by Brett Lee
I opened my mouth to speak, then quickly closed it again. Maybe now wasn’t the right time to be showing off my knowledge.
I looked around at the people beside me.
‘They’re struggling, aren’t they?’ A lady was speaking to me from two seats away. She was the first person who appeared to have noticed me.
I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
‘You alright then, love?’ she asked. She had an English accent.
I nodded.
‘Where are you from then?’
‘Australia.’ The word came out a bit garbled, but she’d heard me.
‘Oooh, really? Well, you’d better hope that Bevan and Waugh put on a partnership, otherwise you’re done for.’
Someone started talking to her and she turned away. I turned back to the cricket. I felt calmer when I was watching it. I took a few deep breaths then closed and opened my eyes a few times. Nothing changed.
A surge of excitement and exhilaration charged through me. Jim was right. I had travelled in time. I really was here at the World Cup! It was the most awesome and spectacular thing imaginable.
But then a thought occurred to me. How long had I been away? Was the time I was spending here the same as the time that Jim and Georgie were spending at the library?
I decided to give it one more over. That couldn’t hurt. Allan Donald was bowling and Bevan was facing. He didn’t look in any hurry to score. But that was okay. He actually let the third ball go through to the keeper, but he scored a run off the second-last ball and then Steve Waugh scored a single off the last.
‘Not your seat, I don’t think, lad.’
I turned around. A couple of men were standing over me. The first guy was holding three plastic cups. I stood up and scuttled past them and back to the spot where I’d arrived. I took out the scrap of paper with the poem on it and read out the first two lines I saw:
Now, hide your home, your age, your soul
To roam this place and seek your goal.
‘What?’ someone was saying loudly, close by me.
‘Georgie?’ I gasped.
‘What are you doing?’ She looked at me queerly. ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’ I looked down, this time at red and blue carpet.
‘Where’s Jim?’ I whispered.
‘Over there, sipping his water.’
In a daze, I walked past Georgie and over to Jim. He looked up from his book, his eyes shining.
I stared at him. I swallowed. I was totally speechless.
‘What?’
Georgie had followed me and was looking at both of us in turn.
‘You said you liked the poem, young lady?’ said Jim, still looking at me. He had a habit of doing that.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘So?’
‘I think Toby here thinks it’s quite a special poem too, eh, Toby?’
‘Yes.’ It came as a croak. ‘Yes,’ I repeated. ‘How long was I there, Jim?’
‘What? Where?’ Georgie was getting exasperated.
‘Or would you like to know how long you were away?’ Jim was smiling. ‘How long did it feel like?’ he asked.
‘About five minutes,’ I replied, ‘but it must have been longer.’
‘Remember the words of the poem, Toby.
Your time, this time; none short, or long
‘The time matches up quite closely, you know, though it can distort if you travel quite a way back,’ Jim said. ‘But don’t forget, two hours is your limit.’
I had a hundred questions to ask Jim. I was still in shock, and I suppose if I’d stopped a moment and thought about what had just happened I would have run out of the room, never to return. Ever! But I didn’t move.
Even though I’d told Georgie about the time travelling she didn’t seem to realise where I’d been, although she knew that something weird had happened. I grabbed her hand and the 2000 Wisden that was lying on the table in front of Jim.
‘Toby, not yet!’
Jim had risen, his hands stretched out towards me, for the book. I looked at him. His face seemed concerned.
‘Please, Toby, don’t be foolish. You’re not ready to carry. To take others with you,’ he added when he saw my questioning look.
Georgie flung my hand out of hers and jolted me round.
‘What are you doing, Toby?’ she yelled.
‘Georgie, you’ll never believe me otherwise. Never. I’ve got to take you there. Please?’
‘Take me where, you idiot? Behind the shelves for a quick kiss? Is that what you mean?’
I couldn’t believe what she was saying.
Slowly I walked back to the table and sat down. I placed the Wisden Almanack down in front of Jim, who was sitting down again too. He pushed his half-empty glass of water across the table to me. I reached out, took a gulp and sighed.
‘Okay. Good. All is calm, all is bright. All is splendid on Friday night.’
‘Thanks for that, Georgie,’ I said to her.
‘My pleasure. What now?’
‘Georgie, you’re a breath of fresh air,’ said Jim with a smile.
‘Probably more like hot air, Mr Oldfield,’ she replied, almost breaking into a smile herself.
‘Well, enough adventures for one afternoon, don’t you think?’ Jim said.
‘Yeah, I guess. Getting that water was just non-stop action and excitement for me. I couldn’t go through that again.’
At least Georgie had recovered her sense of humour.
The lowest number of runs scored in a day of Test cricket was 95. This happened in Karachi, Pakistan on 11 October 1956. On that day Australia were dismissed for 80, and Pakistan, at stumps, were 2/15 in reply.
7 The Run-out
Saturday—morning
IT was a classic summer’s day. By 8.30 the temperature had already gone past 25°C. Today was our first two-day game, but I was glad the games would be over by lunchtime.
I wolfed down some toast and checked my cricket kit for the seventh time that morning. Mum headed out early—she was taking Nat to her tennis game.
‘Good luck, Toby. Hope all goes well,’ she called from the door.
‘Thanks, Mum. Hey, good luck to you too, Nat!’ I called.
I was ready and sitting in the car. Dad finally arrived with all his gear: camera, deckchair, binoculars, mobile phone, wallet and sunglasses. After a stop at the local milk bar he’d have even more stuff—newspapers and some drinks and snacks. It was Dad’s favourite time of the week, I’m sure of it.
Jono won the toss and we batted. We would bat for three and a half hours, and then the following Saturday, St Mary’s, the team we were playing, would bat for the same number of overs as they bowled to us today. I’d checked out their form in the paper. They had lost to TCC by about 20 runs, and TCC weren’t supposed to be very strong either.
It was a good day not to be standing out in the field. And it was good to empty my brain of time travel, Jim, poems, kissing Georgie and all that had been happening this week. I loved playing cricket. I loved getting involved in the game I was playing. It was like going to the movies. You lost your sense of anything that was going on elsewhere, and what time it was.
Again there was no Jimbo, and no Martian either. Mr Pasquali told us that Martian had been involved in a car accident and would be missing a bit of school. Rahul would have been wicket keeper if we’d been bowling.
‘Maybe Martian will be right to keep next week, Mr Pasquali?’ asked Cameron, putting on his pads. He was our other opener, a neat, left-handed batter with a rock-solid defence.
‘Yes, Cam, maybe.’
Mr Pasquali didn’t sound very hopeful. But he looked as if he didn’t want to say any more. Maybe that was the phone call he got at training last Thursday.
‘Is he okay?’ Georgie asked.
The whole team had gone quiet. Mr Pasquali looked around at us.
‘Ivo’s going to be fine, everyone. He’s been quite shaken up and is going to need some time in hospital to recover.’ Mr
Pasquali nodded. The matter was over.
‘Okay, plenty of time, people,’ Mr Pasquali said. ‘Let’s knock up a few 40s today. It’s a fast outfield and we’ve got some short boundaries square of the wicket. Respect the good balls, and belt the wide ones, but keep them along the ground.’
‘Unless you reckon you can go over the top,’ added Scott Craven, staring out at the witches’ hats and licking his lips with anticipation.
‘Each ball on its merit, Scott,’ Mr Pasquali said, shaking his head.
Scott Craven could tear a bowling attack apart with his tremendous hitting. I’d picked his bat up once, a few weeks back, at practice. He’d seen me almost straight away. For a moment I thought he was going to belt me with it. But instead, he’d strolled over, smiling.
‘It weighs a tonne!’ I’d told him.
‘It’s a 16-kilo slugging machine,’ he’d said, taking it from me and twisting it in the air. Then he’d aimed a cut shot at my head.
‘And it would knock your head off, Tobias.’
He had a nasty habit of using my full name. No one else ever did.
I’d nodded slowly. ‘Guess it would, Scott.’
I’d mumbled a few more not-so-choice words under my breath as I headed out to the nets.
St Mary’s had an accurate attack and we were scoring at about three an over. Georgie was doing her usual routine. She was already padded up, even though she wasn’t due to go in until five wickets had fallen. I had the pads on too, but I was batting fourth. One in front of Scott.
By the time I walked out to bat, the sun was beating down and the bowlers were looking tired. They’d been out there for an hour and a half, and had only taken one wicket: Cameron caught at mid-off for 27. We were 1 for 95. Scott Craven came in after Rahul retired on 42. The first ball he faced he padded back down the wicket. The second, he smashed way over mid-wicket for six.
He strolled down at the end of the over and told me to feed him the strike because he was feeling ‘like a good hit-out’. But disaster struck soon after. Scott was getting impatient watching me block the first few balls I faced. Mr Pasquali had said we had plenty of time, and I was just getting my eye in, but Scott was becoming annoyed.
‘C’mon, Toby, look for the gaps,’ he called out to me.
Finally, I nudged the last ball of the over out between cover and point. There was an easy single. I called Scott through. He wasn’t moving.
‘Yes!’ I shouted. I couldn’t believe he wasn’t running. By now I was halfway up the pitch. The fielder had run back to where the ball had stopped and was picking it up. I don’t know why, especially as it was Scott standing at the other end, but I kept on running. Scott had moved a few metres out of his crease, not aware that I had now passed him and made it across the line.
The ball was tossed to the keeper, who gently knocked one bail off the stumps.
‘You idiot, Jones. You’ve just gone and run yourself out!’
But the umpire had different ideas. ‘You’re out, son,’ he said, looking at Scott.
Then I did a really weak thing. I knew who was out too. Perhaps I was after a bit of respect from Scott.
‘It’s okay, I’ll go,’ I said to the umpire.
‘No, you actually crossed, so you’re not out. This feller is.’
Scott was going white with anger. Not red. The umpire obviously didn’t know him. ‘Off you go, son,’ he said cheerfully, then raised his finger to confirm, publicly, that a run-out had just occurred. Amid the cheers of the fielders now running in towards the pitch, Scott glared at me, then shook his head. I knew I was going to hear more about this.
Gavin Bourke, Scott’s best mate, strode out to the wicket. I saw Scott hurl his bat onto the grass, then throw down his gloves. He turned around again and glared across the oval at me.
‘You’re in deep, mate,’ Gavin said cheerfully. ‘Which end am I at?’
I pointed down to the other end, where the umpire had moved into position for the next over. My mouth was dry.
Both Jono and Rahul came back and made their 50s. This probably made Scott even madder. If he’d batted through to his 40, he would have got another bat too. I reckon there could have been 100 out there for him today, given the tired bowling and the short boundaries. We made 271.
‘Don’t forget, it wasn’t your fault,’ Georgie told me at the end of the innings. ‘Scott’s just so greedy that he didn’t want you to take a single off the last ball of the over.’
‘It was my call. I called, and he didn’t respond.’
‘Yep,’ she agreed. ‘There was an easy single there. It looked as if you were about to walk yourself.’
‘I was.’ I wasn’t looking at Georgie. ‘I just thought it’d be easier if I went. You know how he gets.’
‘Toby, he gets his way so often. He doesn’t need favours from you as well.’
‘You’re right.’
‘Toby?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You don’t need his respect either. C’mon. I’ve got some jobs to do for Mum, then she said I could come round to your place and watch the cricket on TV. What do you say?’
‘Brilliant.’
We packed up our gear and headed over to Dad’s car.
In 1890, in a game in Victoria between Portland and Port Fairy, a square-leg umpire, Umpire Threlfall, fielded the ball then hurled it back, hitting the stumps, before he realised that he wasn’t actually a fielder. Amid howls of laughter, one of the fielders appealed. The umpire had to say, ‘Not out!’
8 The Mistake
Monday—morning
FOR a couple of classes that morning, we went to the library to work on our cricket projects. I was sitting next to Rahul, who was struggling with his Madras Test match. He had plenty of books on India but not much on the actual game itself.
‘Hey, Rahul, why don’t you interview one of the players from the game?’ I suggested.
He looked at me and smiled.
‘Right, so I just go and ring up Dean Jones or Greg Matthews or Allan Border and ask them if I can interview them?’ he joked.
‘Well, yeah. Who else played in the game?’ I asked. ‘Any other Victorians?’
‘There was Ray Bright. He took seven wickets in the game. Five in the second innings,’ Rahul answered.
‘It can’t be too hard. We could ask Mr Pasquali. Or look up, say, Dean Jones on the Internet or in the telephone book. We could find him. Do it!’
‘Do what?’
‘Ring him! Go visit! Do an interview. It’d be awesome!’
‘Oh, right. I just go and look up Dean Jones in the phone book and tell him I want an interview. How many Joneses are there in the phone book? You reckon his name will have “Test cricketer” beside it? And even if I do get to speak to him, do you think he’d waste his time talking to a kid? Like he’s got nothing better to do.’
‘Well, you might need to get Mr Pasquali or your dad to make the first call. You know, set it up for you,’ I said.
Rahul thought for a moment. ‘I guess it’s worth a try. It’d be brilliant if it came off. I suppose it’d be almost as good as being at the game. Okay, Toby, yes. Great thinking. Hey, Toby?’
I was staring at Rahul, my mind a thousand miles away.
‘Toby?’ Rahul was looking at me. ‘What’s got into you?’
‘What did you just say, Rahul?’ I asked, a grin spreading across my face.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Something about it being almost as good as being there.’
Suddenly I was aware of Jay, Scott and a few others listening in to our conversation.
‘Then let’s go there,’ I laughed at him. ‘I’ll take you to Madras.’
‘I think the game might have finished by the time you get there, Toby,’ Scott said to me.
I kept smiling. ‘Trust me, Rahul. It can be done. I’ll bring you back a memento, Scott,’ I said, without being quite sure why I was saying it.
‘Toby, are you okay?’ Rahul asked me, puzzled.
‘Come round after school, Wednesday night. Okay?’
‘Sure. Maybe we can plan that interview, yes?’
Excitement was bubbling up inside me, but I didn’t carry on with the conversation. It was enough to know that I had this power, this knowledge, this extraordinary gift that none of the other kids in the library had any idea about.
And the more I tried to explain it or tried to make them believe it, the more stupid it would seem. I had the best secret in the world and I would reveal it in my own time.
Tuesday—afternoon
The next night at training, Mr Pasquali chatted to us at the start of the session. But it wasn’t about last Saturday’s game or about how he wanted the practice to go that evening. Instead, he explained that Martian would not be playing with us for a while and that the keeping duties would be taken over by Ally McCabe. We wondered how bad Ivo’s injuries were, but Mr Pasquali told us to concentrate on our practice.
Mr Pasquali worked us through another centre-wicket practice during the session. We all had plenty of bowling and fielding to do. Ally stayed behind the stumps all the time we were out there. She was good too. She was very quick to pick up the direction of the ball and was clean with her glove work—hardly ever dropping the ball. The only problem she seemed to have was if the batter got in the way when the ball came down the leg side. She was willing to listen to suggestions from Mr Pasquali—and from some of the players too. Best of all, she seemed to be really enjoying it.
Luckily, I was able to avoid Scott for most of the session, though he put me away for a couple of big fours near the end. I hoped that might have got the anger out of his system. Time would tell.