by Brett Lee
We both looked around the field. There was no one out there but rejoicing England players and the umpires.
‘Anyway, the umpire will just tell them to get off the field,’ I said, standing up.
‘Well, he would, if the umpire could in fact see the Grubber.’
‘But you can see it?’
‘And you, Toby. I perhaps more clearly than you, given that I’m a Cricket Lord.’
‘Do you think you were mistaken, Jim?’ I asked, nervously.
‘Toby, a visitor to the Timeless Cricket Match has a one-way ticket. No one is supposed to leave once they arrive. The crowd there should be slowly filling with each passing of a Test cricketer. But we left and have created a hole.’
I wasn’t following him. ‘A hole?’
‘An escape channel.’
‘You mean those Grubber people are leaving?’ I stopped, suddenly forgetting the game out on the oval. Jim nodded slowly.
‘And if they leave, there is no one there to watch the game,’ I continued, following Jim’s train of thought. ‘And if there’s no one there, the game stops.’
‘Yes, Toby.’
‘And…’
‘Off you go, Toby. Keep your head down and take each ball on its merit, do you hear?’
I nodded, barely registering Jim’s words of advice.
Only two players have bowled more than one maiden (an over which is not scored off) in an innings of international Twenty/20 cricket. They were JD Nel (Scotland) and RW Price (Zimbabwe).
2
Pitch Invasion
Saturday—afternoon
‘Toby!’ I turned to see Georgie, Ally and the others running towards me.
‘Hey!’ I called, distracted. I wanted to get inside and put on my pads; maybe have a hit down in the nets.
‘Toby, good luck,’ Georgie said. She passed me a neat-looking leather wristband. ‘I made it for you last week.’
‘Thanks, Georgie. I’d better go, guys. We’re under the pump.’
‘Toby!’ Ally caught my arm and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘You’re the best, Tobes. Get out there and show ’em.’ I felt myself suddenly go red. I turned away quickly, wondering whether Georgie had heard. She certainly wouldn’t have missed the kiss. I stopped, wanting to talk to Georgie. I had barely thanked her. But Marty, our coach, was shouting at me to get a move on.
Taking a deep breath, I entered the dressing room. Scott Craven, our brilliant all-rounder but all-round ugly guy, bumped past me, knocking me off balance.
‘Watch out, Jones,’ he growled.
‘This guy bowling from the other end is deceptively quick,’ Marty was explaining as I grabbed my kit. Trying to steady my shaking hands, I hauled out my pads and sat down next to Marty, who was staring at a small TV screen. ‘His arm action is fast but he runs in slow and easy.’
Strapping on my pads I kept an eye on the screen.
‘He’s got a good slower ball too,’ I commented. Marty nodded. I got up and moved to the back of the dressing room to put on my protector and thigh pad, missing our second duck of the innings. We were collapsing like tenpins.
‘You want a hit?’ Cam asked me. I don’t think the huge grin had left his face since he’d arrived here on Monday morning.
‘No thanks, Cam. I might just sit here and watch for a bit.’
Usually I liked to walk around to be behind the bowler’s arm so I could see if there was any movement happening, but that wasn’t so easy at the MCG. I can remember one of the TV cricket commentators saying that the bowling always looks faster if you’re watching from side on. The England bowlers were certainly looking sharp at the moment and their team was full of noise and confidence as Scott Craven faced up.
I glanced at the clock. There was another 40 minutes before lunch. Scott survived the rest of the over and I leaned forwards in my seat as I watched Jimbo come down and chat with him. We were 4 for 41 and needed to survive till lunch. Scott was an impulsive hitter; he could tear an attack apart. He was the Kevin Pietersen of our side. I wasn’t sure whether it was the best advice to tell Scott to slow down. It was against his natural instincts.
The players’ room was hushed and tense as we watched our fifth wicket pair slowly build the score. With 20 minutes to go before lunch England brought on their spinner. I had all but forgotten my conversation with Jim as he trotted in to bowl. Crack. It sounded like a rifle shot echoing around the stadium. Scott had clubbed him over mid-wicket for an enormous six.
‘That nearly hit the fence on the full,’ Marty said, trying to contain his excitement. Someone else let out a low whistle. Scott did it again with the fourth ball of the over, this time over wide mid-on. We stood up and applauded.
‘Steady, big feller,’ Tom Gilbert, another one of our coaches, said. I hadn’t noticed him sneak into the room. He settled in next to me.
‘Every ball on its merits,’ he said softly. The England captain adjusted the field, pushing another man out near the fence.
‘He’s challenging him,’ I said. ‘And Scott loves a challenge.’
Tom shook his head. ‘This is a real test for him. That lad’s not bowling cream pies.’
My mind raced back to Adam Gilchrist during the 2006/07 Ashes series. He’d hit three sixes off Monty Panesar on his way to the second-fastest Test hundred ever. Was Scott going to be as good a hitter as Gilchrist?
The next ball was pitched shorter and a little quicker. I watched in awe as Scott charged down the pitch, aiming to smack another ball into the stands, but the ball dipped and dropped quickly, spinning past his flashing blade. The keeper took it cleanly and whipped off the bails before Scott had time to turn around, let alone get back into his crease. The square leg umpire didn’t even need the third umpire.
Someone in the front row of our room swore loudly.
‘I don’t want to see you till lunchtime, you hear?’ Marty snapped through gritted teeth. Wiping my sweaty hands on my shirt I grabbed my helmet, gloves and bat and left the room. Taking a few deep breaths to try and settle my nerves I walked down towards the ground.
‘Right arm over, one ball to come,’ the umpire called as I settled over my bat. I had taken guard and had a good long look around the field.
‘One ball,’ I murmured to myself as I waited for the bowler to step up to the crease. I watched his spinning hand carefully as he delivered the ball. I could hear it fizz as it spun through the air. It pitched outside off-stump and spun further away. I had survived.
‘Nothing stupid, Toby,’ Jimbo said, meeting me halfway down the pitch. ‘They’re good bowlers, all of them.’
Jimbo and I managed to see off the last five overs before lunch but didn’t make much impact on the scoreboard. I glanced up at it on our way off. The huge screen was showing the replay of the last ball I faced; a glide through a vacant fourth slip that sped to the boundary.
‘That could so easily have been caught,’ I muttered to Jimbo, taking off my helmet.
‘Yeah, but it wasn’t, Toby. That’s all that matters.’
We had lunch together with the England players and coaching staff, though only the adults mingled. Jimbo and I found a seat together and planned a humungous partnership that would take us through till tea.
‘Boys?’ Marty put a hand on each of our shoulders. He sat down opposite us. ‘I can’t tell you enough how important your partnership is to our fortunes—Australia’s fortunes. This is not club cricket. This is an Australia–England Test match at the MCG.’ I felt a thrill run through me as I looked at the passion on his face. ‘You are there, boys. Now. Right now. Most kids would give their eye teeth to be playing for their country, let alone at the home of cricket. Enjoy it, but work your butts off getting Australia back into this game.’
Jimbo and I said nothing. We knew what we had to do. I wasn’t going to go into my shell. England had done that in 2006 in Adelaide during the Ashes series and Australia had romped home on the last day to snatch an improbable victory.
‘Shall I
try and give you the strike, Jimbo?’ Jimbo was swirling his arms around in gigantic windmill circles as we walked back out onto the ground.
‘No way, Toby. We do this together.’ We touched gloves. ‘Hey, did you make that?’
I followed Jimbo’s gaze up to the second tier of the Southern Stand. An enormous banner with ‘TOBY JONES’ written in green and gold letters was hanging over the edge. Noticing me looking up towards them, some kids waved frantically. ‘Geez, when did they do that?’
Jimbo, marching purposefully towards his end, didn’t hear me.
We played carefully for the next 20 minutes and I was just beginning to really relax and enjoy myself out in the middle of the MCG when something caught my eye behind the square leg umpire, just inside the boundary. No one else seemed at all interested but I was certain I had seen someone or something—a tall man standing a few metres inside the fence. At the end of the over Jimbo and I met mid-pitch again.
‘Did you notice the guy come onto the field?’ I asked him, pointing out through the covers. Jimbo shrugged.
‘Could have been one of the England coaches bringing out some water,’ he said. He was more interested in the state of the game. ‘Another five overs, Toby. Let’s do it in five sets.’
‘Yup, and back up for the singles. That tall guy at mid-on is pretty slow.’
‘Agreed.’ We touched gloves again. I glanced back towards the fence. The man had reappeared. He was standing still and resolute, his arms by his sides.
‘Who’s the guy down by the fence?’ I asked the umpire, pointing with my bat out past square leg.
‘Which guy?’ The umpire looked at me quizzically.
‘That guy.’
‘Not sure who you mean, son,’ he said, dropping his left arm to signal for the bowler that he was ready and settling into his position. I looked again. The man had taken a few paces forwards. I turned back to concentrate on the play, just leaving my crease as the bowler delivered. Jimbo fended the ball off his hip down behind square leg.
‘Yes!’ I called, heading off down the pitch for the leg bye. I kept an eye on the man as I jogged through. He had paused again, staring transfixed at the action on the pitch.
‘On its merit,’ I mumbled to myself, tapping my bat in the crease and trying to put the man out of my mind. I forced a couple of twos through the off-side and punched the last delivery off my toes through mid-wicket. Ricky Ponting would have been proud of the shot. We ran three.
‘Great over, Toby,’ Jimbo said, patting me on the shoulder. ‘Eight off it.’ He turned to look at the scoreboard.
‘Jimbo, there is a guy standing down there, isn’t there?’
Jimbo turned suddenly, detecting the desperation in my voice. ‘Tell me where exactly,’ he said. A cold shiver suddenly ran up my spine. ‘Toby, are you okay? What is it?’
‘Oh, my God, it’s a Grubber,’ I whispered, staring at the man. Now that he was closer I could see the off-white trousers and old-fashioned jumper. I’d been avoiding the plain truth. The man wasn’t a groundsman or one of the coaches. He was on the ground, but why couldn’t anyone see him? I looked at him more closely. He was of average height, with jet black hair that was slicked back, parted on either side, and he had a small moustache above his thin lips. He was glancing about nervously.
‘A what?’
‘Let’s go, batters,’ the umpire called. I went down to face the England spinner. The man had moved forwards and was now only metres behind the fielder at wide mid-on.
‘Hey!’ I waved my bat in the fielder’s direction, hoping he’d turn and see the guy just behind him. The England fielders stared at me.
‘Are you ready?’ the umpire called. I took the plunge.
‘The guy out at mid-on,’ I called, moving forwards a few metres.
‘What?’ the fielder called. ‘I’m allowed to field here, aren’t I?’
‘Let’s get on with it,’ called the umpire, shaking his head. I watched in amazement as the man approached the fielder, who was totally unaware that the Grubber was so close to him. I jerked my eyes back just in time as the English spinner tossed up a well-flighted delivery pitched on middle stump. Swinging my bat across the line of the ball I hoicked it out through mid-wicket.
Both the mid-on and the mid-wicket went scampering after the ball.
‘Toby, run!’ Jimbo called, already halfway down the pitch. We managed two on what should have been a three. Jimbo walked towards me.
‘Toby, whatever it is, forget it, okay? We’re in the middle of a bloody Ashes Test match.’ We both turned as we heard an eerie gurgling sound coming from the fielder at mid-on. ‘Geez, what’s wrong with him?’ said Jimbo.
The umpire and players ran over to the fielder, who was lying on the ground, thrashing his arms and legs around. I noticed a couple of trainers sprinting onto the field.
‘Freddy, what is it?’ one of the England players shouted. It looked like Freddy was having some sort of convulsion. There was spit around his mouth, his eyes had that faraway look and his jaw was rigid.
‘Give him room, boys,’ a trainer said, backing away himself. I looked around for the Grubber but there was no sign of him.
‘Did anyone see a guy on the field?’ I asked, exasperated. A few surprised faces turned to look at me. ‘Well?’
‘Toby, will you stop it about the guy? There’s been no one on this field since lunch except the players and the two umps. What’s got into you?’ Jimbo stared at me, perhaps noticing the seriousness of my expression. He’d seen that expression before. ‘Oh no,’ he muttered, glancing around. ‘You really did see someone? Toby?’
From behind Jimbo’s right shoulder I spotted another of the Grubbers. This guy was wearing darker clothes and a cloth cap was slouched over his head. He was slowly walking towards the pitch.
‘Jimbo, we’ve got to get everyone off the ground. There’s another one coming.’
‘Where? Show me exactly.’
‘Look straight down from the right-hand edge of the scoreboard. He’s walking towards us now.’ I was trying to keep the panic from my voice. The English kid called Freddy was slowly getting to his feet.
‘What happened?’ one of his mates asked. Freddy shook his head. His eyes still looked vacant but he smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Don’t know.’ He spoke in a soft drawl. ‘Cricket. Let’s play cricket.’ He clapped his hands together and moved back to his position. The trainers looked at each other and shrugged.
‘Freddy, come in for a while and have a rest,’ one of the trainers suggested, putting his hand on Freddy’s shoulder. Freddy shrugged his hand away.
‘Cricket,’ he said again, firmly. ‘Come along. I’m fine. I just fell and bumped my elbow,’ he added, rubbing it.
‘Bumped your head, more like,’ Jimbo whispered. I didn’t like it.
‘Can you see him?’
‘Toby, I can’t see anyone.’ The man had paused, eyeing us all warily.
‘Keep an eye on him, Neville,’ the other trainer said to the umpire. ‘We’ll come back out during drinks.’
My concentration was shot. What with watching another Grubber slowly advancing towards the wicket, listening to Freddy out at mid-on continually clapping his hands, and then trying to focus on the bowler, I did well to last three more deliveries. I was clean-bowled off the next.
I stood at the crease in a state of mild shock before trudging off. I was right in line with the Grubber who was making his slow advance, but I wasn’t frightened. Instead, a wave of anger swept over me. I was handling the bowling okay. I was out on the MCG with Jimbo battling for Australia in a desperate partnership and then these Grubber spooks had to come and spoil it.
I glared at the figure as it moved towards me.
‘Come on,’ I challenged him, raising my bat. I was close enough now to see his face. It was a pale, ghostly colour—a lined, weathered face, with watery red eyes and the barest hint of a smile. The man looked old. Not as old as Jim, but way older than m
y dad.
Suddenly he raised his arms, pointing them towards me. I lifted my bat and swung it hard as he made his move. My bat swung right through him: there was no resistance at all.
‘It’s only a bloody game,’ a fielder scoffed, jogging past me.
‘Piss off!’ I yelled, swinging my bat again.
‘What did you say?’ The fielder stopped, stunned.
‘Not you,’ I gasped. Then I felt an ice-cold hand grab my arm. I flung it away, dropping my bat in the process, and ran as fast as I could. I got to the small gate and pushed through, bounding up the steps two at a time. It was only when I got to the top step that I turned around.
‘No way,’ I whispered, watching the man slowly pick himself up off the ground. It was the spookiest thing I’d ever seen. Maybe I had somehow connected with my bat.
‘No!’ I called, as a small kid dashed out onto the oval to collect my bat. The Grubber staggered, then fell back onto the grass.
‘Here you go,’ the kid said, handing me the bat. ‘Can I have your autograph?’
‘What?’
‘Your autograph.’ I glanced at the scoreboard; it read 6 for 78. Pathetic. We were in real strife.
‘Later,’ I mumbled. I needed Jim and I needed him fast. Before the Grubber found another fielder. Or Jimbo. Because I was certain now that somehow the Grubber had taken over Freddy; got to him in some way. Was Freddy now a Grubber?
The 2009 ICC World Twenty/20 final was played between Pakistan and Sri Lanka. Pakistan won the game by 8 wickets with 8 balls remaining. The game was played at Lords, England.
3
William and the Amazing Glass Tube
Saturday—afternoon
‘What on earth did you think you were doing out there?’ Marty glared at me.
‘Marty, I can’t explain now,’ I said, looking him in the eye. He must have noticed the expression of anguish on my face because his tone softened.
‘Listen, Toby. There was an old guy called Jim in here before…’
‘Jim? Where is he now?’