last two days of the school week was the announcement of the cricket team for our first match of the season.
Jimbo hadn’t been selected. None of us could work out why, because he was probably the best batsman in the school.
‘There’s a reason for everything,’ Georgie said, shaking her head as she looked at the team sheet outside the gym. ‘But I sure would like to know the reason for Jimbo not playing tomorrow.’
‘He’s lazy, that’s why.’ Scott Craven had come over to add his thoughts to the conversation. ‘He’s not a team player. I reckon Mr Pasquali’s giving
him an ultimatum. Play for the team or you’re not gonna be a part of it.’
I wasn’t about to start arguing with Scott—even if his reasons were wrong. That’s what he was waiting for. Scott Craven was forever looking for a reason to start an argument.
I looked again at the team sheet. All the familiar names were there. Cameron and Jono, our openers. Rahul, Jay, Scott, myself and Gavin and Georgie. Then Martian, our keeper, and finally Minh and Ahmazru. I didn’t think it was the batting order, but it wouldn’t be a bad one if it were.
Saturday—morning
I pulled my hands out of my pockets, rubbed them together, then turned to watch Scott Craven run in to bowl the first ball of our first game of the season. We were playing Motherwell State School. There were six teams in our competition for this season. Our team was Riverwall. The other teams were St Mary’s, TCC, Benchley Park and the Scorpions. Everyone was talking about the Scorpions and their players. They were new to the competition and not much was known about them. But their name was different, and the rumours were that they were a tough, strong and talented group of cricketers.
The ball thudded into the batsman’s pads. The batter buckled over, and amid the shouts looked up at the umpire. Slowly the umpire raised his finger.
‘Yeah!’ shouted Scott, and he pumped both fists in the air.
The cricket season had started.
Scott Craven was awesome. In many ways it wasn’t fair that he was playing school cricket. He was so good he probably should have been playing with older kids. We had two amazing cricketers—Scott Craven, our fast bowler, and Jono Reilly, one of the opening batsmen. Without them, we would have been an average team, winning only some of our games. With them, I reckon we were pretty well unbeatable. There was a third great player—Jimbo. I just hoped that I’d get to see him play in a real game.
It was lucky for the opposition that you could only bowl five overs and had to retire at 40 runs.
None of us really liked Scott Craven or, for that matter, Gavin Bourke, his best friend. But we were glad to have him on our team. Scott was loud, confident and extremely short-tempered. He could be quite mean with his comments to us, and we usually got a spray from him if one of us dropped a catch from his bowling.